The Way of the Fanboy (Male Reader x Shikimori)

Distance

Y/n awkwardly stood embracing Shikimori's tears, afraid of hugging her too much. Her sobs slowly subsided, but she held on to Y/n as if her life depended on it. Y/n began to realize that Shikimori was looking for comfort from him, so he hesitantly wrapped his hands around her.

Shikimori dug her head, childishly into Y/n's chest, but she suddenly pushed herself away in embarrassment. "S-sorry," she rubbed her eyes. "I lost myself for a second. Come inside."

Shikimori snapped her head around and made a slight gesture to come inside. Y/n slowly trudged through the doorway, still feeling the weight of guilt on his shoulders, not so much about Izumi's death but of Shikimori's sadness. He carefully slid out of his shoes, and placed them to the side. He tried to be as soundless as possible and kept his eyes glued to the dimly shining wood floor.

"I'm so sorry Y/n," Shikimori rubbed her eyes more fiercely. "Wait here, I need to wash my face."

Y/n tried to say something reassuring,

Shikimori disappeared into the halls, and Y/n stood there unmoving. Suddenly, a voice spoke out from the house, "Is someone there?"

A tall, sharp-featured woman with purplish red hair appeared in front of Y/n. She scanned the boy through her square glasses, and finally spoke, "Shikimori's friend?"

Y/n nodded slowly. He could assume that this was Shikimori's mother.

"What's your name?"

"Y/n L/n"

"It's nice to see you for the first time, Y/n. Take a seat in Shikimori's room; up the stairs, down the hall, and the 2nd room to your left. Would you like some tea?"

"No thank you," Y/n said sheepishly.

Shikimori's mother lightly nodded. "Shikimori your friend Y/n is here," she shouted.

In a way, Y/n felt like Shikimori's label of her mother fit perfectly.

He followed the stairway to the 2nd floor, and stopped and waited in the hall. He thought it'd be rude to go in Shikimori's room, without her. Y/n could hear the faint clanking of pots and burn of the stove downstairs. The air was filled with a cool, and fragrant aroma of oranges—it was a strange vibe Y/n had never felt.

"Sorry for that Y/n," Shikimori softly walked up the stairs. "I probably made you feel uncomfortable."

Shikimori had washed away her vulnerability, and what was left was a forced smile at Y/n. Suddenly, he felt like he should have hugged Shikimori more tightly before, to let her know that it was okay for her to cry on his shoulder. But then that biting guilt forced him to be certain of dissociating himself, so, in the end, he only croaked, "S'okay."

Shikimori awkwardly stood at Y/n's side for a moment and gestured him toward her room. Y/n still had lingering feelings of shyness around Shikimori, so he slowly shuffled to her room at an uncomfortable speed.

Y/n found a lot of what he expected in the room: it was mostly yellow, filled with small furniture of light hues, and stuffed toys. "Welcome to my room I guess," Shikimori said.

Y/n had taken note that Shikimori used a sarcastic and laidback undertone around him but not other people. "It's nice," he said.

"You can sit here," she motioned toward her bed.

Again with much reluctance, Y/n sat on the edge of the bed, pretending to be comfortable. "How are you doing?" Y/n asked.

"Good," Shikimori took a sit at her desk.

Shikimori was a strong-hearted girl, something Y/n knew very well. So seeing her burst into tears early had taken him by surprise. If she wanted to hide her true feelings, he wouldn't interfere, that's what he decided. He had no right anyways. They stayed quiet for a while—Y/n hoped Shikimori would start some small talk because he didn't want to risk bringing up a topic that made her bitter.

"Do you still draw?" she asked quickly.

"Only while I'm sitting in class, and I'm supposed to be taking notes," he lightened his smile.

Shikimori forced a smile back, but there was still the dismal deep color of the sea in her eyes. "So no more serious art?"

"No. I stopped doing that."

"I miss seeing your drawings."

"Oh really?" Y/n said this in a sarcastic voice as if the taste in such art was primitive.

"Yeah, they were just so... unique."

"You don't have to be nice."

"No no, I mean it. Your drawings—they spoke to me you know?"

Y/n was taken aback. This was something he would never admit, but his drawings were like letters to Shikimori, letters of comfort. One of his pieces was of a man's ribcage opening up to reveal the anatomical heart in a magical, mystique way. The man's hair was long and wavy, drawn with curved, precise strokes of the pencil, and his mouth and eyes were calmly shut as if he were accepting something.

In short, it was a beautiful and intricate drawing, that Y/n had made when Shikimori took up the position of vice president in the student council at the beginning of high school. She was nervous starting out, so he made the drawing to symbolically tell something to her.

Although they were like letters, Y/n did not expect Shikimori to pick up the meaning. "I'm glad they did," Y/n said.

"Why'd you stop?"

"No reason," Y/n said remembering his cramming for the midterms. "Got too old for it."

They went silent again, and that's when Y/n made the mistake of absentmindedly asking about the Otsuya. He was upset that he wasn't invited, even if he wasn't great friends with Izumi.

Shikimori gave a blank stare at Y/n—not angered, but sad. Y/n realized what he said, but words that hurt can't be swallowed back. "It was depressing," she said simply. "Izumi's parents cried a lot."

A lump formed in Shikimori's throat, but she could not cry over and over again. "I'm sorry," Y/n said hollowly. "...I should get going."

Shikimori already on the verge of tears did not object, so Y/n left.

She sobbed quietly in her room, and Y/n knew it, but he couldn't do anything about it.