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10 things i hate about you.
character/s: albedo, childe, diluc, itto, kazuha, gorou, scaramouche, thoma, xiao
a/n: because this bitch is back after watching that fucking adorable movie :””)
albedo: i hate the way you talk to me.
if there was one aspect you learned to despise the most about the teal-eyed boy, it was always how you hated the way he talked to you — how he never failed to present himself with such irrefutable dignity and intelligence…that it almost felt like he was somehow belittling you with his every word and damning existence.
you’re quite certain the boy means no harm, that it was useless to complain as he was simply built in such a distinguished manner. still, he talks to you with that characteristically advanced vocabulary of his, and as much as you wanted to deny it, you couldn’t help but feel…oddly attracted to it.
and you hated it because it made you feel so inferior towards the blonde. hated it because the longer you forced yourself to listen, the more you grew to pinpoint even the littlest of intricacies woven into the sound of his baritone voice. hated it because you had eventually reached a stage where his midnight rambles of chemistry buzzing through the phone, was always the last thing you routinely heard before dozing off to a peaceful sleep.
or maybe…it wasn’t exactly that. maybe deep down, you just hated the stupid fact when you realized he was too out of your league to dare possess such romantic and transient emotions for.
ayato: i hate the way you cut your hair.
the most memorable piece you took with you of the little boy from the seemingly distant past, were his long and silky strands of hair. you remembered the way it glimmered beneath filtered rays of sunlight, how they fluttered within the breeze and melted between your fingertips, how you used to spend your leisure time learning to braid them in an admittedly unkempt fashion (nevertheless, he always told you he loved the way you did his hair).
alas, long gone were the distant memories and lengthy strands of the past — instantly replaced by an unfamiliar mop of trimmed and tousled blue nestled atop the boy’s head. albeit most would agree that your childhood friend looked quite pleasant with a shorter cut, it wasn’t difficult for you to decide that you hated the way he cut his hair. on the contrary, you thought it was rather ill fitting on him, and how you wished he had at least bothered to give you a heads up before mercilessly chopping the rest of his lovely locks of hair off.
but most of all, you hated that you couldn’t braid it anymore — how the sloppily trimmed strands fell uneven between your fingers as you attempted to gather them in a more convenient and neater updo, the reverberation of his laughter echoing through your ears despite the evident sulking across your face. how could the boy manage to find any of these dire circumstances amusing?
you hate the way you cut his hair — that is what you ultimately admit with a serious tone to him as he takes your hands into the warmth of his, that is what you tell yourself as his thumbs rub comforting circles around your palms and he does that awful damned smile that always sends your heart in that silly little frenzy you’ve begrudgingly grown accustomed to every time you’ve witnessed it…and that is what you’ll eventually forget as he promises you he’ll grow it out soon enough, while you quietly wonder to yourself if he’d ever dare to show you that odd yet familiar smile once more.
itto: i hate it when you drive my car.
whenever you felt sick or the weather was simply too dreadful for you to drive around in, you had prepared a carefully selected list of persons you were certain you could trust with your entire life to bring you home safely. typically, you’d like to think that at least one of these people would be free during situations when you needed them, and around 88% of the time, they truly were there. and well, you might ask…who is then left to drive you home when no one is there to come around for you?
introducing the 12% is arataki itto — a person you’d really like to say you’d trust your life with, in the (unfortunate) circumstances wherein you were in a car and he was fulfilling the courteous duty of taking you home safely…if it wasn’t for the fact that he was perhaps, too risky of a driver to be even driving out and about on the streets.
to say you hated the way he drove your car was a rather generous understatement…you hated and feared the 10% of the times you swore you could witness your life flash before your eyes whenever he was tasked with the damning privilege of occupying the driver’s seat — hearing his boisterous laughter blow through the gusts of the occasional wind, whereas your screams of terror are securely muffled behind the backpack you tightly press against your horrified face.
and yet, despite that fearful probability of 10% in your experiences of driving with him (and although you know the man should be considered a public health hazard by now)…you’ll call him anyway — because sometimes, in the lucky chances you’ll find yourself in within 2% of times, you’re certain to winning the handful minutes of your life spent with the amiable boy, and perhaps even the sliver of chances with your own shot at romance.
(well, that is…if he doesn’t try to kill the both of you with his horrid driving first.)
kaedehara kazuha: i hate it when you stare.
kaedehara kazuha was not like everyone said he was. the boy was awfully annoying, contrary to what you swore the people had all claimed. he’s a reserved one and doesn’t bother anyone much, they say, and yet those stupidly gorgeous ruby irises are always somehow plastered on you.
you hate him when he stares — when your eyes wander the room to find his falling into yours. it sends a tickle of electricity up your spine, gives you shivers under his unwavering and curious gaze, makes your heart feel weirdly mushy when he sends you a wordless smile despite the fact that you were the one who caught him guilty. that although he’s the one who’s supposed to feel embarrassed, you’re the person who feels it in the light flush crawling up your cheeks instead.
you don’t even personally know much about the boy, other than the fact that he stares (and smiles) an impressive damn lot at you. you’ve also never intended to fuel the desire to muster up the courage in walking across the room, to chide him for his stolen looks and the nice little smile you’ve never seen the taciturn boy give anyone…
and yet, on one typically sunny morning, when his feet shuffle from a corner to tread a path towards yours, you can feel the pits in your stomach erupt in a fit of butterflies, a pensive expression across your face when he pauses in front of you with a familiar upturn of his lips, and those intrusive ruby irises that you began to find yourself slowly drowning in.
gorou: i hate the way you read my mind.
he’s so mindful of you — too caring and sensitive that sometimes, it almost successfully manages to drive you crazy. how did he always know what to do and say to you, during the right times? it was absolute and unbelievable sorcery, you swore to yourself one day.
he knows you like he knows the back of his palm. he remembers that you enjoy a pint of vanilla ice cream and milk whenever you’re frustrated. he sees that you fiddle with your hair between your fingers when you’re feeling nervous. he notices that your tongue slightly sticks out between your lips when you’re concentrating. he witnesses a lot, and has grown awfully familiar to these trivial habits.
it’s unbelievably distressing — how you hated the way he reads your mind. how at some point, he seemed to understand you better than you did yourself. how it’s so easy for him to just know you.
unbeknownst to you, however, he tried very hard to familiarize himself with you and your little (adorable) quirks. he’s making a diligent effort to give himself some status in your life, to matter to you the way you mattered too much to him. oh, if only you’d bother to recognize the affectionate intention behind these genuine actions, and perhaps spare the nice boy an equal chance for a place in your heart…
diluc: i hate how you’re always right.
civilized arguments between you and your red-haired neighbor are…almost never inevitable. you both tended to disagree with your varying opinions on a lot of matters, whether public or private ones. you wanted to go drinking at midnight? certainly not, he didn’t need your drunk ass fumbling with the keys he handed you to his house (for whenever you need me, he insisted while closing your palm that clasped the metal belonging), and you stumbling inside the humble premises only to throw up over his freshly pressed clothes. (it was one time! —you exclaimed in embarrassment with flushed cheeks.) you wanted to head in for work despite clearly having a fever? he’d practically lock you and him inside your house, busying himself with cooking you a nice and piping hot porridge when he’s finished (forcefully) sending you to sleep.
it was annoying, honestly. how overprotective could the man get anyway? besides, you were a fully grown adult! you could take great care of yourself without his chiding words paired with irritatingly thoughtful actions.
however, admittedly…he was never wrong with his opinions. although it was frustrating to eventually conform with his arguments at the end of the day, it honestly did you more good than harm. you hated how he was always right, how he seemed to always know and care about what was best for you. why does he seem so invested in looking out for you anyway?
i don’t need you to bother me when you eventually realize that you made a mistake with your choices — he grumbles softly, folding his sturdy arms against his chest. to sum it up, he claims that he only debates with you because not doing so would only cause him a greater inconvenience…he really doesn’t need “concern” to be added on his plate when he’s already troubled himself enough with the damning realization of the feelings he quietly holds for you.
childe: i hate it when you lie.
childe was perhaps known to others as a lot of things — exceedingly rich, overwhelmingly self-conceited, a handsome devil with a charm, they’d say. but if there was one word you would best associate your oh so loving boyfriend with, you would call him a complete bastard of a liar.
you were a bet. a stupid fucking bet made with his dumb jock friends, that would end with you falling in love and him breaking your heart by the end of prom night. and you did — you fell hard and blindly, regardless of how many times you’ve convinced yourself never to do so.
still, here he is, fumbling to grasp your slipping hands as desperation crosses those ocean blue eyes. he says the bet doesn’t matter to him anymore…that at some point, he never cared for the money and only cared for you (bullshit, you sneered with teary eyes while fuming in anger, he knows you hate it when he lies.)
but it hurts to question if what he’s saying is true, or simply another pretty statement that rings well in your ears. what’s worse is that you weren’t sure how, and if you could still trust him…or literally anyone else anymore.
your mistake, you tell yourself — as hurried footsteps carry your quivering frame down the flight of stairs, the sound of his hoarse voice following from not far behind. your mistake, you should have known better than to love anyone like him.
scaramouche: i hate it when you make me laugh (even worse when you make me cry.)
scaramouche was never one for jokes, that was for certain. however, part of you wonders if he willingly chooses to set that little quirk of his aside, if it was purely in an innocent endeavor to watch you smile and hear the sound of your laughter tug on his heart once more.
truth be told, to the average bystander the said ‘jokes’ aren’t even that funny — hell, perhaps they aren’t even considered jokes at all. it was more of an inclusion between the two of you, a little secret kept and stowed away within the muffle of stifled giggles and poorly concealed smiles. yes, you’ll admit it’s an awfully rare sight to see him smiling along with you — and trust me, he will deny it like his life depends on it, because perhaps for him it really does — but it’s there alright…you just need to know when to look, and pray you’ll get lucky enough to stumble across the minute chances of catching him with a small smile.
and sure, you hate the way he makes you laugh, but you hate it worse when he makes you cry — a repulsing sensation of thick fat droplets of liquid skidding down your flushed cheeks when he screams in a fit of annoyance and frustration at you, a burden weighing down the heaviness in your heart later as you lull yourself to sleep on a restless night…an indecipherable feeling when he pulls you deep and securely into his chest the next morning, his indigo irises shut tight in regret as his lips quiver with the quietest of awkward (yet sincere) apologies.
scaramouche does not love anyone, that is what they all say…but you are slowly beginning to wonder if you still fit into that generalized criteria of persons at all.
thoma: i hate that you didn’t even call.
after the unnecessarily torturous break-up with the green-eyed boy, you’ve done nothing but curl up beneath the blanket settled on your bed and sob until your eyes turned red and puffy. in fact, the most productive thing you’ve done all day was trudge heavy steps to stash food in the crook of your arm from the fridge, before slowly heading back up to fall onto your mattress and lay within the four white confines of your room.
it was a weighty feeling of sadness that sunk itself into the crevices of your heart, one that left you disgusted and clearly heartbroken over the intense effect your ex lover had on you. you wonder if he’s also found himself curled up in the corner of his own mattress, contemplative and thinking of you with a similarly empty sensation.
the futon feels hard and cold beneath the weight of your body…lonely was perhaps the best word to describe the ugly sensation. you felt lonely in bed, knowing the usually warm space next to yours carried nothing but a gnawing bitterness in the empty spaces of your heart. lonely because the boy you once kept within your arms was no longer in the vicinity of your reach. you were lonely, and you hated him more for it because he didn’t even call.
and despite the fact that you know your phone will never hum that soft vibration with his name flashing on your screen again — no matter how long it takes for him to painstakingly dial your number, or for you to finally pluck up the courage to pick up his (long-awaited) call…you and him both know you’ll always be here at the end of the line, forever waiting.
xiao: i hate that i don’t hate you (not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.)
it starts as a small (and random) question in your thoughts — how would it feel if he loved someone? if for once in his life, he was capable of giving up on the cold act to pursue a warmer disposition towards everyone else, how differently then, would he behave? and perhaps you should have given up on the thought during its early stages, because the more you asked yourself in curiosity, the greater the inquiry plagued every single corner of your unbridled mind. how would love to him and his eventual partner feel like?
and then (worst of all), you begin to wonder how it would feel if he loved you. if lurking behind those sharp golden amber irises, there could be a warm sensation clouding them whenever he looks over at you. if he acted better as a roommate instead of typically ignoring your presence. if he wasn’t so uptight and aloof. if he was kinder. if he would smile a lot more.
the question always haunts you, like a disgusting itch in the back of your mind — as your eyes flicker to coincidentally meet his, as your hands softly brush together when walking past the cramped kitchen, as the world begins to spin when you catch him with an absent turn of the corner of his lips upward while reading a book in his possession.
slowly, it begins to hurt the more you think about it. that you know he doesn’t really love you and you’re simply getting your hopes up with delusional situations. that it’s almost impossible for him to actually love someone like you. that he will always hate you, and you will forever chastise yourself after finally discovering that even after all this time, you hate that you don’t hate him — not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.