for the first time, she wears a dress. [ minato x yuko ]
whee, I'm back.
prepare for major fluff ahead. minato x yuko.
He usually waits for her outside the locker room after track practice to go home together.
With arms crossed atypical of the Arisato style, coolly leaning against the lockers, eyes closed, earphones plugged in with some complicated symphonies and classical music paradoxically blasting at full volume in his ears, his music player carelessly hanging outside his jeans, Minato expectantly waits.
As usual, after three songs and an estimated of fifteen minutes, the moment comes when someone snatches away his earphones and sings, no, chimes, into his ears (not like he ever minds it) ---
"Waited long, Minato-kun?"
And he nevertheless always manages a small smile—however small that is—gazes steadily at his girlfriend (they have been dating for nearly a year now), and then allows her to slip her small hand in his.
He wordlessly curls his fingers around his, and leads them out of the locker room. He doesn't say anything. But he knows she understands that's how they communicate, anyway. He knows also that she dated him with the information available to her beforehand that he wasn't a man of many words—and she had already convinced him (with more than a dozen kisses and embraces and sentimental gestures) that the reasons she loved him definitely spanned beyond those small, trivial things.
"Your eyes always tell me enough," that's what she always say.
And he'll simply touch his fingers to her hair, snake a hand around her tiny waist, and pull her close to him, staying like this for long minutes.
So today, he turns around, and is surprised when she wears a sleeveless simple white dress that barely touches her knees, and lets her hair down unusually.
Not like he minds but—
he can't help staring at her, enchanted. But also, inwardly puzzled.
He's so used to her in sweatpants, jackets and track suits, that this feels like a complete surprise.
"Why?" He simply asks. Their hands never letting go.
A light blush touches her cheeks. She dips her head in sudden shyness—and only looks up when he touches a finger to her chin and tilts her head up, forcing their eyes to meet.
"Not like I mind." He reassures her in a softened, firm tone.
"Um, well," she shuffles her feet, avoids his gaze, runs a finger through her hair – he observes all this, and takes in all her so-Yuko-ish gestures with a sort of endearment that he knows he wants to sear into his heart for a long time, "they say you might like it better if I looked the part---"
"—What part?" He cuts her short, his eyes suddenly serious.
"Your girlfriend," she looks at her toes, suddenly finding them interesting, "they say I'm too tomboyish for you to—"
"Ah. Never mind." She suddenly feels lost, awkwardly standing in place. She lets go of his hand, and meets his eyes. "This isn't working out, is it?"
For a while, they stand still, and time becomes lost. He simply stares down at her—she only reaches up to his nose and he honestly likes it better this way because it's much easier to bend and touch his lips to hers easily -- and says nothing, while she doesn't look up, and self-consciously adjusts the hem of her dress.
He doesn't know who they she refers to – but he's heard of all the behind talk of their dating starting since the first time the news of their relationship went public in school, enough to know that some had been negative and harsh, especially directed towards her. He had spent the first few weeks reaffirming her over and over again that he could care less about those rumors that speculated they wouldn't last; they were too incompatible; she, too inferior and unworthy for him.
Finally, he breaks the silence, but not before touching his fingers to her hair and tucking a few stray strands behind her ear.
"They," he says seriously, "can go to hell."
At this, she looks up, and cannot help but break into her usual smile that always somehow mesmerizes him onto the spot and churns butterflies starting in the pit of his stomach. A year together, and he still finds himself fumbling for coherent words in his mind whenever she does this smiling thing to him. So he looks away, coughs, and slides his hands into his pocket to avoid her glimpsing his flush.
She gently takes one hand of his out, and loops her fingers around them, "Well..." she carefully drawls, "it's not all about them either."
On cue, she tip-toes and plants a light, tender kiss on his cheeks, melding with the light redness on them. Their fingers never letting go, he closes his eyes for a few seconds to savor that sweet moment. He recognizes how his heart skips a beat, his knees suddenly threatening to wobble, his blood coursing through his veins—
And it hits him – Shit, she's wearing a dress. And shit, she's clad in barely nothing but a dress. And shit, she has to look so achingly gorgeous with her hair down.
"You don't like it?" She overcomes her shyness, and teases him with smiling eyes. He looks down at her, not missing how their lips are only a few inches apart.
His eyes take in her small petite form, the way the dress clings onto her skin nicely, her sculpted shoulders, her bare neck, her forearms—
Breathe, Minato, breathe. He reminds himself, and fights control over his hormones.
"Well..." he drawls, intentionally. He pretends to carelessly run his hand through his hair, then tightly clasps her fingers around his. He knows if he looks at her another time, he's going to lose it—and now's not the time.
"Let's put it this way –I like you in sweatpants, track suit, jacket, hell—you can wear rags and I wouldn't care less."
He hears her breathe—still not daring to look.
He hates these stolen moments in the locker room – she always have to make him fight a battle with his hormones...and lose. He knows how this is going to end up, all the time. Then again, as much as he hates them ---
(He doubts inwardly he minds them very much, either. Maybe he just pretends to.)
"And," he coughs a little, "I don't mind you like this, too...Not a bit."
Her response is to intertwine her fingers furthur into his. He can feel her smile all the way into his neck.
God, she's that close.
His heart misses a beat. His eyes meet hers.
And it is true --- he loves her, in rags, sweat pants, ponytail or no, track suit, sweaty after training, smelling of strawberry shampoo when they date, make-up or not—whatever. He loves her in everything.
As she looks at him, she knows in his eyes that it's true.
This time, it is her who reaches up, and brushes a stray strand of hair behind his eyes.
He slides an arm around her waist, not loosely.
"And I don't mind you wearing your hair down, too." You look lovely. In Minato-esque language, translated.
"Really." Mirth dances in her eyes, teasingly.
Her hand reaches up and rests on his chest.
After a few seconds stranded in this moment, she finally sighs, and pokes a finger against his nose. (He finally decides to stop staring at her blatantly.)
"Are you going to kiss me?"
He resists rolling his eyes. She inhales a little as his hand tenderly goes all the way around hers and encircle them into an embrace so small, she melds against his frame.
"You know that's a stupid question."
She laughs softly – they remind him of silver bells.
Because he does, anyway, just in time to touch his lips to her smile.
& they can say what they want—
he loves her in track suit, jackets, sweat pants,
make-up or no,
hair up with a ponytail, bun, or down
hell she can wear rags—
and he'll still want to hold her like this,
and make the moment last.
...erm. I told you there was going to be fluff. ouch, I think I hurt my teeth with all that sugar. XD
reviews are appreciated like chocolate drops from the sky!