Loveless: {Genesis x You One-shot}

            (Posted originally as a 10k profile hit commemoration on Quizilla)         

You walk with a spring in your step on the way to your house, your school bag slung over a shoulder and a small pile of books and folders clustered in your arms. You let out a happy whistle as you turn the next corner, deciding to take a short cut home. You are in a little bit of a hurry.

            Earlier today your mother sent you a text saying that the book you had ordered has finally arrived. It is probably sat in your bedroom right now. You clench your school books closer to your chest, tickling with anticipation and excitement. The book you have ordered is the first volume of 'Loveless' – a series of manga about a boy with cat ears, trying to find his brother. You can't wait!

You speed up, trying to get home faster. You dodge a large group of younger students from your school, rolling your eyes at them. Why they have to walk in such large groups that walk so slowly, you have no idea. You leave them in the distance behind you, almost coming into a sprint now. You are not too far away; in fact you can see the light blue slating of your roof. You grin, securing a hand over your book bag, then run the last few meters to your front gate. You hop over it – momentarily looking back, surprised that you managed to clear it (usually you fall flat on your face) – then run up to your front door.

            You shuffle the books around in your arms, dropping a couple, then with one free hand you knock on wood. You pause. No one answers. You begin to bounce on the balls of your feet, hoping that your parents haven't stepped out for a quick errand. You hadn't picked up your key this morning, and it would be luck that now is the first time you've ever needed it. There's about another few seconds of waiting, then you give a small sigh of relief when the door is unlatched.

            Feeling you've wasted too much time already, even before the door's been pulled back you set off moving, pushing what remains of your pile of books out in front of you. Your mother manages to get the door just wide enough to stop you from colliding into it painfully, then you push your books into her hands and dart past her, dropping your school bag in the hallway.

            “___!” your mother yells scornfully, looking at the collection of books spilling from her hands, and some still left to wallow out in the garden. You look over your shoulder and call back,

            “Sorry! I'll get them in a minute!” by this time you're already up the stairs and on the landing. You dash along to your room and fling open the door, whereas down below your mother can only roll her eyes, laughing slightly at your over-enthusiasm. You manage to slow down once your door's open and you're inside. You can see the package sitting on your bedside table. It's at this point that you finally sigh, panting slightly. You know for a fact that all that running you've just done is going to come back to bite you tomorrow. You'll be as stiff as a bone.

            You kick your school-shoes off, slackening off your tie at the same time. You walk across the floor to one side of your bed and flop down onto it, pausing slightly to take in the comfortable feeling of your cotton blankets, then shuffle across so that your hands are just reaching over the other side of the bed, where they are in reach of the package. You wrap your fingers around the brown packaging and pull it up, dropping it in front of you with the sound of someone letting the air out of a beach-ball. You stare at it, your face breaking out in a grin then pull it towards you; needy hands grasping at the packaging to tear it all away.

            Below the layer of cardboard box there is another layer of bubble-wrap, wound so tightly that the book in the middle is barely noticeable for all of the compressed pockets of air. Nevertheless your hands work quickly, pulling the protective layer away, earning the occasional pop that makes you laugh. You will be playing with that later. You strip the thing bare then turn it over so the front cover of the book is looking up at you. You grin. It looks so... regal.

            The cover is a layer of white bound on top of a brown leathering with thin rope, held in place with four ornate, golden metal corner pieces. The decoration on the cover is very simple. In the top centre of the book there is the title 'LOVELESS' in golden lettering, surrounded by a boarder of ornate stencils, then below it there is - what you can only presume to be - a flower made of four golden circles, each holding a heart inside them. Below that are the words 'Legends of the LOVELESS' and the author of the book – whose name you have never heard of before, but of course that's expected as it had been your friend who had suggested the series to you in the first place. You have no idea who's written it.

            You give a giddy giggle, taking the book firmly in your hands, then flip to the first page. That's when you stop. You study the page, your eyebrows slowly pulling down into a frown, then flip to the next page, then the next, then the next. You take a better grip on the book then pull your thumb up the side, flicking through the pages. It's all writing. This isn't right. Your friend told you that this book is a manga – a Japanese cartoon book... so why is it all in writing? You flick back to the first page and start to read it,

            When the war of the beast brings about world's end the goddess descends from the sky. Wings of light and dark spread far-

            You put the book down. This isn't right at all. You close the book, dusting your hand lightly over the cover, then pull yourself up to  a sitting position. Hmm. You look around. There, on the floor, is the cardboard box it had arrived in. You lean down and pick it up, flipping it to look at the collection of stamps.

            There. Now you realise the problem. Looking across the many many foreign stamps – some of which you've never even heard of – you come to realise that this book 'LOVELESS' is not your Loveless. You are expecting your package to have come from across America, whereas this package has come from somewhere called... Midgar? You've never heard of the place. You flex your fingers, thinking things over. There must be more than one book under the same title then. You curse under your breath. This means there must have been a mix-up at the post-office or something, and that means you have someone's 'LOVELESS', and that same someone has your 'Loveless' instead. Damn. You've been looking forward to reading your new book ever since you'd gotten the text.

You drop the packaging onto your bed, next to the book, then flop backwards so your head crashes against your pillow, a pout on your lips. Your Loveless could be anywhere now. Half way across the world for all you know. Where is 'Midgar' anyway? It sounds almost Norwegian.

            That's when a thought hits you. You roll onto your side and pick up the packaging again, twirling it round in your fingers to find something. Of course what you're looking for is on the bottom. The address. Why it's on the bottom of the package you have no idea. That's probably the reason your package got mixed in the first place. You read over the words of where this package was meant to have been sent, expecting it to be a foreign country. What you don't expect is it to be in the same neighbourhood as you.

            With the address firmly burnt into your mind you jump up from the bed, landing on your carpeted floor with a loud thud. You scoop up the confounded 'LOVELESS', stuff it back into the cardboard box (making sure to leave the bubble-wrap for you to play with later), then slip back into your school shoes and head out the door. You charge along the landing, not bothering to miss treading on your baby brother's pile of stuffed toys, down the stairs and into the living room. In the same breath you manage to say,

            “MumwhereisthisaddressIneedtoknowIwanttogetmybookback?!” you thrust the package forward, holding the address out for you mother to look at. She takes a moment to blink, staring wide-eyed at you as what you've just said processes in her mind. As it all settles down she begins to realise why you're holding a torn up cardboard box for her. She takes it from you and looks at the barely legible address, then holds it away from her so she can think properly.

            “That's... well that's a couple of streets over. That's the same street the post office's on!” She hands you back the package. “Now what was that about needed to get a book back?”

            Too late. You're already out the door. You're already half way down the street.
You run, clutching the package to your chest, occasionally glancing down at the ornate book. It is pretty, you have to admit, but it's not the book you ordered so you aren't going to waste any time reading it... and besides, that would be stealing and that is wrong. You stop at the end of the street and make a sharp turn on your toes, nearly losing your balance, but power on, growing ever closer to the right street. Once you're there it will only be a matter of finding the right house.

            You screech to another halt at the other end of the street, barely missing being knocked over by a passing car, then set off again, finally landing one foot on the right street. You stop and look along it, then down at the package. You are looking for number '36'. You look at the closest house number to you; it reads '79'. Not too far. Now with the knowledge that you are not too far away from your destination you are able to slow to a walk, looking at either side of the street as the numbers decrease.

            '...sixty-two, sixty, fifty-eight...'

            You look down at the package, seeing the post-office stamp of approval in amongst the foreign stamps. Later, once your book is safely back in your arms, you will be having words with your local postman. You'll tell him his company needs to get their act together. This is ridiculous.

            '...forty-two, forty, thirty-eight...-huh?'

            You are looking across the road at the building next to house number '36'. It's the post-office. If you hadn't been holding your package right now, no doubt you would be picking up a stone to throw through the post-office's window. They are being ridiculous. They can't even deliver the right package to someone who lives NEXT DOOR to them. You will be having serious words.

            You glance both directions along the street, checking for traffic, then run across the road to stop outside the post-office. You take a moment to pause and stick your tongue out at it like an immature child – you don't care, they deserve it – then walk up to the gate of the house next door. You pull up the latch on the little wooden gate and push it open with your hip, stepping through into the slightly overgrown garden. You don't take any more time to take in the surroundings – other than you seem to notice a prominent theme of white and yellow lily-like flowers dotted all around. You head for the house, hurrying along the cobbled path, then shuffle the package to free up a hand. With it you knock firmly on the wooden door then wait. After a moment you begin to hear movements from inside. Someone approaches the door, unlocks it, then the door is swung back to reveal a male in his early twenties in a red trench-coat. He raises an auburn eyebrow at you when you fail to speak.

            “Can I help you?”

            You've almost forgotten what you came for. Your brain is too busy trying to permanently burn this boy's beautiful face into your memory.

            “I-I-I...”

            His eyebrows sweep down into a frown and his lips purse slightly. He wraps one hand around the door handle and leans forward, giving you a brief nod,

            “Well if you're not here for anything then good by-”

            “Wait!”

            He lets go of the door again then folds his arms, leaning against the opposite side of the door frame, waiting a little more patiently. You're not too sure what's given you your voice back – whether it's the fact that you've realised getting your book back is more important than how handsome anybody looks, or just that your brain has successfully registered his face forever, but either way you are now able to say,

            “I think the post-office messed up our packages.”

            He raises an eyebrow again.

            “Oh really? And what package of mine would you happen to have?”

            This makes you hesitant. Surely he should know what package you're talking about? Maybe you've got the wrong address? As you're thinking this to yourself the boy looks down into your hands, spotting the very torn up cardboard box. He raises his eyebrow even further.

            “What is that?”

            “Um- huh?” You are snapped from your thoughts when he addresses you so you look down at what he's referring to. “This is-”

            You cut yourself off, seeing the boy's face suddenly brighten up as he looks at the package in your hands. You look down, trying to spot what he's seen to make him so happy, but at the same time he pulls himself off the door frame and steps aside, welcoming you into his home with an arm,

            “Come in. I have what you're looking for.”

            You look between him and the package then, deciding you have no better option, you step forward, over the threshold. As you step past the boy a hand comes down in front of you and dips itself into the package, pulling out 'LOVELESS' a moment later. You stop and look at him. He looks back,

            “Don't worry. It's mine. I'm not stealing.”

            You nod. He slips past you then guides you through his house, saying along the way,

            “I moved in about a month ago. I told my... friends from where I used to live to send this book by air-mail to my new address-”

            “Why?” you ask, wondering why he didn't just bring it with him directly. He looks over his shoulder at you, then replies,

            “It was too much of a trace. I carry it everywhere so people would have known it was me.” Before you have time to ask why being recognised is such a problem, he quickly continues, “With your book having the same name, they must have just been mixed up. It's lucky we live so close, I suppose.”

            You perk up,

            “Oh, so you do have my book!”

            “Of course. I said I did.” He looks back at you again, this time with a tiny smirk on his lips, “though I must say, your taste of story-line is a little...” You notice his face pale slightly. You laugh nervously, trying to defend yourself,

            “I don't really know what it's about. My friend recommended it to me.”

            He looks back to the front, keeping quiet. You seem to think he's trying not to retort with a remark somewhere a long the lines of “yeah right, you liar”.

            He takes you into a dark room with a crackling fire-place, a couple of couches, an armchair, a coffee-table, a rug and various ornaments on shelves. It looks barely touched, but you suppose that's about right considering he said he just moved in. As he moves across to the fire-place he throws his hand out, offering you a seat on one of the sofas.

            “By the sound of your breathing I assume you want your book back as badly as I wanted mine. Please sit.”

            You do not protest. You walk across and sit down on the sofa closest to the fire-place, enjoying the warmth it gives you. Even in the short amount of time it takes the boy to reach up and grab your book from the mantelpiece you feel yourself becoming unbelievably comfortable. The boy notices, the small smile on his face hidden in the shadows of the fire.

            “Here,” he says, holding your book out for you. You reach out and take it, immediately opening it to the first page. The boy lets out the tiniest of laughs,

            “I guess you like reading then?”

            You hold the book away from your face, suddenly realising you'd been about to read the whole thing without caring you're in someone else's house. You close the book.

            “Oh, yes I do. Reading keeps the imagination alive, after all.”

            “No kidding.” the boy says, sitting down in the armchair opposite you, “I suppose that's as good a reason as any.”

            You nod in agreement, then when he fails to say anything else you start to speak,

            “So, uhh...”

            “Genesis,” he prompt. You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by the unusual name,

            “Like in the bible?”

            He waves his hand in the air, attempting to brush the subject off,

            “Something like that. Now as you were saying?”

            “Oh, right,” You move swiftly on, “I was going to ask, do you like reading too?” You point to the regal book now sat comfortably in his lap. He looks down at it and chuckles slightly,

            “Not really. It's just this one holds... somewhat of a sentimental value.”

            You nod, expecting him to go on, only he doesn't. He turns his head, resting it in a hand and looks into the crackling fire, his face illuminated in the flickering flames, the rest of his body cast in shadow from the lack of light in the room. You realise that this 'Genesis' person isn't much of a talker. He probably doesn't get many guests around here; he's new after all.

            Genesis notices your eyes on him and turns his gaze away from the flames, onto you. There's a pause where he simply looks at you, taking in your features, then he says, his eyes becoming more docile,

            “Would you like a drink?”

            You look at the small clock on the mantelpiece, the little hand not too far past five O'clock, so you decide to take up his offer,

            “Sure, that would be great. Thanks.”

            He nods and pulls himself up out of the chair, walking across to you. Your face seems to heat up as he gets closer to you, then he reaches down so his face in but a few inches from yours, his hand reaching past you. You feel your stomach build with butterflies, feeling his breath tickling your cheeks, then there is a small click and a light flickers into life. Genesis pulls back.

            “Is tea all right? It's all I have at the moment.”

            You're a little speechless. From the short time he'd been so close to you, you'd smelt something on him. Something different. Something wonderful that reminds you of a flower-shop. You manage to shake yourself to consciousness just in time to see Genesis raise his eyebrow curiously.

            “U-uh. Yes, tea's fine.” Your cheeks stain pink. “Thank you.”

            He nods, turning to leave the room through a wooden door at the back. Just before he leaves completely he turns his head and says,

            “Feel free to read your book. I'd enjoy the company, and I'm sure it will be quieter here than at your house.”

            “O-oh. Umm, yes, okay. Thanks.”

            He nods then leaves the room. You wait a minute, hearing small noises from the back room, then decide that he's right. It will definitely be quieter here than at home. Your baby brother is going through teething right now so he's screaming all the time, and your mother is always making you side-track from what you want to do. Yes, here is a great place to sit and read your book. You unconsciously bring your feet up and curl them in close to you, resting with your elbow on the arm of the sofa, next to the little lamp. You pick up the book again and open it to the first page, quickly burying yourself within the story.

            A couple of minutes later Genesis reappears with two mugs of tea. He sets the first down by his armchair, flicking the small table-lamp into life, then sets the second down next to your head though you barely notice it. You're far too enthralled. He can't help but chuckle a little; you remind him of himself when he was a little younger, reading LOVELESS for the first time. Every word had inspired him and no one could have pulled him away from his book.

            He decides to leave you to it, sitting back in his seat and picking up LOVESLESS to read, occasionally taking a sip from his mug. For an age you are both content, but after a while you personally begin to feel as though you are being watched. You shrug it off and turn the page. You have to admit, Genesis had been right when he had said about dodgy plot-lines, but nevertheless it's a good read so far. You go a couple of minutes more, happily reading, but then the feeling of being watched comes back. You don't ignore it this time and look up, staring at Genesis. His eyes are fixed firmly on his book. Of course staring so intently at him, Genesis soon becomes aware of your gaze and looks up, giving you a brief smile when he catches you watching him.

            “Something the matter?”

            You shake your head, deciding you're just being silly,

            “No, I'm fine.”

            He nods, then he notices how far along in the book you are. You're almost finished.

            “That was fast.”

            You look at the book and laugh,

            “Yeah, I can read them pretty quickly when I want to.”

            “I can tell.”

            You give a small chuckle then continue on in your story.

            It's another five minutes later when you close your book, grinning that you've finished it but annoyed it left you on a cliffhanger. You take hold of the mug, using it to heat up your hands a little whilst taking a drink. Your eyes fall onto Genesis again, watching as his eyes dart across the words, his head resting in one hand as the other turns the pages. He's very different to any guy you've ever met. You don't think you can name one who openly has a love for a book. You think that maybe it's a bit more than a coincidence that you've met him. You seem to be almost too relaxed around him, but eh, what can you say? With looks like his, you shouldn't be complaining.

            Genesis, realising you've stopped reading again, looks up, seeing you staring at him with the mug close to your lips. He raises an eyebrow.

            “Done already?”

            You nod again. He chuckles. He decides not to be rude so closes his own book, setting it aside on the coffee table next to him.

            “Would you like to read anything else? I've unpacked quite a few books already.”

            You perk up, happy with the prospect of having something else to read, or maybe happy for the excuse to stay here longer. You're not too sure.

            “Please.”

            He nods then stands up, motioning you to do the same. Leaving your books and mugs where they are, Genesis leads you from the living-room, out into the corridor and up the staircase. He leads you along to a room at the end of a hallway, the door made of old oak. He places his hand on the un-rusted handle then turns to you,

            “I do warn you, it's a bit of a mess.”

            You laugh, surprised that he's worrying about something like that. He should see your room for starters.

            Genesis opens the door and steps aside, letting you past him, then flicks on a little brass switch by the door. The first things you see are boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes, and then when you look closer, you see – to your joy – that the walls are lined with books. Hundreds of them, and there are still boxes full of books lining the edge of the room. You turn back to Genesis and say with an eyebrow raised,

            “I thought you said you didn't like reading?”

            He shakes his head, his eyes bordering on playful,

            “I didn't say that. I said not really.”

            You turn back to the room, laughing,

            “Well then I'd hate to see what this would look like if you said you were a book-worm.”

            He chuckles, leaning against the door-frame behind you. You step further into the room, staring at the many bookcases around you. You feel almost like a child in a sweet shop. For a split second you're too engrossed in your happily little world that you don't realise that you've stepped on something, but then you do and look down. You pick your foot up. There on the floor is a large black feather. You lean down to pick it up, only before you know it Genesis is leaning directly over you, grabbing your hand to pull it back. You look up in surprise so he lets go and back away a little, trying his best to defend his actions,

            “There... used to be a crow’s nest up here. I cleared it out when I moved in.” He rubs the back of his head, keeping his eyes firmly locked on you, “I haven't had time to sweep away the feathers yet.”

            You turn away, nodding your head as if you understand, then head over to the bookshelves. On your way you glance at the feather again. You don't know why he's lied to you, but you know for a fact that that feather is too big to be a crow's feather. It looks almost big enough to be...- you shake your head, throwing silly thoughts from your mind. Don't be ridiculous. Angels only exist in fairy-tales.

            You browse the vast collection of books; quite surprised at the amount of classic English novels he has considering he's from somewhere called Midgar, and eventually pick one out called 'Lord of the Flies'. The cover seems appealing to you. You turn on your heel, grasping the new book against you, and nearly bump straight into Genesis' chest. He backs up.

            “So you've picked something?”

            You nod, showing him the book. Seeing your selection, Genesis gives you a quizzical look then shrugs and turns away, heading towards the hallway. You follow behind, asking,

            “What?”

            He comments back, glancing over his shoulder,

            “Your book choices are... interesting.”

            You can't retort. You have no idea what this book is about. You are, however, a little more wary towards it now Genesis has said that.

            The pair of you make it back down to the living-room, where you notice there is no longer any light peeping in through the cracks in the curtains, and retake your positions on the various bits of Genesis' furniture. Genesis picks up his book again, whilst you read over the blurb on yours. As you're doing so, you can't help but start to feel a little sleepy; the dim lights, the crackling fire, the smell of flowers. It's all very lulling to you. It's not helpful that it's dark outside either. Winter's days are Winter's nights far too quickly, in your opinion.

            Not having read the blurb properly, you flick to the first page; eager to start reading. This book is a classic. You're surprised you haven't read it before now. You are going to have to make up for lost time! As you dive into the story, Genesis looks up from LOVELESS, hiding a gentle smile behind the pages of his book.

            It does not seem to take long, no matter how good of a book Lord of the Flies is, for your drowsiness to manifest into a slumber. You make it just into chapter four when your eyelids droop an inch too far and you find it impossible to pull them open again. Your head drops softly against the side of the sofa and for a moment, with your mind drifting in and out of consciousness, you let the heat of the fire and the familiar smell of must cradle you until you settle down quite comfortably and lose all consciousness. The book drops from your hand, clattering quietly against the wood-panelled floor.

            It is only here that Genesis looks up from his book, finally noticing that you are no longer among the awake. He chuckles softly to himself, seeing your mouth hanging slightly agape as the air passes through your lips, your eyes flickering now and then as dreams play out in your mind. It seems his house is just as much of a home to you as your own. He sets his book down on the side-table, glancing across to the tiny clock on his mantelpiece. It's a quarter past nine.

            “My how time does fly.” he muses to himself. He looks across to you again, seeing you've become very settled in your spot on his sofa, and decides to let you sleep for the time being. It's not too late and no doubt with a little brother you barely get any rest at home. Genesis pulls himself out of his chair and walks across to you, removing his long red jacket as he does. He kneels down besides you and drapes it over your frame, gently placing his other hand on the crown of your head. He doesn't know if the heat of the fire is enough to keep you warm, but if it is then you can always just kick his coat off later.

            He stands up and leaves you to sleep, walking through to the kitchen to make himself another drink.  When he comes back he finds you curled up in his jackets, your hands bawled into fists in the material, holding it closer to you. He smiles again, taking his seat and picking up his book to read, but he soon finds that each time he tries to read, his eyes decide to wander over to you instead. Nevertheless he attempts to continue reading.

            It is another half an hour when he finally gives in. There is nothing he can do about it; there is just something about you that keeps catching his attention and for the love of him he doesn't know what it is. It could be the way your hair cascades over the side of the sofa, it could be the way your face looks so innocently peaceful, he doesn't know. The only thing he knows is that he can't keep his eyes on his book for more than ten seconds. For the final time that night he closes his book, leaving it to rest on the side-table, then stands up and stretches his legs, watching you in the corner of his eye, then his eyes flicker to the clock on the mantelpiece again. It's ten O'clock dead. No doubt your parents will be wondering where you are by now. He turns his full attention on you again, watching you sleeping peacefully, and decides he doesn't want to wake you up. He has a better plan – in his opinion anyway.

            He walks forward, bends down and scoops you up in his arms, your head resting against his shoulder. You don't struggle so he takes this as a good sign and stands up, turning to look around the room. He checks he hasn't forgotten anything then walks out into the hallway, picking up his house-keys as he goes. You don't even stir. He opens the front door, taking a moment to glance up and down the street, then leaves his house with you held securely in his arms.

It is a nice night out; very clear with thousands of stars flickering in the sky, and chilly. Very different to the warmth of his living-room, he knows. He checks to make sure you are okay but holds you a little closer just in case, hoping you benefit from his body-heat. He crosses the road, turning back for a moment to look at the post-office. He smiles.

            Tomorrow, when the post-office is open again, he will have to thank them. They did mix up your books, after all. He turns and walks across the street, glancing down at you in his arms, your face snuggled close into his side. From the first day he'd arrived, Genesis has had his eye on you. The first day, as he had been unpacking from the lorry, you had run into the post-office, your eyes bright with excitement, running out moments later with a book in your hand. It had not taken you long to pull the book out of its package and start to read. It had not taken Genesis long to take an interest in you. Almost daily he had seen you appearing from the post-office with a new book. You had sparked his curiosity. One day he had wandered into the post-office and inquired about you. They had said you were called ____ and said you  lived not too far away. They chuckled and said you had another couple of books on the way. One called 'Loveless'. He hadn't resisted the temptation. It was a perfect way to meet up with you, after all. Asking the nice people of the post-office to switch your books around had been easy.

            Genesis chuckles slightly to himself. He has not been so devious in a while. Ah well, it only proves he's still got it. He carries you home, shifting you now and then to try and keep you from falling out of his arms – you tend to wriggle in your sleep. He slows his pace at the bottom of your street then stops completely just a few houses away from your own. He debates whether or not to try and wake you up, but then, after realising the ordeal he'll have to go through with your parents when they see you unconscious in a stranger's arms, he decides he better had.

            He kneels down to the floor, resting you up against a garden wall, then takes your hand in his and gives it a small squeeze on one of the pressure points. Your eyes open almost instantly, but a little blearily. It takes you a moment to realise you're not inside by a warm fire any more, and then another moment to realise Genesis is still with you.

            “Where... am I?”

            Genesis nods, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles to try and wake you up a little,

            “You fell asleep at my place, so I brought you home.”

            “Oh,” is all you can say before you have chance to wake yourself up properly. Genesis helps you up to your feet, not letting go until he's sure you can walk on your own, then you pass him his coat back. He raises his hands.

            “No, it's okay. You need it more than I do.”

            He waits for you to wrap yourself up again then nods, giving you a short wave as if to say good bye.

            “I presume you can make it into your house from here?” He watches you nod, “Alright. I'll see you around, ____.”

            As you watch him turn to leave, you decide not to be rude and give him a proper good bye – he carried you home after all. It's nothing to do with the fact he's beautiful. You step forward, grabbing hold of his arm, to which he turns, looking curiously at you. You step forward again, dropping any doubts you have momentarily, and reach up on your toes. Your lips brush against the his cheek, stunning Genesis enough to stop him moving. You drop back down to the ground, your cheeks stained pink.

            “Thank you, Genesis.”

            Hearing his name, Genesis manages to pull himself together. He raises his hand to his cheek, looking at you curiously again.

            “You're... very welcome.”

            You nod, smiling at him, then turn on your heel and dash along the street to your house. Genesis watches you go, the hand still to his cheek, then he smiles to himself and turns, starting the short journey back to his house.

            You throw open your garden gate and run up to your front door, the blush slowly escaping your face. You wait until you can't feel the heat in your cheeks then knock on the front door, your mother opening it a second later.

            “____!” She exclaims, “Where have you been, you've been gone for hours?” There's a pause, then she asks a little more calmly, “And who's coat is that?”

            You push past her slightly, wanting to feel the warmth of your house, then you turn and say happily, “It's Genesis'. He's the guy who I mixed books with.”

            “Ah,” is all your mother can say. She watches you, seeming to look you up and down, “So where is your book then?”

            At this you dart your eyes down, suddenly realising something. You pat the coat with your hands, looking in all the pockets.

            “Damn.”

            “What is it?” your mother asks. You laugh, running a hand through your hair.

            “After all that I left the book at his place.”

            Your mother rolls her eyes at you. That's typical of you. You shrug your shoulders, deciding you're still drowsy, then walk past your mother to the staircase.

            “Ah well, I'll just have to go and get it tomorrow.”

            You put your foot on the staircase and smile to yourself, your face hidden from your mother. You know for a fact Genesis forgot to pick your book up on purpose. It's for the same reason he let you keep his coat on. He wants to see you again.

            You run up the stairs, grinning. Tomorrow you'll visit Genesis. Tomorrow you can return his coat. You can pick up your book. You can be not quite so Loveless together.