The day had gone by relatively well. Eight ended up spending a bit more time with Six, learning how to cook pancakes. One and Two disappeared halfway through the day, and Eight wondered if they were in One's room.
Watching everybody pair up with each other was weird, yet comforting.
Eight looked down, seeing that Six had fallen asleep on his lap like a cat. A cringy game show was playing on the television opposite, and the two were sat on the sofa, alone.
Six was...unbelievably adorable, in almost everything he did, including when he was asleep. Eight didn't want to wake him up, but he couldn't sleep here. The position Six was in made it look like he'd broken his neck!
Eight grunted, lifting himself up from his seat, and scooping up Six for the second time that day, before heading upstairs. Six instinctively curled up in his arms, sighing softly, making Eight almost lose his step.
He gave a small grunt of relief when they had reached the upstairs landing, and he stopped momentarily to catch his breath. Listening now, it didn't seem like anybody was home.
He grimaced.
Except for the two older residents, who were in One's room doing who knows what. He could hear Two's muffled giggling, and a few other odd noises. It took him two and a half seconds to decide he was not sticking around to hear any more.
But instead of heading to his room, like he normally would, he decided to go into Six's bedroom instead. Give the artist a bit more comfort, or something.
The room was stupidly dark for this time of day, the curtains having been pulled shut and most likely not been touched for about half a year. The amount of exposure to sunlight they had received had worn away the colours, and the rest of the room didn't look all that appealing either. Most of it, however, had been covered over with scraps of paper and paintings.
As he set the tiny artist down onto the bed, his eyes darted around the room, inspecting each work of art Six had produced. There was so many, he didn't quite know where to look first. There were scribbles of flowers and landscapes, charcoal sketches, oil paintings and even a whimsical clay sculpture that looked oddly and embarrassingly phallic shaped.
Eight snickered.
Even if it did just look like a dick, it was still a hundred times better than what Eight could cobble together. Then again, weapon-making was kind of an art form, wasn't it? Kind of like a sculpture, he supposed, but then again, he wasn't sure what the boundaries of art were. Maybe he'd ask Six later.
Right beside the open door, stood a dark wooden desk, covered with so much paper that Eight was surprised he could actually see the desk. Right on the top of the disorganised pile, was an unopened letter, which he assumed was the one Two had given him.
Curiosity overtook him, and he briefly wondered what was written inside. He wasn't about to go and rifle through Six's personal things, he wasn't like that, contrary to popular belief, but he couldn't help but wonder. Maybe Six wouldn't be too offended if he'd just ask later.
Speaking of Six...
He turned back to the small artist, smiling fondly at his curled up form. He was unbearably sweet when he wanted to be and yeah, he was undeniably a handful, but that's just how some people are.
Eight flushed slightly, setting down on the bed as carefully as he could muster.
It was only now did he remember that he had embarrassingly enough, spilt his secret about his tiny, minuscule, little crush on the artist, and come to think of it, Six wasn't avoiding him like he feared. Honestly, he should have realised that when Six had crawled into his bed last night.
The memory sent a nice warm feeling spiralling through his gut, and he smiled. That was a pretty nice experience and secretly, he hoped it would happen once more. But then...where did that leave them?
Six hadn't explicitly rejected his feelings, but he hadn't said anything on the matter at all. Not even after he'd told him, so...what did Six really think of him? Maybe he was just ignoring what he'd said outright, just so it wouldn't ruin a friendship. Or maybe he hadn't understood what he'd said at all.
Eight was beginning to worry a little bit. There was a good chance that Six would never touch the topic again and Eight would have to silently admit to himself that Six would never really want him.
This was stupid.
He gently lay back, covering his face with his arms, and sighed. One and Two never had it this bad. One just had to get around to actually talking to the inventor, before they got together. But Six was a total mystery. God knows what he was actually thinking.
Eight glanced over at Six.
...
He looked peaceful when he slept. Technically, everybody did, and saying it sounded like a cliche, but Six had been so worked up about his father and his home that he constantly looked agitated and was prickly in general, but it was nice to see he was taking it easy.
Eight shifted onto his side, so he was facing the artist, gazing sleepily at his pale features and flickering eyelashes. He carefully moved his hand to brush a lock of hair behind Six's ear, revealing a little more of his face, before setting his hand down quietly, so he didn't wake Six up. Whether or not Six was a deep or light sleeper, he didn't know.
Lying here beside the smaller teen was both incredible and kind of sad. A bittersweet feeling, if you would. Being in this situation seemed like something that would occur in a dream, but the weight of the possibly unreciprocated feelings were heavy in his gut.
His eyes fluttered shut.
Six reached out, and gently intertwined his fingers with Eight's...
...but he was already asleep.
it's been a while but I got hit with a brick of procrastination. kudos to you if you're still reading this garbage. and thanks to 9SoulsAngel for translating my fics. thank you very much.
