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Bad Habit

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Your hands were already something that Tsuzuru thought about a lot.

 

When he noticed your nail biting habit, he made it a point to get a hold of your hands as often as he can when he sees them going up to your open mouth. You didn’t notice at first— after all, the motion came naturally to you and you didn’t think twice about it— so you wondered what prompted the sudden increase of instances where he initiated a few minutes of hand-holding. Not that you minded; you were just wondering.

 

You eventually figured out what it was for, and you found it sweet. You got to hold Tsuzuru’s hands and he stops you from biting your nails until they were half the size they were supposed to be. Sweet deal.

 

It was nice to hold Tsuzuru’s hand. His hands were much bigger than yours and his palms were rough and comforting. Perhaps it was the part time jobs, or handling both his biological siblings and the honorary ones at the Spring Troupe on the daily, or both. His nails were surprisingly well-kept; they were never too long and he made time to trim and file them properly. You felt a little mean for being thankful that his hands weren’t sweaty.

 

Even when your muscle memory let go of your old habit, even when your nails were back to reaching the tips of your fingers already, Tsuzuru still randomly felt like holding them.

 

Your instinct to take your hand turned into his instinct to reach for them.

 

The slight pain Tsuzuru feels when you accidentally dig your nails into his knuckles disappears in a second, being replaced by the happiness that came with the realization that your nails were long enough to do that now. He took your hand to his lips and placed as small a kiss as the pain he felt from your nails.

 

Now your nails were maaaybe a little too long to be practical. Not that Tsuzuru minded the occasional digging; it really didn’t hurt that much. It’s just that, as someone who’s always paid close attention to your hands, he notices fast that you’ve painted them, and that they looked stunning . So, maybe, he thinks, he might be malfunctioning right now. Warmth rushes to his face when he reaches for your hand, ever so slightly worried that he’d ruin them.

 

You notice the faint tint of pink on his cheeks and his downturned eyes open a little wider than usual and your heart swells.

 

They were painted a gradient of violet to sea green. You smile, and shyly point out that you wanted to match his eyes, as thanks for helping you reach this point.

 

Okay, so now he was sure that he wasn’t malfunctioning earlier. That was not malfunctioning. This was. He can’t gather himself enough to even try to cover up how stupid he thinks he must look, jaw hanging at the sight of your nails. You giggle a bit, and kiss his hand. His brain promptly short-circuited and you laughed at the soft, flustered noise he made when you did that.

 

Your hands were already something Tsuzuru thought about a lot.

 

Maybe he should think about them less, lest his brain short-circuit so bad that he can’t write.