Day 2: Protect or Support
Warning: Swearing ahead. If you're below, oh I don't know, thirteen years old, I suggest you don't repeat anything you read here in front of your parents.
Also, I wrote this in random bits and pieces during various lectures, so they might not transition well. Not all women react this way to that time of the month either, but I've had my fair share of fits and cramps, so I hope nobody takes offense.
There is a boy in her room.
Futaba freezes mid-stretch, hyperaware of the bird's nest that is her hair and the stale taste in her mouth and the frayed threads of her pajamas. And while every other fiber of her being is seeing red and screaming for him to get his (cute) ass out of her bedroom, a tiny, giddy, stupidly hormonal one percent is bouncing off the walls because good lord, her stupid, gorgeous boyfriend with his soulful, grey eyes and floppy half-perm is in her room without adult supervision.
And then her uterus chooses that moment to act up. She growls.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
His traitorous feet have fallen asleep.
Kou stands rooted to the spot, feeling every bit like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His knuckles are turning white from the death grip he has on the doorknob, though his cheeks are burning from the sight before him—her usually impeccable hair is sticking up at different angles, her eyes are crusty and swollen from sleep, and—is that drool on her face?
He snorts, and then chokes on his own spit at the strip of smooth, pale skin from where her shirt has ridden up, and it takes a couple of heartbeats before he realizes that he's been staring.
His eyes jump back up to meet hers, watches those stunned ovals of hazel narrow into feral slits, and Kou thinks that he has never been so scared in his life.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
He starts at her words, and has to blink twice to make sure that, yes, he's got the right house, and yes, his girlfriend, the petite brunette who flushes at his every touch and has a heart of pure gold, just swore at him.
He chooses his words carefully.
"So your mom let me in," he starts pathetically before slapping a hand to his forehead. 'Smooth, Kou. Real smooth,' he chides. Futaba does not move from her position, just watches him with wary eyes.
He swallows a lump in his throat. "You weren't at school today, and you weren't replying to my messages either. So I came to, you know, check up on you, 'cause that's what boyfriends do, right? Haha, yeah…" He pauses to scratch the back of his neck. "Your mom said you were sleeping, which you obviously were. You… you've got some drool on your cheek."
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that he's stepped on a landmine, and in the back of his mind, Kou finally learns the meaning of the word, 'tact'.
She shrieks, yanking her shirt down and reaching blindly for whatever ammunition she can throw at him. Kou holds his hands up defensively and sputters apologies here and there, but they fall on deaf ears. His grunts of frustration tell her she's hit her mark, and she rises from her bed, relentless in her efforts to pelt him with pillows and stuffed toys and other fluffy materials.
He lets her.
It is only when her fingers close around her (very solid) Ramune alarm clock that he surges forward in panic, and Futaba manages to thump her head against his before they both fall back on the mattress, with Kou hovering above her as he pins her wrists above her head.
On any other day, this would have been enough to get her tongue-tied and flustered, but not today.
Today, her emotions are off the roof as another wave of cramps rolls over her body, and all she wants to do is crawl underneath her covers and cry herself to sleep. Or maybe vent out her frustrations by shouting Kou's ears off.
She goes with the latter.
"Get the fuck off of me, you… you big seaweed head!"
Kou groans into her pillow, his head spinning from the impact of their foreheads and the string of profanities that she's hissing into his ear. It takes just about all of his strength to hold himself over her as she continues spouting on some choice words about his monkey ears and the bags underneath his eyes and his stupid man muscles, and he wonders, 'What on earth is going on?' A measly three weeks of dating the girl of his dreams couldn't have prepared him for this.
"Listen here, Mabuchi Kou. You will let me go right this instant or I fucking swear I'll fucking claw your eyes out and shove them up your cute little—"
"All right, Yoshioka," he talks over her in what he hopes is a reassuring voice, "I need you to calm down. Now drop the bunny clock and then we'll talk abou—OOF!" Kou grunts as her foot connects with his gut, and he loses his grip on her; Futaba takes the opportunity to twist out of his hands. Once she's free, she shoves at his chest with all her might, and he lands in a heap on the floor.
"And stay there!"
There are three things Kou realizes during his time on Futaba's bedroom floor.
One, there is a tender lump growing at the back of his head, and probably another one on his forehead. He reaches up to rub the bumps, wincing as they ache underneath his touch. Kominato would probably wet himself laughing once he got wind of this. An eighteen year old guy getting beat up by his ailing girlfriend?
Hilarious.
Two, he is lying in a litter of her paraphernalia, from clothes and books to stuffed toys and used tissues. A few years back, he discovered Futaba's guise of acting like a complete slob if only to ward off potential admirers. He never really understood her obsession to keep the boys at bay. Her tactics never worked, either way. She was just too damn adorable for her own good.
It seems, though, that the habit had never entirely worn off. He recognizes her school bag lying beside him, its contents spilled and scattered about. Her closet doors are ajar, clothes askew on their hangers and an assortment of bags and shoes peeking out from the drawers.
He suspects that the place might have been a bit more… presentable if she would've known he was coming. He certainly wouldn't stand to entertain the love of his life in a room that showcased his deepest and darkest flaws. But then again, they did decide to be honest to each other now that they were dating. Perhaps this was Futaba keeping her end of the bargain.
He removes a piece of clothing from his hair, instantly flushing and flicking the thing away when he realizes that he's just touched his girlfriend's camisole.
Next time he visits, he'll bring along a vacuum cleaner and run this place spotless. He smiles in spite of himself.
His next realization wipes the smirk off his face.
Futaba is crying.
On hearing her sniffle once or twice, he sits up in alarm. His vision blurs for a moment from getting up too fast. He sways for a couple of seconds before the blood returns to his head, and he looks over to where his girl is curled up on her side, her face pressed against a pillow as she sniffs and hiccups.
Concerned and bewildered, he opens his mouth to call her name, but no words come out. What on earth is he supposed to say? 'Are you okay?' 'Fucking peachy, thank you very much,' he imagines she'd snarl.
But then she whimpers again, and he springs into action, reaching a tentative hand to her shoulder. She flinches at his touch.
"Just go away!" she shouts, but then her voice cracks into a sob, and then another, and then suddenly she is full-out crying, turning her back to him and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.
Something tugs at his chest.
Kou does not think, just crawls over to her side and circles an arm around her despite her protests. He runs his fingers through her hair, speaking in hushed tones and wiping tears from her face. She tries to move away, squirming and pushing against his chest, but his hold is firm. Finally, she gives in and twists in his arms, burying her face into his shirt, trembling.
Kou pulls her against him and moves a hand up and down her back. He hesitates a moment before pressing his mouth to the top of her head, a silent question burning on his lips.
She catches on.
"I… It's been hurting all day. I couldn't get out of bed, and I couldn't go back to sleep. It just won't go away," she cries. Kou draws back a little, tips her chin up with his thumb and brushes her hair from her face so that he's looking straight into her eyes.
"Where does it hurt?"
Futaba clenches her teeth before taking his hand from her face and leading it towards her stomach; Kou nearly withdraws when his hand discovers skin, but reins in his nerves and allows himself this touch.
He takes a deep breath, and then another.
Soft.
'She is so soft,' he thinks.
'He is so warm,' she thinks.
Futaba has half a mind to fall asleep right there and then as she nuzzles his neck. 'And he smells glorious, too.'
Then reality hits her, and she reddens. How could she have allowed him to see her in this state of undress, and in her bed, to boot? Her mother would throw a fit if she saw them together like this.
'But… this doesn't feel bad,' her giddy one percent reasons.
Futaba almost laughs, thinking that this is the closest they've been yet. Why, this morning, she was just about ready to denounce her own sex for all the bad tidings—and cramps—it brought. But if it meant discovering the analgesic effect of her boyfriend's hands as they worked magic on her—well, perhaps it was worth all the trouble.
She sighs in contentment as his hands linger, but all too quickly, they inch up and lift completely away from her. She whimpers in protest, hearing him chuckle in reply.
A second later, she is lying on her side, and he is settled behind her, her back fitted against the hard plane of his chest. She notices the kindling heat of his palms which press gently but steadily over her abdomen, feels the rough pads of his thumbs as they wander and rub soothing circles over her skin.
A fire starts where his hands come and go. She covers them with her own, admiring the contrast between their skin.
"All right?" He mouths against her ear.
She does not speak, just squeezes his hands in return.
'One, two, three, four,' she counts the cycles he makes with his thumb, notices how he switches to counterclockwise on the eighth count, and back again on the sixteenth; the lazy pattern almost lulls her to sleep.
"Kou, you idiot," she mumbles into her pillow, but then, his body is warm and the deep ache in her tummy has gone.
All is silent but for the sounds of their breathing. Futaba closes her eyes, the smile on her face refusing to go away.
P.S. Didn't know if I should classify this as Protect/Support or Touch.
P.P.S. In case you haven't noticed, I have a thing for Futaba admiring Kou's... assets. MEHEHEHE.