Giggles And Kicks My Feet

SEE THEY LOVE EACH OTHER ITS SO OBVIOUS

Stolen Glances

hey so i’m genuinely shedding tears now!!!

End of canon part 5 headcanon

Whenever Mista starts thinking about how he can no longer talk to Narancia he will just send him a text message. Maybe a photo or a joke or something stupid that happened that day. Maybe even a “I miss you loser”. And it helps because well sometimes you send a text and don’t get a response right away, since Narancia isn’t responding he must be busy. He can trick his brain into thinking that everything’s ok, even though Narancia is always so quick to respond, this time he just so happens to be distracted.

And Abbacchio, he never responds to his text messages anyways. Unless it’s super important. So if he just texts Abbacchio stupid shit all is good. Abbacchio not gonna respond. He never did so why would he now? Abbacchios just ignoring him as usual.

And of course buccellatis not responding to his text messages, buccellatis more of a phone call kinda guy. Better to not have mission details typed out anywhere. As long as he doesn’t call him than this is normal behavior for bruno to not respond. And why would he want a response to a text saying “I’m sorry I caused your death” anyways? It was way too scary to send the text in the first place and getting a response would be even scarier. Bruno’s probably really upset with him for sending mission details over text again, which is why he isn’t responding. Giorno tried to explain that it’s not his fault but he’s not buying it. He’s not dead anyways. Just not responding.

He got to talk to them all today, his whole team. even though Narancia, Abbacchio, and Bruno were just over text. They haven’t responded but they got the text. The team is just like it used to be because he talked to all of them.

i’m sorry for being an asdhole but i still am his real wife soooo shrug sorryyyyyyy sorry im off my meds sorrryyyy

shh… babygirl… it’s okay… we can share him…

cuz i want u too😉😉😻

chat is this rizz

I LOVE ABBACCHIO SO MUCH AAGAGAG

hiii!!! could i perchance ask for Bucci gang hcs of them finding reader in the bathroom at like 2am with a full face of vkei makeup ^^ if it’s not too much to ask !!!

p.s. i srs love your work so much <33

Masterlist here <3

I am soso glad you enjoy my work!🥹 I hope you enjoy this as well ❤️

Bucci gang react to walking in on you in full vkei makeup

Bruno Bucciarati

- He doesn’t even question it at first. Bruno is half-asleep, and his only concern is whether or not you’re okay

- “Do you feel sick? Wait… why are you so sparkly?” He rubs his eyes, takes a closer look, and just blinks at you in confusion

- He thinks you look stunning, but he has no idea why you decided to do this at such an ungodly hour. He calmly asks, “Would you like some tea?” as if tea is the solution to everything

- Ends up complimenting your eyeliner technique before reminding you to get some rest. “You’re talented, but don’t overwork yourself, okay? Good night, cara.”

Narancia Ghirga

- Narancia screams. Loudly. Like, actually screams

- He thought you were some kind of ghost or demon haunting the bathroom and nearly threw his shoe at you

- Once he realizes it’s just you, he bursts into laughter. “Why do you look like a rock star? Are you in a band now?”

- He insists you let him try the makeup, too. “C’mon, do mine! I’d look cool, right? Like, super edgy!”

- You two spend the next hour giving him a matching visual kei look. By the time you’re both done, it’s almost sunrise, and he’s taking blurry selfies in the mirror

Guido Mista

- Mista sleepily waddles into the bathroom, sees you, and freezes mid-step

- “…Is this a dream, or are you auditioning for some gothic opera?” He’s genuinely torn between being impressed and confused

- Immediately whips out his phone to snap a picture. “The guys are never gonna believe this. You look like you belong in a magazine!”

- Tries to convince you to let him borrow your eyeliner. “C’mon, lemme try it. If I look half as good as you, everyone will think I’m cool!” Spoiler: he smudges it everywhere

Giorno Giovanna

- Giorno walks in completely unfazed. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it

- “ You look… unique,” he says, in his usual calm tone. But then he tilts his head and adds, “Is this part of a new artistic project?”

- Genuinely admires your skills and asks thoughtful questions about your inspiration. “How did you get the eyeshadow to blend so perfectly? It’s quite impressive.”

- Somehow convinces you to explain the concept of visual kei in-depth at 2 a.m., and by the end of it, he’s recommending color palettes and outfits for your next look

Leone Abbacchio

- Abbacchio stumbles into the bathroom half-asleep, muttering about how you’re being too loud

- When he sees your face, he just stares for a solid ten seconds. Then, with the straightest face imaginable, he says, “What the hell are you doing?”

- He’s absolutely not letting this go. “It’s two in the morning. Do you even know what time it is? What possessed you to turn yourself into a glam rock zombie right now?”

- Despite his grumpiness, he thinks you look kind of cool but will never admit it. If you tease him, he’ll roll his eyes and walk off while muttering, “Kids these days…”

Pannacotta Fugo

- Fugo is baffled. He stares at you with the most exasperated look imaginable

- “Why? Just… why?” He’s trying to process why you’re awake, why you’re in the bathroom, and why you look like you’re about to join a gothic rock band

- He starts lecturing you. “It’s two in the morning. You need to sleep. This can wait until daylight, don’t you think?”

- Secretly, he’s impressed by your creativity but won’t admit it because he’s too busy being the responsible one. “At least wash your face before bed. Makeup isn’t good for your skin overnight.”

Trish Una

- Trish is instantly wide awake when she sees you. She gasps, “Oh my god, you look incredible!”

- She’s fully supportive of your midnight makeup escapades and starts gushing about your blending skills and color choices.

- “You have to let me try this! I want to match with you!” She insists on doing her own visual kei look right then and there

- By 3 a.m., the two of you are in full glam, taking dramatic pictures with moody lighting in the bathroom

If you’d like anything tweaked just let me know! Also I want to let you all know that whenever I write these silly scenarios with the “reckless teenagers late nights” vibe I enjoy writing Abbacchios’ reactions the most lol! So I might rewrite this as a full scenario for Abbacchio!👀

If you enjoyed this make sure to check out my other posts, and if you’d like anything specific written for a jjba character/squad you can request it if my requests are open!

ABBACCHIO MY SWEETHEART UFH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH☹️☹️☹️☹️

I see requests are open 🙏 and first of all, omfg I absolutely loved your response to my nonchalant reader confessing to Bucci gang+Trish 😭❤️ tho it left me wondering what if 👀👀 nonchalant reader is not taken seriously, so they double down with their confession by doing the exact opposite of sth casual because now they do something more elaborated, extravagant or/and even obnoxious (like fancy dinner, a big boquet of flowers, heartshaped chocolates or maybe even balloons) to make their point clear and sure to get across this time. Like !!! I meant it, I am in love with you!! but this time doing the grand gestures gets Nonchalant Reader flustered when repeating outloud that they love them

Masterlist here <3

I love this so much!!! I seriously had so much fun writing this and I hope you enjoy <3

Og post of the confession here <3

Bruno Bucciarati

The first confession over breakfast had left Bruno intrigued, but you could tell he thought you were joking. So now, you’re sitting across from him at a ridiculously fancy restaurant with chandeliers, classical music, and a waiter in a tux pouring sparkling water into crystal glasses

Bruno, ever composed, places his napkin neatly in his lap, a polite smile on his lips. “This is… unexpected,” he says smoothly. “Special occasion?”

You fidget with the edge of your menu, trying to maintain your nonchalant facade despite your flushed cheeks. “Yeah. I, uh… wanted to clarify something.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Oh?”

The words catch in your throat, but you force them out anyway. “I meant what I said. I’m… I’m in love with you.”

Bruno leans forward slightly, eyes softening, but your nerves hit like a freight train. “Like, actually,” you blurt, voice a bit too loud. “Not some breakfast joke. I got a whole table reservation and—”

The waiter appears, placing an elaborate bouquet of roses between you. You stare at it in mortification

Bruno hides a smile behind his hand. “I’m beginning to see that.”

“I panicked!” you hiss

Bruno’s laugh is warm, genuine. “You’re charming when you panic, did you know that?”

Narancia Ghirga

The first confession during video games had left Narancia completely flustered, but clearly, he thought you were messing with him. Time to up the ante

So now, you’re standing outside his window with a boombox blaring cheesy love songs, dressed way too nicely for no reason

Narancia sticks his head out the window, eyes wide. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

“I LOVE YOU!” you yell over the music, face burning but fully committed. “LIKE, FOR REAL!”

The neighbors are already peeking through their windows, and you’re regretting every second of this decision

Narancia bursts out laughing, leaning on the windowsill. “Wait, you’re serious?! Oh my god, you’re insane!”

“I KNOW!” you yell back, hands shaking as you fumble with the boombox to turn it off. “But I meant it!”

He grins so wide it makes your embarrassment almost worth it. “You didn’t have to do all this, dummy. I already like you too.”

You freeze. “…Oh?”

“Yeah! But this was awesome.”

Guido Mista

The kitchen confession had gone over way too casually. So now, you’ve decided to go full drama mode—heart-shaped chocolates, flowers, and a cheesy handwritten card are all set on the table

Mista walks in, blinks at the sight, then bursts out laughing. “What’s all this? Valentine’s Day come early?”

You groan, already regretting this. “I’m trying to be serious here, Mista.”

He grins, picking up the card. “Aw, you even wrote me a love letter?” He reads it aloud with way too much enthusiasm

You slap a hand over your face, cheeks burning. “Okay, okay, stop.”

Mista cackles, setting the card down. “You’re so flustered, it’s kinda cute.”

You glare at him. “I’m in love with you, idiot.”

His teasing expression falters for just a second before softening. “Yeah, I know,” he says, smiling warmly now. “I just wanted to see you get all worked up first.”

Fugo Pannacotta

Fugo’s intense logical nature means your first confession barely registered. So now, you’re standing in front of him holding a massive bouquet of flowers, wearing an outfit that makes you feel like an awkward rom-com protagonist

He blinks at you, visibly confused. “What is this?”

“I’m clarifying my previous statement,” you say stiffly, shoving the bouquet toward him

He cautiously takes it, looking between you and the flowers like you’ve just handed him a bomb. “Why?”

“Because,” you mutter, shifting on your feet, “you didn’t believe me. I meant it, Fugo. I’m in love with you.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire as you force the words out. Fugo’s expression shifts from confusion to realization, and his ears turn bright red

“You didn’t need to do all this,” he mutters, looking away

“Well, you weren’t getting it,” you snap, embarrassed

He glances back at you, a rare, shy smile tugging at his lips. “I get it now.”

Giorno Giovanna

The garden confession had been brushed off too smoothly, so now you’ve set up a full candlelit dinner. Roses, soft music, and a carefully plated meal—the works

Giorno enters, visibly surprised but composed as ever. “This is… elaborate.”

“Yeah, well,” you mumble, pulling out a chair for him. “Needed to make a point.”

He sits gracefully, watching you with amusement. “And that point is?”

You sit across from him, heart racing. “I love you,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “Like, really love you. Not just some random garden comment.”

His eyes soften, and a small smile graces his lips. “You’ve certainly made your feelings clear.”

“Good,” you mutter, poking at your food

He reaches across the table, taking your hand gently. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “I was never confused—just waiting for you to realize how much this means to you.”

Leone Abbacchio

After your nonchalant confession was brushed off, you decided to go all out. Now, you’re standing awkwardly in front of Abbacchio with a gift bag and a bottle of expensive wine

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“A… grand gesture,” you say, voice cracking slightly

He crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You feeling okay?”

“No,” you grumble. “This is stupid. I don’t know why I—whatever, here.” You shove the gift bag toward him

He takes it reluctantly, pulling out a small, heart-shaped card. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Seriously?”

“I love you,” you blurt out, feeling like you might actually combust. “Happy now?”

He stares at you for a long moment before letting out a low chuckle. “You really went all out, huh?”

“I panicked,” you admit miserably

“Well,” he says, smirking, “I guess I’m flattered.”

Trish Una

After your casual confession, Trish had brushed it off with disbelief. So now, you’re standing outside her dressing room with balloons, chocolates, and a handwritten love letter

She opens the door, takes one look at you, and blinks. “What is this?”

“I’m making a point,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “I meant it. I’m in love with you.”

Trish raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You’re blushing.”

“I know,” you groan. “This is embarrassing, okay?”

She crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So you really love me, huh?”

“Yes!” you snap. “God, don’t make me say it again.”

Trish laughs, stepping closer. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect this. But I guess it’s kind of cute.”

“Great. Glad you’re entertained.”

She grins. “I’ll take the chocolates, though. And maybe we can talk about this over dinner—my treat.”

If you’d like any tweaks let me know! I hope you enjoyed this cz I found it so cute <3

If you enjoyed this make sure to check out my other posts, and if you’d like anything specific written for a jjba character/squad you can request it if my requests are open!

In case anyone is having a bad night:

Here is the fudgiest brownie in a mug recipe I’ve found

Here are some fun sites

Here is a master post of Adventure Time episodes and comics

Here is a master post of movies including Disney and Studio Ghibli

Here is a master post of other master posts to TV shows and movies

*tucks you in with fuzzy blanket* *pats your head*

You’ll be okay, friend <3

SCREAMING WITH JOY

Abbacchio Week 2025 is coming

Abbacchio fans, it's once again time to celebrate our favorite moody mafioso! Beginning March 19th and ending with Leone's birthday on the 25th, we'll have a week of art, fics, cosplay, crafts, any sort of fan creation is welcome! Join the fun, and use #abbacchioweek2025 or tag the blog with your submissions. Happy brainstorming, and we'll see you in March!

guys u can’t trust ANYONE anymore bro i swear🙏 cough cough k, h, e, m!!!!

i’m screaming crying this was gorgeous

a moment in a bottle

Neuvillette wishes he could preserve this moment forever: the aquarium; the blue light; you.

(Everyone knows that Neuvillette adores you. Except for you, of course.)

(additional, more helpful description: u & neuvillette go on an aquarium date and he pines after you like a fool)

modern, college!au

NEUVILLETTE ♡ GN!READER

@2024gisecretsanta gift for @aquatik !! ♡ i hope you enjoy this piece, and happy holidays!!!

it was so fun to participate in this event ^^ thank u to the hosts and everyone involved for making this so special!!

Neuvillette has always noticed you. 

But he notices a lot of things; like the musk of the earth after it rains, like the light that dapples the campus sidewalk, seeping in between the gaps of the leaves. Neuvillette notices a lot of things, some more than others—he muses, nearly tripping over an uneven slab of the concrete floor, periwinkle eyes fixated on nothing but—

You, similarly to him, are stumbling through the crowd. You, unlike him, are entranced in your own world, eyes darting to and fro, searching amongst the sea of people while he has only ever searched for you. There are too many people in this world, Neuvillette thinks, for him to notice every one. So he notices only one. He notices—

You return his gaze (and Neuvillette feels something shiver in his chest), your lips tugging into a smile (and Neuvillette thinks the sun has shifted, that the sun has reworked itself, tunnelling all its light towards you), your figure suddenly coming closer (and Neuvillette thinks that there is nothing left; he is complete; he is yours absolutely and that is enough). 

You return his gaze. You look at him! Oh, you see him! Neuvillette thinks, This is it, this must be it. This—this… 

(What is it? Neuvillette is no longer capable of thought. He is no longer sentient. He looks at you, and something slams against his ribs: this-is this-is this-is…)

“Neuvillette! I was looking for you!” you exclaim, your voice occupying his mind for much longer than it does the air. Your voice—its unfathomable timbre, its incomparable and fantastical sound! It’s enough, it’s enough!

Neuvillette opens his mouth to respond. There’s a word. He feels himself about to vomit. He feels it: the rush, the suffocation, the gag and the swallow and before he can utter it into existence he clamps his lips shut. There’s a word—or maybe three, or maybe there is no word, nothing in verbal language that is enough to liken your unutterable radiance. 

(What is it? The three words? The rush, the suffocation, the gag and the breathlessness? Neuvillette feels it sinking down his throat, ebbing, reduced from a violent blare to nothing more than a whisper, it goes…)

“[Name],” Neuvillette acknowledges. Maybe, that is enough. “May I ask why?”

Why are you looking for him? Why are you searching for him? Neuvillette wants to hear you say it for himself, to hear the words—which are, after all, nothing more than words—in your fantastical and wonderful timbre. He wants to hear you speak his name—which is just a word, which is just his surname—to feel the revelation, the awakening, the surge! 

“Just because,”—you say, and maybe that’s enough—”I was wondering if you had any plans over the weekend?”

Neuvillette blinks, astonished. Your smile is unwavering, your eyes—your eyes! Neuvillette briefly looks away. The image remains with him still; the color, the glint, the fraction of the sun that is vested within your soul. Neuvillette looks at you, your image devoured by periwinkle. 

“I don’t,” he replies. (He had promised Furina that he’d help her with her case study.) Momentarily, his gaze averts from yours. (He had told one of his professors that he’d volunteer during office hours—who was it, again?) The lie is bitter on his tongue; but Neuvillette isn’t lying. (He’s going to send an email to the professor later, once he remembers who he promised.) Your expression glows. (Maybe this is enough.) Your gentle smile evolves into an excited grin. (He’s going to have to draft a text to Furina, too.) This is enough.

“That’s great!” You reach for your bag, sifting through the various pockets, your hand emerging with two humble, paper tickets. “I won a raffle for aquarium tickets! Do you want to come with?”

He’s whole. He’s complete. This—this is it! This is the surge, the rush, the incomparable and unutterable word! Neuvillette feels it now; the spasm of his heart, the stutter of his throat, the shrink of his figure when you do so much as perceive him! 

Your gaze sinks into his skin. Neuvillette lets it. Your smile sears his brain. Neuvillette replays it. You blink. Neuvillette’s heart follows. 

(Do you ever realize the way he lives? The way he finds meaning only ever because it dances within you?)

This-is-this-is-this-is…

“I would love to,” he replies, unable to contain the smile that tugs at his lips, the smolder in his chest, the primal constriction of his lungs, heaving, desperate to breathe the air you exist in. A breath! A tinge! A fraction of your incomparable existence! This-is-this-is-this-is…

(Neuvillette wonders if you caught it: the word. The word, although pale in comparison, assigns meaning to the enormity that swells within him, the colossal creature, the colossal completion, the vitality; you! Oh, you! When he cannot say your name, he must say this word; this—this fraction, this tiny, insignificant thing: love, love, love! You, you, you!)

“Really?” you say, eyes growing wide. Your lips hang slightly agape, your expression wild and fantastical and bright (Neuvillette thinks this is it); but the shock dissipates into that of utter joy (Neuvillette thinks this is it), and you grin that grin of yours. That grin, (Neuvillette wipes his sweaty palms against the fabric of his dress pants), a simple little something that amounts into an enormous everything. 

“Of course.” Neuvillette knows that this is it. What else, if not this? 

You look at him. His heart surges, his veins beginning to flare, his arteries spasming, flowing without an ebb, overwhelmed and incomparable (Neuvillette doesn’t need to return your gaze; he was already looking at you), insignificant and worldly. 

All you have to do is look at him! All you have to do is perceive him!

“Does noon work for you?” 

Any time works, Neuvillette thinks, any time at all. You could ask for him at four in the morning and Neuvillette would respond; you could stir him from his sleep, from his stupor, from his life. (Take him! Take him from his life! Take him, already!)

“Yes,” Neuvillette says, unable to contain the waver of his voice, the way his fingers instinctively reach to fiddle with his sleeves, “that’s perfect.” 

You look away. His heart surges, his veins beginning to flare, his arteries spasming, ebbing without flow, overwhelmed and incomparable (Neuvillette wishes you would look at him; he wishes you would perceive him, for just a moment will do), insignificant and worldly.

“Alright,” you say, grinning. “Noon it is.”

This-is-this-is-this-is…

It is, Neuvillette thinks. This is it.

Neuvillette has an unspoken routine.

Every day, he wakes up at six, even if he has no morning classes. Every day, he takes a morning walk around the city, admiring the most mundane of sights, like the glow of the lamplights, reflecting off puddles that congregate along sidewalks, like the airplane that soars by, smoke trailing in its wake.

Every day, he returns to his apartment and drinks a warm cup of water. Every day, he opens his laptop, and he sifts through his inbox, responding to different emails and updating his calendar accordingly.

Every day, he saves a slot for you. Today, he fills it in officially; the weekend; the aquarium; noon.

Every day, Neuvillette shuts his laptop, and he takes a sip of his warm water, and he thinks. Sometimes, he thinks about legal cases. Sometimes, he thinks about assignments that are due. Sometimes, he doesn’t have any thoughts at all. 

But every time, he thinks of you. You weave yourself into his daily routine, the legal cases and the assignments. You appear! Even when you’re not there; even when he hasn’t seen you in a couple days, you’re terribly real and terribly vivid. 

And somehow, despite everything, you’re unfathomable. (But Neuvillette fathoms you so often, so poignantly, it’s as if you’re tangible. As if you’re worldly when all you have ever been, to him, was esoteric. Unable to be comprehended. Unable to be conjured within thought, in any comparable magnitude to the colossal vitality that is, so undoubtedly, real. So, undoubtedly, you.)

Today, Neuvillette dons his finest coat. He fits the warmest scarf around his neck. He pats his pockets, and he adjusts his wristwatch—what time is it, again? He looks down—ten o’clock, he should start leaving now. 

The door to his apartment swings open. Neuvillette glances up.

“Neuvillette?” Wriothesley remarks, shrugging off his work uniform haphazardly, strands of his obsidian hair sticking to his skin. “You’re still here?”

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette acknowledges, “indeed, I am.”

“That’s a surprise,” Wriothesley says, pale blue eyes drifting over Neuvillette’s outfit. “What’s the occasion?” 

Neuvillette coughs into his fisted hand.

“I’m meeting with [Name] later.”

“Ah,” Wriothesley replies, smirking, “that adds up.”

Neuvillette has never considered himself to be transparent, but at the same time, he has never made it an effort to be enigmatic. But the knowing look that Wriothesley gives him is enough to make Neuvillette wonder: has he always been so plainly obvious?

Then, he thinks of you. Have you noticed how plainly obvious Neuvillette is? Have you known all along, yet never brought it up in an effort to spare his feelings?

(Have you ever wanted—for just a fraction, for just a moment—him to be so obvious? Have you ever looked at him—and held his image within your irises—when he hasn’t been looking at you (Which Neuvillette thinks, frankly, that’s impossible; he’s always looking at you)? Have you—have…)

Wriothesley chuckles. “Don’t think too hard about it. Who knows,”—he shrugs, his expression unreadable—“maybe you’ll be in for a surprise.”

Wriothesley has always known more than what he lets on; it’s just in his nature, as a part-time security guard and a student of criminal justice. 

He has never been wrong, Neuvillette thinks—his mind shifts. His mind forms an image, vivid and bright and fantastical; it’s you.

This time, however, he might be. Neuvillette thinks Wriothesley’s implications are outlandish. How could he expect a surprise from you, when you already do so much as exist?

Still, Neuvillette replies, “Maybe.”

There’s a magic that follows after your existence. It’s like the petrichor that swarms the earth after it rains; like the inevitable belief that night follows after day; like the certainty that vests within time; the fact that tomorrow will come, the fact that you are, despite everything, real. It’s unfathomable, really. Your existence. 

And Neuvillette has wondered when everything began, when the world started to shift, when the sun became more than the sun: when it became you. Maybe, it started when he was your partner in a group project back in physics class (which he barely managed to pass with your late-night tutoring and guidance). Maybe, it started when he realized that you were there throughout everything—through the years of his worst, when he loathed everyone, when he had no love in his heart, when the most mundane of things remained as they were: mundane.

Maybe, it doesn’t matter when things begin. All that matters is that they exist now.

“I should get going,” Neuvillette says, taking another peek at his watch.

Wriothesley nods. “Have fun. Let me know if there are any breakthroughs.”

Neuvillette blinks, echoing, “Breakthroughs?”

Wriothesley flashes another one of those knowing expressions. This time, all he offers is a hum. And this time, Neuvillette doesn’t pry; he gives in. Neuvillette does a lot of that—he thinks of you—giving in, and pressing onwards, and living in the unknown despite the answer being right—he thinks of you—in front of him.

He arrives at the subway station an hour and a half before noon. Neuvillette sneaks another glance at his wristwatch, thinking, I’m right on time. After taking a seat on a nearby bench, Neuvillette begins to observe, periwinkle gaze drifting across the sea of people, anchorless and free, his senses reborn as the world reincarnates anew. The air is crisp, the cold stinging the tip of his nose, puffs of condensation escaping his parted lips—Neuvillette feels everything. The fabric against his skin; the surge of life; the rush of the passerby; the frantic and erratic breath that life exhales with each gust of wind.

“Neuvillette!” a voice pierces the crowd, passing through the canal of his ear and stabbing cleanly through his heart. Although it’s just a sound, Neuvillette hears it wholly: the timbre, the tone, the familiarity of his name (which is, after all, not even his first name), the way the syllables sound sacred (and Neuvillette must attribute the fragility to the owner of the voice, not the name) despite it being uttered many times before. 

This-is-this-is-this-is… You. You! 

At your call, Neuvillette stands. His hands, unsure of what to do, reach for the sleeves of his coat, fiddling with the hem while his gaze fixates on you. Once more, periwinkle drowns in your figure. Once more, the world is right. 

“[Name],” Neuvillette replies, unable to contain the gentle smile that possesses his lips. “You’re early.”

You laugh. “You’re earlier!” 

“Yes,” he admits—this-is-this-is-this-is—“you’re right.”

The subway ride to the aquarium is peaceful. Neuvillette couldn’t have asked for anything else, because there you were, and there was the world, and there was the sun, and there you were, and—oh, did he mention that already? 

Neuvillette thinks you were the most wonderful of them all. You; your eyes, focused on the scenery outside. You; your voice, dipped into a whisper as you speak of precious little nothings which, to Neuvillette, seem to be worth everything. 

You’re radiant. Fantastically so. Neuvillette has this realization time and time again. Every time periwinkle swallows your image, and every time his heart shivers at the proximity of your presence, Neuvillette is made aware of how colossally significant you are. You’re like the world. Sublime. Wondrous.

“Neuvillette,” you suddenly say, and Neuvillette feels his ribs shudder. “Thank you for coming with me today.”

He swallows thickly—the way you say his name; oh, the way you, the way you—somehow, he finds his voice, breathing out, “It is my pleasure.”

“Neuvillette!”—and there you go again, calling his name, unaware of the spasm of his heart, the binding of his lungs—“come over here! Look, these are whale sharks!”

Oh, that’s right, Neuvillette thinks, this is your domain. Before he can open his mouth to respond, you usher him in the direction of the spotted creature, its wide mouth stretched agape while it drifts throughout the blue waters, followed by a squad of smaller fish. 

“Those are remoras,” you explain, “they attach themselves to sharks and feed off of parasites that grow on the shark’s skin.”

Oh, Neuvillette thinks, noticing the glimmer of your eyes under the aquatic light, noticing the way your words begin to slur together out of sheer excitement, unable to keep up with the tempo of your thoughts. 

You’re beautiful. 

“What are those?” Neuvillette asks, pointing towards the manta rays.

“Those are manta rays!” you exclaim. “Like the whale shark, they’re filter feeders!” 

“What does that mean?” Neuvillette queries. “To be a filter feeder?”

“It means both whale sharks and manta rays filter out the free-floating plankton drift in the water!” you say, and oh, Neuvillette thinks you look ethereal. This is your domain; the great ocean; the blue light; the knowledge; the passion. You own the sea. The world. Oh, the world! 

“Did you know manta rays don’t have skeletons? They’re made of cartilage.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Neuvillette replies, despite knowing that fact from the plethora of articles he read about marine life a couple days back. Neuvillette didn’t want to seem ignorant in front of you, a marine biology major, but at the same time, he thinks this is a much better alternative. 

This-is-this-is-this-is… 

You smile at him. “It’s all good! I go to this aquarium pretty often, so I know a thing or two.”

You’re lying, Neuvillette thinks. You know more than just a “thing or two.” You know—you know everything, it seems!

(Still, Neuvillette doesn’t pry. He does a lot of that, he supposes—he thinks of you—in your presence, and with the realization—he thinks of you—that you are, unbelievably, here. Tangible. With him. With him!)

Neuvillette wishes he could bottle this moment and keep it forever. 

He observes this aquarium through your gaze, measuring all the creatures with the same joy that you hold them to, learning all there is about different fin types and different species groups. Orcas are not fish, they are marine mammals—Neuvillette knew that too, from an article titled “What Are Orcas Truly?”—sharks breathe by swimming and passing oxygenated water through their gills—Neuvillette learned that fact last night from a video titled “Sharks Sleep While Moving!”

If he weren’t a law major, Neuvillette thinks he would’ve gone into marine biology, too. (And he wonders what it’d be like, to have the same classes as you, to be able to share this knowledge with you, to be able to discuss marine life on a higher level than the rudimentary facts you’re forced to share with him, who is unfamiliar with this world.) 

Neuvillette wishes that he knew more than what he knew. He wishes he could crawl into your brain and adore the ocean with the same passion that you have. He wishes he could share your struggles with strict lab professors, and discuss answers after difficult quizzes—but the boundary between your major and his is too large. He knows nothing. He can say nothing. He is nothing. So he opts to remain silent and stare. 

Can he ever return to this moment again? You; the blue light; the whale sharks; the manta rays; the world! Can he ever revisit this aquarium? Will you ever want to go with him again? Will you speak to him in the same, lovely voice? Will you call his name with the same, lovely timbre?

Oh, Neuvillette wants! He wants! He wants this moment! This aquarium! You!

His heart shudders.

This-is-this-is-this-is…

And the moment is ending. Everything returns to where it started. Neuvillette finds himself on the subway once more, sitting by your side, watching you watch the window, the sun setting in the horizon, the day slipping away.

He wants to bottle this: the pink hues, the orange glimmer, the blue memory, the aquarium, you. He wants to grasp this scene and slip it into his wallet, like a charm, like a reminder of the world and all that has meaning. He looks at you. He wants—and he stops there, because he’s overstepping his boundaries and that’s too much to ask for. 

A yawn escapes your lips, you apologize, muttering, “Sorry, I’m a little tired right now.” 

Neuvillette notices the lull of your head, the flutter of your lashes as you struggle to stay awake. 

“It’s alright.” His leg begins to bounce, his fingers reaching to fiddle with the hems of his sleeves once more. “If I may offer my shoulder, if you would, um… In case you would like to rest.”

Although you don’t seem to mind, or notice, the filler word that slips into his speech, Neuvillette is already questioning himself, berating his sudden inability to speak, reduced to nothing in your colossal presence. For how could he ever amount to anything if you are already everything?

“Thank you, Neuvillette.”

His heart lurches. His lungs heave. His brain falters, unable to form any coherent thought that isn’t composed, in its entirety, you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and your head comes to rest against his shoulder, and Neuvillette thinks—while his leg bounces up and down, mad—that, if he could, he would bottle this moment, and—while his breath shutters, coming to a stop—and, and he would preserve it. And he would love it. This light; this subway; this world; you. Forever. 

Neuvillette has always noticed you. From the moment his periwinkle eyes first beheld your existence, from the moment the world incarnated anew, from the moment—which he wishes he could bottle—your gaze dawned upon him, when dusk dawned upon the two of you, when everything dissipated into darkness, he noticed you then. Even without sight. Even without speech. Even without his senses.

He notices you now, too. He notices the way your brow furrows when the sun’s light slips across your face, the world illuminating and perceiving your irrevocable beauty. He notices the way you turn away slightly, burying your face into the fabric of his coat, trying to escape the radiance which pales in comparison to your own.

His hand comes up to block the sun. Your expression eases. Your breathing evens out and the world is right again. 

This-is-this-is-this-is… 

Neuvillette rests his head against yours, his touch featherlight—the bounce of his leg comes to a stop—his lungs pausing, capturing the breath which holds the essence of your existence—and the moment is preserved—and the final incarnation is complete. 

This is… 

The sun’s final light disappears. The moment is over. 

Neuvillette feels your head against his. A new moment starts. 

And he supposes—without much deliberation—and he thinks—and he has thought this, for the longest of times—that this is love. 

(This is enough.)