Not Interested // Shuntaro Chishiya

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"Isn't this nice?"
You sink deeper into the water, allowing a soft sigh to slip from your mouth.

After the whole catastrophe of the past fourteen hours, you and Chishiya managed to stumble across a lake.

It wasn't filled with diseases, nor hepatitis a-through-z, and it was void of any creatures that could possibly make it your last day on earth.

So you didn't hesitate to strip down to your undergarments and take a dip. Almost instantly, the stress had melted away, your shoulders relaxing for the first time in a long time.

Though it couldn't get through the dirt and grime that seemed to be fused with your skin, it felt euphoric in the way it wiped away the tension in your face.

Easing your back into the edge of the lake, where it connected to the grass, you glanced sideways at Chishiya, only to deadpan.

He refused to get in.
He did take off his shoes, you'll give him that, and dunked his feet in, the waves of your movements nipping at his knees.

"Don't give me that look," he muttered, his gaze flicking to you, then back to his feet. He had to admit, the water did feel nice.

It wasn't warm like the showers back at the Beach, but it wasn't freezing to the point of frostbite.

You glared at him, letting your shoulders disappear under the water. "You know how long it's been since you had a shower? Get in."

He all but ignored you.
"I don't sweat."

A ripple in the water altered him of the chuckles that escape your lips as you closed your eyes and dropped your head back onto the grass. "The dirt on your face says otherwise."

Chishiya lips tighten into a thin line. He reaches down and splashes his face a few times, letting the water wash away the patches of dried sweat.

When he sits back up straight you're still leaned back, a look of peace weaving it's way across your face. He gulps and fidgets with a bottle in his pocket.

"Come," he says and watches you turn to him with a quirked brow.

Droplets dance across his eyelashes, his hairline damp and his lips wet. "In what way," you question with a smirk.

You enjoy the way his ears go red at your words, his thighs squeezing together just slightly under your gaze. But, as always, he rightens his face and glares at you sarcastically.

With his hand in his pocket, he pulls out a bottle. As you get closer, you read the label. "You found shampoo," you gasp. He places down another container. "And conditioner?"

You debated taking him right then and there. Your heart eyes pierced his own and he took you by the shoulders and turned you around before you could see his face flush severely.

"Get your hair wet," he said and you didn't hesitate to follow his order.

You ducked under and wiped the water away from your face as you surfaced.
It was a waterfall of pure bliss as it it ran through your hair and down your back.

And before you could reach around and grab the shampoo his hands were on your head.

His fingers swept their way through your hair and you swallowed an entirely inappropriate moan.

Almost expertly, he doused the strands in shampoo, cleaning the dirt and grime from the roots of your hair.

You stayed silent and enjoyed the moment of vulnerability. His fingers felt amazing and he was careful keeping the soap out of your eyes as you dunked you head to wash it out.

A hum makes its way from deep in your chest, dropping from your mouth in content. "I hope you know, I'm more than interested in you, obsessed maybe."

Your sudden confession has him freezing, the conditioner in his hands falling into the water with a plop.

He hesitates, not because he's unsure, but because his feelings for you could threaten even the cringiest of love poems. But he sifts through the words on his mind.

"I like you too."

It's simple.
Confident.
And completely true.

You visibly melt, head resting back against his hands. He can see your eyes are closed, a fat smile decorating your lips. Your warm, maybe embarrassed but so in love.

Silently, he rinses the conditioner from your hair, basking in the shared respect and adoration.

And even in this disgusting, death-riddled world, he found someone worth living for.

Once done with the adorable domestic actions of the blond, you turn to him. He can barely keep himself from glancing down at the water that swims down your neck and falls over your collarbones.

"What now," you ask.

He sat back and, for a minute, contemplated what was next. "King of Hearts?" It wasn't a question, he wasn't looking for an agreement from you, not when you frowned at him.

"I can't play that game with you," you said, and just to mess with you, he tilted his head quizzically, as if asking why.

You scoffed, eyes rolling with sarcasm. "Don't give me that look, you know why."

"So what will you do," he asks, pushing some hair out of your face nonchalantly. You don't miss the way his fingers linger on your cheek.

But his touch falls when you look to the sky, eyes surveying the number of blimps still alive and reverberating in the air.

You bite your lip, making his stomach flip, and ponder your choices. "I'll play the Jack of Diamonds. Might as well kill two birds with," you glance at him then down at yourself. "Two stones."

He chuckles. It's barely a puff of air out of his nose, but it's there as he leans back on his arms.

"Shiya." He feels your hand touch his thigh.
It's a light touch, fragile even.
And he doesn't care that the water soaks through his pants, leaving a wet spot in the shape of your hand, because your voice is weak. It catches his attention and locks him in. "Don't die on me."

Softly, just barely grazing your jaw, he cups your face and brings your forehead to his lips, leaving a small but meaningful kiss.

When he pulls back, his smirk is now soft around the edges, inching into a smile as he looks at you.

"Wouldn't dream of it."