dedication— take this for now deysi u thirsty thing. also HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU ANCIENT, love you so.
notes— i'm laughing this is so fucking dumb but i just *clenches fist*

boyfriend material

;;

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Lucy shoves her elbow into his side again, physically pushing him in the direction she wants him to go. "Gray. Go."

"B-But—" He turns to his best friend with a deep frown. "Are you sure it's a good line?"

"Yes, it's a good line, you cowardly thimble. It's the perfect ice breaker, she'll fall head over heels. So move, would you, damn it."

Thimble, he echoes in his head. I've been degraded to a thimble. "But, like, are you sure—"

"Oh my God." She shoves him so hard he stumbles forward. "Gray Surge, if you don't go up to that girl and ask her for coffee this very fucking second, I will. Don't think I won't. There's only so much incessant whining of yours I can take. I'll do it. I'll do it."

And the thing is, Gray believes her. He really does. So he turns around to face the lecture hall once again, squares his shoulders, clears his throat five times, gulps hard, and makes to walk forward. And tries again. Then once more for luck, but, alas—

"Okay, but Lucy, listen, right, is it really a good line, though, because—"

This time she doesn't even hesitate, pinching his side so hard he's ninety percent sure his kidney is bleeding despite the padding of his thermal, t-shirt, button-over, jumper, and thick winter coat. When he glances back at her, the scowl has disappeared from her face to be replaced with a smile.

A terrifying, life-ending, soul-destroying smile. She looks friendly. She looks cute.

She looks ten seconds away from murdering him on the spot.

"Okay, okay, okay—" He steps forward for good measure, giving her as wide a berth as possible while at the same time delaying his eventual demise at the hands of a rejected coffee date. "I'm going. I'm going, Jesus Christ, stop smiling, you look demented—"

A glower manages to sneak to the surface and Lucy gives an affronted huff. "You rude fuck."

"I'm going."

"Go."

"I'm going."

He pauses for a second, staring forward blankly. There she sits. There he must go.

"Right. Right. Yes."

God, he can't do this.

"I'm going."

"I'm going to kill you—"

He walks forward, feeling like he's stepping off of world's end and falling into the abyss. Either way, he dies today; his only involvement in the matter is whether it's at the hands of his potentially (and in reality, definitively) homicidal best friend or from melting into the floor, turning to dust, and floating away in the wind to land in the junkyard of rejection.

As if by fate — fate, yes, fate, fate's on his side, good old fate (he's going to die, he's going to die, he's going to die) — she gets up from her seat right as he's walking towards her.

But sweet Lord, she's a work of art. He doesn't know what it is he so likes about her— no, rather, he doesn't know what he could possibly not adore. Is it the snarky wit she caught out the lecturer with two days ago? Is it her hair, blue and beautiful and long and wavy like she's carrying a tropical breeze wherever she goes? The slender fingers that flip her pen like a circus trick, adorned with one small silver band on the ring finger of her right hand; her lips, the way they curl like she's always laughing at some private joke; the eyes that come alight with every emotion she entertains… Truly, the girl's pretty as anything can be.

It's so weird, though, because he's really not the type to do this — he's not the type to get hung up like this over anyone. He's dated in the past, sure, and he's adored people, maybe even loved. But compared to this— this pull he has towards her, this compulsion to get to know her better, learn her, just talk to her; it trumps all reason and rationally. It's stupid, but it's— like, it's undeniably there. It's dumb and it doesn't make sense, but it's real, and it's there, and it's what he really, really, really wants.

Gray doesn't believe in love at first sight. It's a load of bullshit, no questions asked.

But he does believe in himself. He knows himself, he understands himself, and more important than anything, he respects himself. He respects himself enough to go through with what he wants, even if he doesn't get why he wants it, even if Lucy says he's a lovesick lunatic.

For whatever absurd reason, he feels like he needs to talk to this girl; like he needs to get to know her. Gray just— He just—

"Uh…" He's there and in front of her and she's pulling her strap of her bag up her shoulder and raising her eyebrow at him and God, she's so his type it's not fair. "Can I help you?"

Her voice doesn't sound like how it does when she speaks in class or answers questions. It's a little lower, more authoritative, sounding like there's a teasing hidden meaning behind everything she says.

"U-Um. We— You, um." He clears his throat so hard it makes him feel like he's tearing up. Her eyebrow rises a little higher. "Y— It, see, I, um— There." He points behind himself vaguely. "I was sitting there and you were, um, so I thought I would do the— the thing."

Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit. Where's the do-over pass for life? Where can I buy a reset button? Why, God, why.

Unsurprisingly, she can't take him seriously; a quiet puff of breath, half-laughter, half-disbelief, eyes shining with what he swears must be a secret. "I'm sorry, what?"

"D-Do you know what this shirt is— is made of?"

Right. Aborting to fall-back plan. Emergency eject from the conversation at earliest opportunity. Dropping out of university and proceeding to live as homeless person now an option.

Lucy said this was a good idea. Lucy said it was a good pick-up line. Lucy—

…is probably standing behind him looking at the pile-up car-crash disaster he just caused and laughing at him. Right. Awesome.

He wants to die and take that she-devil with him.

"You're gonna have to repeat that," the girl says lightly. Her smirk says loud enough that she likely can see where this is going. It's a common enough line, but it really doesn't have the same impact when he has to repeat it before he can stutter 'boyfriend material' like how he'd planned. But he can't very well go back now, can he? He's stuck in the middle of the shittiest pick up line his scheming bitch of a friend could throw at him.

A red-haired girl passing by them snorts, clearly having overheard. Gray's ears burn.

"Wh…" Damn it. Damn it all. "Do you know," he grates out, dignity a tattered thing flapping in the wind, "what my shirt... is made of?"

But you see, right there, that second, is the exact moment in time Gray Surge might have fallen in love. Because, red and flustered and taken aback, he learns that as far as this girl's concerned, there's no hope for him at all.

Because what she responds with isn't a rejection. It isn't confusion, or awkward brushing off, or cold-hearted disgust. All she has for him are two simple words that leave him — for lack of a better word— utterly lovestruck.

Do you know what this shirt is made of?

No hesitation, point blank, deadpan, with wide pseudo-innocent eyes and a smirk hidden at the corner of her lips. She doesn't reject him.

She asks him, "Which one?"