So I started watching Digimon all over again and I got hit with the Takari truck all over again and I couldn't take it. So this is the outcome.

Note: I'm following the Japanese continuity, so names etc will follow the Japanese anime instead (Because I personally don't really like their English names/nicknames). These little drabbles kinda take place not-so-chronogically- They're all a bit here and there. Also they're all based on my gross headcanons HAHA

OK so without much further ado here's to my grossness

Eyes

His eyes were probably the most blue she had ever seen in her life, even if his own older brother had eyes of the same colour. Unlike the elder, whose eyes always seemed to carry the slightest tint of a well-hidden strain, his were true and kind, never seeming to carry a burden. They were bright, always full of mirth, and never condescending.

And when those eyes looked at her they would always go soft, and when he smiled she could see the slightest, gentlest twinkle in them. She loved how his eyes even had the formings of a wrinkle at the end as he smiled (truly a tragedy for someone so young, but hey, they were cute), and his complex about them made them even cuter. She'd laugh when he'd try to harmlessly shove her away when she commented on them, but she would grab him and kiss them till they barely mattered any more.

Smell

She had learned from a young age that boys were supposed to smell icky, thanks to her older brother, who was always up and about, playing soccer and whatnot. And as he grew older his smell didn't change much, maybe a tad bit muskier, if she was using the word right (she didn't really know what the word meant actually, but dozens of sappy romance novels had convinced her that men had a musky smell, and so be it), but he didn't smell all too bad either.

But he was different. She didn't know how to describe his smell accurately – it wasn't musky or any of the sort (or so she deduced, from her unclosed tab on the definition of "musky"). In fact, he smelled like clean, fresh laundry, and needless to say it was extremely pleasant and on the complete, opposite spectrum as compared to her older brother. Strangely enough, he barely had any odour as well, even after a tough basketball game, where'd he leave the court with probably a rainfall of perspiration cascading down every part of his body, and a spray of deodorant after hastily wiping himself.

Even after a hot summer night of innocently entangled limbs on the bed, in which they had probably sweat through the night, she'd get up and try to cuddle with him, pressing her face against his back or chest, and just breathe. She was baffled, definitely, as to how he could still smell so fresh (but she didn't really care actually, because she loved it) despite perspiring through the night, and then he'd wake up and try to half-heartedly push him off her. "Don't touch me, I'm gross and sticky," he would say (or rather, groan, but he had learned quite soon after the first few times that she wasn't going to budge till much later, when it got too warm to cuddle), and she would laugh right back.

(And when she told him about how she loved his smell, he chuckled and bent down to smoosh his face into the top of her head and said that he loved how she smelled too – a light scent of honeysuckle and jasmine, but mostly like her shampoo.)

Hair

The first time she met him, they were seven. She had tugged on her older brother's shirt, shy and full of curiosity. When his attention was diverted onto her from conversing with the older blonde, she quietly asked, "Why's their hair such a weird colour?"

She was just curious, not having seen people with golden hair all seven years (and counting) of her life, but the response she got from her brother was beyond embarrassing. He literally roared with laughter, calmed down, and then replied, "I have no idea either."

The siblings then found out that the brothers owed their blonde mops of hair to their French maternal grandfather (but years later in high school biology, she realised that it was impossible in the name of genetics; when confronted about it he was just as dumbfounded, and in the end they both shrugged it off as pure luck), which fascinated her to no end, because that would be her first encounter with a – sort of – westerner outside of television.

But as she got older, his blonde hair now familiar to her, she counted herself just as lucky to be able to wake up to his golden mop next to her every day, tying little braids in them every morning as he groggily sat up in their bed to then cease moving and resuming his snooze sitting upright, then bidding him goodbye at the front door as he first left for work, braids still intact.

Hat

She couldn't quite figure out why everyone in their group hated his hat. Okay, technically not everyone, but Daisuke and Miyako in particular, and who knew what the other two thought of it. She had thought his bucket hat to be quite cute, and even more so when atop his head. She liked it when he took it off after wearing it for extended periods of time too; sometimes his hair would have molded into the shape of the hat (which was hilarious, but adorably so), other times it would turn into a gracious mess after hastily pulling it off.

A few years passed, and when they both saw Daisuke donning one atop the brown mass he called hair ("It's in trend now," he tried to justify), he had snorted (but not without amusement), leaving the former in utter embarrassment.

Kitchen

If there was anything she was sure she inherited from her mother, it would probably be the lack of skill in the kitchen, and the ability to turn something that would have been good into sometimes horrendously wrong, even if she followed the recipe word for word. It wasn't that she didn't try – she probably tried too hard. And that was where he stepped in.

He first found out about her superb cooking skills the day before Ken's Christmas party; she had wanted to make cookies as a gift (for letting them intrude their home for a night of predetermined rowdiness), and he had come over at her request for help, seeing that her brother (and mother, thank God) wouldn't be home. He had just opened the door to her home after hearing her yell from inside to let himself in, and the burnt stench that wafted through the air and attacked his nose almost made him double up.

She smiled sheepishly across the kitchen counter at him, tray of burnt cookies (or what seemed to be cookies) in oven-mitted hands. "I guess I should have known that would happen," she mumbled in embarrassment while setting the tray down, and scooping out the cookies onto a tin rack to cool. And when they did he picked one up to eat, said "they're not that bad" while masking a wince, and smiled.

The next batch of cookies turned out perfectly, which was honestly no surprise seeing that he took over her place as head baker in the kitchen, she his assistant, and it was in that moment she declared that he'd be in charge of making all their meals in the future… At least until she got better at it.