#your smile

“I can’t see while laughing”

~ Park Jimin ♡

“Your smile is like honey drizzling tickles onto my heart with warm, gooey love..”

Your smile warms the soul like a nice hot cup of coffee in the morning - eUë

“Your smile expresses the most beauty I have ever seen, like a sunrise on a ridge above the ocean..”

Somewhere out there, you are smiling and that is why the sun rises every day - eUë

“Even my darkest thoughts are illuminated by your gorgeously, beautifully lovely smile..”

Life can get dark, that’s no lie.. but it’s always lightest near your smile - eUë

“Forever soothes my soul into eternity when you smile ever so beautifully for me..”

Forever exists in a heartbeat when you lose track of time and I.. I lose track of time when I look at you dear, I lose track all the time living forever in a heartbeat - eUë

“I want to watch you smile cause it makes me feel like I just watched a sunset or something..”

Seriously, your smile is like a forever sunset and the only bad thing about it is that it ends - eUë

“It breaks my heart to see you cry, dry those eyes and show me a little smile to melt my heart..”

It ALWAYS melts my heart when you are beside me, I could live forever in a look - eUë

“Let a smile be your umbrella on a rainy day!”☔️

Art credit for banner.

[ao3]

The rest of the week passes in a blur of classes and takeaway and leftover takeaway and studying. It’s the way most of Will’s weeks do, if he’s honest. His social life could probably be described generously as lacking – or more accurately as kind of pathetic, Strifey, to borrow a phrase that Parvis is particularly fond of. In fairness to him, he’s snowed under with coursework. Enough so that, when Thursday rolls around, he only realises he’s completely forgotten about going drinking with Kirin when Parvis starts whining at him about it.

“I can’t!” snaps Will, in the face of Parvis’ wheedling, slamming his hands down on his desk in frustration. They’ve had this exact conversation three times in the last half-hour alone, and Parvis doesn’t seem to have grasped that no amount of please with the vowel sound dragged out to impossible lengths is going to change his mind. “I can’t, Parvis, I’ve got coursework to finish and a full day of lectures tomorrow and– I can’t.”

“But it was supposed to be all of us going out together,” whines Parvis, draping his arms over Will’s shoulders, pressing his stomach against Will’s upper back where it sticks up over the back of the chair. He wraps his arms around Will’s chest in a mockery of a hug, resting his chin on the top of Will’s head. “All of us, Strifey. That means you too.”

Will rubs a hand across his forehead, shrugging half-heartedly in an attempt to dislodge Parvis and sighing when it doesn’t work. “I can’t,” he says, quietly, staring at the lines of black type across his computer screen until they blur into squiggles. “I’ve got lectures at nine tomorrow morning, and– and even if I were willing to skip them–” Which, although he hates to admit it, he almost would be, just to see Kirin’s smile again, hear the way Parvis laughs when he’s half-drunk and buzzing manic from the heavy beat of the music. “–this assignment is due in at midnight. I can’t. Just– stop.”

“Assignments,” says Parvis, with a dismissive wave of his hand, pressing his face against Strife’s neck and doing something that can only be described as nuzzling. “I keep forgetting you actually have to do work. Advantages of being a first year, baby!” He laughs, pulling away, teeth flashing white in an over-wide grin. “Our grades this year only count for five percent of our degree. Ah, freedom feels so good.”

Grumbling under his breath, and trying to ignore the way his hands have curled into fists at the feel of Parvis’ laughter against his throat, Will grabs a bit of scrap paper off the corner of his desk. He balls it up, thoroughly tossing it at Parvis’ head. It misses by a mile, hits the wall rather than Parvis, but Parvis ducks nonetheless and just laughs harder. “Get outta here,” says Will, despairingly, shaking his head. “Go on, shoo. Go enjoy your freedom.” He pauses for a moment, chews on his lip. “…Say hi to Kirin for me.”

Parvis shoots him a mock-salute from the doorway, eyes glittering beneath barely-noticeable circles of dark eyeliner. “Aye-aye, Cap’n. Will do!” he agrees cheerfully. “Enjoy being a nerd, or whatever.” He stumbles out the room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

A moment later, there’s a click at the flat door opens, a thump as it closes, and then Parvis is gone.

Sighing quietly, Will turns back to his laptop and piles of paper, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s not jealousy that makes his jaw ache with how hard he’s clenching it, he tells himself. Definitely not. Not regret that’s making his insides turn slow, unsettling backflips.

He ignores it, all of it, and forces his eyes to focus on the screen. There’s another thousand words to written in the next few hours, after all, and he has no idea what he’s going to say for at least half of them.

By the time Parvis gets back at some time past one in the morning, Strife has a completed paper handed in, a second assignment due in on Saturday half-finished, a far clearer desk than before, and a headache throbbing at his temples. He hits the save icon in the top-left of the window, and then again, because he’s tired and it never hurts to be thorough, before closing the window.

Caffeine this close to bed really isn’t a good idea, but there’s no way he’s going to get to sleep without something to ease the pounding in his head. Warm, weak tea and a couple of ibuprofen should do it, so he hauls himself out of his chair and stretches – wincing when his back clicks in three different places, and something in his shoulder grinds unpleasantly as he rotates it – before padding barefoot out into the corridor and down towards their communal kitchen.

He’s barely made it two steps before the door to their little corridor rattles, and drunken singing floats through from the outside. It’s the kind that’s less actual singing, and more mumbling interspersed by an occasional, sharp rise in volume as the singer actually remembers the words.

“Mmmnmn parts to love! Orsomnmn,” goes the song, or at least this drunken rendition of this, and Will snorts as he recognises it as one of Parvis’ band’s. He can’t remember the name of it – can’t remember the name of most of them, really, he’s gotten into plenty of arguments with Parvis about how awful their titling skills are – but he remembers Parvis playing it earlier in the year, when it was still warm enough to be outside.

He’d been sat on the small, scrubby patch of grass outside the student union café, Will remembers, hair in his eyes as he hunched over a battered acoustic guitar. Tongue between his teeth in concentration, fingers plucking carefully at the strings, he’d only noticed Will approaching when he’d sat down next to him. He’d started singing, then, glancing sideways at Will from under the mess that was his fringe and grinning, eyes dancing, and if Will didn’t know better he’d have said Parvis was looking for approval…

“Mmm part that you lose- somethin’ mmmm receive!” The door rattles again, and then thumps, pulling Will out of the memory with a start. “Striiiiiife?” It’s the distinctive cry of a drunk Parvis, and Will sighs, rubbing at one eye socket with the heel of his palm as the noise makes his headache spike. “Strifey, I’ve forgotten my keys! Let me in!”

The moment Will opens the door, Parvis comes toppling in – he was evidently leaning against it, and the sudden lack of support makes him stumble and almost fall before he rights himself. “Strifey!” he says, delightedly, when he notices Will, eyes lighting up. His eyeliner has smudged a little, and he’s wearing lipgloss that Will’s sure he wasn’t wearing when he left, but otherwise looks far too composed to have gone clubbing. “Hello.”

“Morning, Parvis,” says Will, quietly, smiling crookedly at him. Despite the low throbbing at the base of his skull, he can’t help but be amused by the almost puppy-ish expression of happiness on Parvis’ face. “Did you have a good evening with Kirin?”

Parvis sways a little, before catching himself, taking a few stumbling steps forward and kicking the door shut behind him. The steps bring him close enough that Will can see the way his dark eyes are glittering in the low, yellowish light of the corridor, the way it makes his lipgloss shine. “Would have been better with you there,” he says, a little mournfully. “But– yeah. Yeah. It was good. We just– we decided to just stick to the bar. Had some drinks. Talked. It was good.”

He takes another step forward, close enough Will could count his eyelashes if he were so inclined, crowding into Will’s personal space, an odd intensity in his eyes. “Would’ve been better with you.”

This close, Will is painfully aware of where every inch of his body is in relation to Parvis’, of how he can feel Parvis’ breath on his cheek. He smells heavily of copper and vodka and sugar and something else, aftershave Strife vaguely remembers but can’t quite place, sandalwood and patchouli and a hint of citrus. He’s still cold from the outside, the bare skin of his arms cool where it presses against Will, and it’s enough to make Will shiver – from the chill of it, from the contact, from how close Parvis is.

“That’s– that’s good,” manages Will, looking up at Parvis. He’s not sure why he isn’t just stepping backwards, putting some space between them, other than the fact that his lungs have stopped working and his skin’s prickling all over, crawling static between them. His legs aren’t listening to him, all of a sudden. “I’m– glad. That you had a good time.”

Parvis sways again where he stands, leans into Will and grabs at his waist for support – and, suddenly, Will knows. He knows what’s going to happen a split-second before it does, a kind of premonition that leaves him frozen like a deer in the headlights, powerless to stop it.

“Yeah…” murmurs Parvis, quietly, eyes huge and bright under his smudged eyeliner, lips shiny and half-parted as he exhales slowly. “Me too.” And Will should pull away, he really should, it would be so easy to step back, but he doesn’t– and Parvis leans in, and then–

For the shortest moment, everything slots into place – the planets align, the sun rises, the world stops turning, and a thousand other awful metaphors that don’t even come close to describing how right it feels. Pressed chest to chest, Parvis’ arm curled around his waist, soft lips against his… it’s not so different, really, from all the nights they’ve shared a bed, not so different from Parvis curled into him in sleep and breathing against his skin. Kissing him like this, in the quiet space of time past midnight, his lower lip caught lightly between Parvis’ teeth as Parvis kisses like he’s trying to devour him, feels like a natural extension.

It takes all of a heartbeat for Will to come to his senses and push Parvis away, stumbling backwards with a gasp and scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.

His fingers can’t seem to get rid of the taste, the copper-sweetness of Parvis on his lips, nor the way the pit of his stomach feels hot and molten. “What the fuck–” he snaps, because anger is easier than confusion, than trying to process whatever this is. “Parvis–”

Parvis stumbles back a step from the force of the shove, wide-eyed and lost, before his expression crumples into something dark and angry. “…Well,” he says, the word alcohol-thick and exhaustion-slurred. There’s still an edge to it, though, hurt and amusement and something oddly bitter. “Well. That’s your answer, then, isn’t it?”

He barks out a sharp noise that only technically qualifies as a laugh, drags a hand through the sweat-spiked mess of his hair, and takes a stumbling step back. Will makes an aborted movement forward, reaching out a hand – and then curls back in on himself when Parvis steps away again.

“That’s your fucking answer!” shouts Parvis, arms spread wide like Will’s splayed him open, crucified him, and he just keeps stumbling backwards. “You wanted to know what’d happen if you kissed me? Well, there’s your answer, William fucking Strife, and it’s that you wouldn’t! Because you’re a fuckingcoward.”

The anger slips off Will’s face in the space between heartbeats, and the noise he makes in the back of this throat is low, involuntary, wounded. It sounds a little like he’s been stabbed. “P– Parvis–”

Parvis barely seems to notice, shoulders shaking and hands curled into fists where they’re his arms are still held open. “You’re a fucking ice queen up there in that goddamn tower of yours with the door barred shut,” he snarls, voice climbing in volume with every word. “And you wonder why no one comes and knocks on the fucking door any more? This–” He gestures at his own face, at the way his lipgloss has been smeared across his cheek by the drag of Will’s lips, and his eyes look so huge and dark and hurt that Will feels like he might drown on them. “This is fucking why!”

“Shut up,” says Will – and now it’s his turn to step back, one arm wrapped almost protectively around his stomach. He feels sick. “Shut– shut up, Parvis.”

Stumbling back again, lurching sideways against his own door, Parvis shakes his head. “I’m right,” he says, quieter this time, something like resignation laced through every syllable – though the words themselves are barbed, sharp and hooked and catching in the soft spaces of Will’s heart. “Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Before Will can say anything in response, he’s gone, shoved his way into his room through the perpetually-open door and shut it behind him. In the sudden silence, Will hears the click of the lock and the faint thump of what he assumes is Parvis collapsing into bed.

Just like that, he’s alone in the corridor.

He knows how this will end – how Parvis will stumble into the kitchen tomorrow morning while Will’s making breakfast, hung over and apologetic. How he’ll say, “Uh, so, about last night–”, and how Will will cut across him, tell him it doesn’t matter, that he’s forgotten it already. How everything will go right back to normal again, or as close to normal as it ever gets with Parvis around.

The thought makes him feel somewhere between sick and dizzy. He wraps arms around himself, fingers clutching at his sides like he might fall apart without the pressure holding him together, and closes his eyes as he fights the urge to just sink to the floor where he stands.

“Um.” Will turns around, sees Xephos’ sleep-ruffled hair and bleary eyes peering at him through the gap between the door and doorframe of his room. “Everything okay out here?” From the hesitant look on his face, he’s probably very well aware that it isn’t – they likely woke him up with their shouting, Will realises, and feels a stab of cold guilt in the pit of his stomach to match the nausea that’s settled heavily there.

“Yes,” he says, because what else is there to say. “Yes, everything’s fine.” He forces a smile onto his face, and can’t quite meet Xephos’ eyes. “Sorry for waking you up. I think– think Parvis had a little too much to drink.”

“Doesn’t he always?” asks Xephos, a faint smile on his face, and in that second Will thinks he might love the other man a little for accepting his shoddy lie without question, despite the fact he must have heard every word of the argument. “He always talks a load of rubbish when he’s drunk, too.”

It’s a transparent attempt at comfort. Will sighs, scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms in a moment of weakness and realises suddenly how badly his hands are shaking. “I– yeah,” he says – because chin up, put on a strong face, play the game. All those little euphemisms for keep smiling while your heart is breaking, and somehow he never noticed that’s what they meant before. “Yes. I know.”

Xephos doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t try and stop Will when Will fumbles with the lock to his room, manages to twist the key and push his way inside, shoving the door shut behind him. Waiting, Xephos listens for the familiar click of the lock.

He sighs quietly when it doesn’t come, drags a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and presses his forehead against the doorframe.

Inside his room, Will barely manages to make it across the room before he’s collapsing face-first into the bed, gasping for breath against the pillow as he wraps his arms around it and squeezes and squeezes like he can crush the life out of it. Like he can make it stay by merit of just holding it down. Like it’s Parvis.

His phone buzzes against his hip and he pulls it out of his pocket, angrily thumbs the screen on and half-hopes it’s Parvis texting to apologise just so he can carefully construct some viciously passive-aggressive reply. It’s not. The words you need more friends glow accusingly at him from the top of the screen.

[you need more friends] did parvis get home okay ??

He stares at it for a long thirty seconds, feels the anger and jealousy rise hot and sickening in his stomach. It’s irrational. He knows it’s irrational – but he can’t help the way it rises up to strangle him, and his fingers are typing out a reply and hitting send before he can stop them.

[Strife] fuck off

He watches the green bar scroll across the top of his screen and waits for it to finish sending. When it’s done, he switches the phone off, throws it across the room at the chair in the corner with a lack of care that he’d never usually allow himself. It hits the chair with a thump, bounces, and by some miracle of chance doesn’t fall off.

Will doesn’t see, face already buried in his pillow once more.

Art credit for banner.

[ao3]

By the time Sunday rolls around, the last thing Will is feeling like is company. It’s been a long week, and next week will undoubtedly be longer, and he’s got a 9am on Mondays with a particularly brutal lecturer. By preference, he’d be retreating to his room, ideally unbothered by anyone but more realistically bothered only by Parvis, to read a bit and relax a bit and get an early night.

Instead, he’s stuck in their shitty kitchen poring over takeout menus on his laptop with Parivs, waiting for their guest to arrive.

He’s not waiting long. They’ve barely settled on what rice to order – because Will by preference does not compromise, and Parvis loves to be contrary just for the hell of it – when Parvis’ phone buzzes twice against the sticky faux-wood top of the table. Parvis grabs for it like it might try to escape, and thumbs past the lockscreen to peer at the new message.

“Kirin’s here!” he says, delightedly, and Will barely holds back a scowl. “Okay, I gotta go grab him from reception. Be right back, Strifey. No ordering any shitty rices whilst I’m gone, okay?”

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with egg fried–” he starts, but Parvis is already out the kitchen, down the corridor, out the front door. Gone, as fast as his lanky legs can carry him, beer still clutched in one hand.

Will groans, very quietly, to himself. Just to be petty, he adds egg fried rice to the order. And then, he waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. It’s less than five minutes before Parvis is back, bursting through the door with a yell of, “Oh Strifey, I’m home!” in a terrible falsetto. A significantly quieter Kirin trails through behind him, his arms full of what looks to be a case of beer. At least, Will supposes, there’s going to be alcohol on offer that’s not Parvis’ terrible bargain-basement larger or toilet-cleaner vodka to help him get through the evening.

“I come bearing beer,” says Kirin, setting the case down on the table. The bottles are full of something dark and craft-looking. Parvis wrinkles his nose at it, and clutches his can of Fosters closer to his chest like it might get infected. “Were you waiting for me to arrive before you started cooking?” There’s a dry sort of amusement in his voice as he looks around their kitchen – dirty dishes piled high by the sink, a ten-year-old microwave, a kettle even more ancient than that and useless with limescale.

“We’re ordering Chinese.” Will looks up from his laptop to catch Kirin’s eye. “If you’ve got any special requests, I’m about to hit the order button, so speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Takeout?” says Kirin, mock offended. He presses a hand to his heart. “But I was promised dinner! You’re telling me I’m not getting a home-cooked, three course meal?”

“My cooking’s functionally edible, and Parvis’ is worse,” says Will, pointedly. “If you’d like to take your chances, though, I can try and make us all box mac and cheese. Maybe even some frozen vegetables or something.”

“I burned pasta once,” adds Parvis, cheerily. “It set the smoke alarm off, and they had to evacuate the whole building. At, like, two in the morning. Strifey was so mad about it.”

“…Ah.” Kirin winces. “I see. No, no, takeout is absolutely fine in that case – dumplings, please? As a special request.”

Will dutifully adds dumplings to the order, as Parvis digs through the drawers in an attempt to find a bottle opener for Kirin’s beer. The one he comes up with is Xephos’, probably, but then Parvis has never been above a bit of rifling through other people’s cupboards and light thievery. Will had learned that one the hard way.

“Thank you for having me over,” says Kirin. He settles himself at the table like he belongs there, beer in hand and an easy smile on his face.

It puts Will’s hackles a bit, mostly because he doesn’t actually mind. He should mind. He should be pissed off with this guy who’s invading their space, their flat, their friendship. He keeps trying to remind himself that Kirin is a mild nuisance at best, a stranger Parvis has adopted and decided to drag into their social circle without Strife’s consent.

At worst, he’s– well. He’s trying not to think about that.

But he keeps forgetting that, and he’s mad about it. So, instead of responding properly, he just grunts in vague agreement as he pulls plates down from his and Parvis’ kitchen cupboards, and steals one of Sips’ from the drying rack by the sink. They’ve no chopsticks, so he turns to scavenging cutlery, his and Parvis’ again and then another anonymous knife and fork from the sink. And then they need spoons, for serving, so back to the sink again–

“Don’t mind Strifey,” says Parvis, slyly, kicking Will in the shins as he passes. Will kicks back with feeling, misses, and gets a bottle of Kirin’s beer shoved into his hands for his troubles. He takes it with an exaggerated sigh of irritation. Parvis winks, like he’s won something. “He’s just being grumpy.”

“Ah.” Kirin pulls a sympathetic face, and takes a sip of his beer. Will mirrors him, and is surprised to find that it doesn’t taste too bad. Not his usual fare – which is, admittedly, generally whatever the hell Parvis buys for the flat or whatever’s recommended at a pub – but drinkable. More than drinkable. Significantly better than Parvis’ offering, at least. “Rough week, then?”

“Oh, no,” says Parvis, brightly. “He’s just like that all the time. Don’t worry. You get used to it.”

Will, briefly, considers kicking him again, and then decides that it’s both not worth the effort and also beneath him. Instead, he takes another sip of the beer, and pretends he doesn’t see Kirin watching him with an odd, approving sort of smile.

“It’s good, right?” says Kirin, when he catches Will looking at him. He raises his own bottle, tilts it towards Will like one might tip a hat to a fellow gentleman on the street.

Will shrugs. “It’s better than Budweiser,” he says, ignoring Parvis’ indignant spluttering, “but that’s not hard. And–” He hesitates, though he’s not sure why. Kirin’s going to be here for the whole evening, and Will’s got to stick around at least until after the food’s arrived and been eaten. He may as well make polite conversation. “I’m a business major. Or– they don’t do majors over here, do they? So just doing business. A study abroad year. It’s a pretty intensive course.”

“Hence the, ah, grumpiness?” Kirin’s voice is warm with understanding, and also that little edge of a private smile that he has when he’s making a joke. “Gotcha. That does sound like a lot of work, though. Especially if you’re new to the city, and to the university. I’ve at least had a year or so to settle in, at this point.”

The conversation turns, fairly easily, then, to uni work – and then, just as naturally, onto back home for Kirin and Will and what they both miss most about it, foods or stores or little cultural peculiarities. Parvis, never one to sit and listen during a conversation, butts in frequently with stories about his own hometown, which grow gradually gradually more improbable with each one he tells.

The food arrives just as the anecdotes go from improbabletoParvis, that is a barefaced lie, no, don’t try to bullshit me. Parvis is busy outright cackling as he doubles over the table, wheezing with laughter. Kirin is wearing that very specific bewildered-resigned-delighted expression that Parvis unfailingly induces in anyone he’s in contact with for more than five minutes.

Will goes down to get it from the reception in his socks. When he comes back, there’s a new bottle of beer in front of his seat, and Kirin’s laying the table.

It should be awkward, Kirin in their space – and it really is their space. This is his and Parvis’ domain, usually, the kitchen past sundown on the weekend. Xephos is generally round at Honeydew or Lomadia’s in the evening, Lalna either locked in his room doing god-knows-what or out god-knows-where, Sips off drinking somewhere sketchy and enjoying the nightlife. Which leaves the two of them, him and Parvis, in the kitchen ordering cheap takeout or scrounging leftovers, talking and arguing. Leaves Parvis fucking around with his guitar, and leaves Will trying and failing to work on his assignments, and leaves their food growing cold and forgotten on the counter.

Instead, it seems oddly natural. Kirin balances the both them, without even trying – quiets Parvis with an effortlessness that Will envies, and drags Will back into the conversation over and over despite his attempts to stay in the background. When he moves to sit on the couch, their plates scraped clean and the takeout containers emptied and all of them feeling overfull with dumplings and starchy noodles, with overcooked rice and dry duck pancakes, he sits like he belongs there, like it’s nothing.

Parvis sits next to him, pressed up against his side, like that’s nothing, too. Like it’s not painfully obvious the way he’s hanging off Kirin’s every word, like an excited puppy. There’s space on the sofa next to them, like they left it for him.

Will takes one of the slightly tacky chairs from around the table, and uses that instead.

It feels petty, and he half-regrets it as soon as he does it. The chair’s hard, and more than a little uncomfortable, and the sofa looks soft and warm and inviting. And he doesn’t want Kirin to think he’s being rude, after all. Even if he is being rude, a bit. It needs to be the kind of rude with plausible deniability.

But moving now would look weird, he’s pretty sure. So he stays on his chair, and Parvis and Kirin stay on the sofa, pressed close enough together that their thighs touch.

The conversation turns to favourites – food, alcohol, music. They all like the same food, or mostly the same food, much to Will’s surprise, though they get into a debate over curries when it turns out Parvis can’t handle his spice and Kirin apparently can’t get enough of it. Parvis’ taste in alcohol is terrible, which is not really news and therefore doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, and does not seem to surprise Kirin either. And Kirin likes classic rock, plays Mozart when he’s working in his lab, both of which feel like they should be a surprise but for some reason but are not.

When he cheerfully keeps pace with Parvis’ rattled-off list of metal bands, though, Will’s eyebrows climb right into his hairline, and he stops trying to make assumptions about the man based off of appearances and guesswork. Which is good, because the next words out of his mouth are–

“We should go clubbing together some time,” says Kirin, bottle of beer pressed absently against the bottom of his lip. “There’s a pretty good place I know, probably walking distance from here, actually. Basement club. They’ve got an odd choice in music, sometimes, but the drinks are pretty reasonable, and the energy is electric.”

Parvis’ eyes go very, very wide. They’re mostly focused on Kirin’s mouth. Will doesn’t mind. He doesn’t. “Clubbing,” he says, like Kirin is the first person to have ever mentioned the concept to him.

“I’m assuming you’re both fans,” he says, wryly, and Will wonders not for the first time how much he remembers of the night they all met – of the park bench, of Parvis drooling onto his lap, of Will half-asleep and leant against him.

“Yes,” says Parvis, at almost the exact time Will says, “no.”

“Ah.” Kirin pauses, and lowers the bottle. Will stops looking at Kirin’s mouth. Parvis does not. “I thought we, um, met at a club though.”

“Bar,” corrects Will, immediately. “Not a club. Bars are different. I don’t mind bars.”

Parvis grins. “It’s because he doesn’t have to dance in bars,” he says, with a conspiratorial sort of air, leaning closer to Kirin as though they aren’t already pressed together at the shoulders and thighs. “He’s a terribledancer.”

That’s not technically true, and Will suspects Parvis knows it – it’s the noise of clubs that bothers him, and how close people feel entitled to get to you on the dancefloor. But he knows better by now than to rise to Parvis’ teasing, so he takes another sip of his beer, and scowls mildly in Parvis’ direction, and ignores the snub.

“Huh.” Kirin frowns. “I guess I must’ve had a bit more to drink that night than I realised.” He peers down at the bottle he’s holding, resting on one thigh, as though worried that might betray him too. After a moment of drumming his blunt nails against it absently, he looks up, and locks eyes with Will. “What about a bar, then? The three of us. Some time this week. I know a couple of good ones, but I’m open to suggestions.”

“The student bar,” says Parvis, immediately. “They’ve got two for one on Jaeger bombs on week nights.”

Kirin winces. “Perhaps not,” he says. “I did my time as a fresher in college bars. Never again. They’re too… sticky. But– we can work out the location later. When are you both free? My preference would be Thursday, because I’m a bit busy earlier in the week, but if that doesn’t work for you…”

“No, no, Thursday is great!” says Parvis, entirely too quickly, looking over at Will with a pleading sort of expression. “Isn’t it, Strifey? We’d love to go for drinks.”

“…Yeah, sure,” says Will, because for his sins he is not immune to Parvis’ puppy dog eyes. He’s the opposite of immune, in fact. It’s a problem. “Drinks sounds good. Thursday sounds fine.”

“Thursday, then,” says Kirin, with a grin, raising his bottle and tilting it in Will’s directions as though saluting him. “It’s a date.”

matsuno chifuyu smiling >>>>>>>

I didn’t want to fall in love, not at all. But at some point you smiled and, holy shit, I blew it.

-fallinginlove

Part #185

Lovely chubby MILF Part-1

Reblog for more of her ♥️