Golden Hour (GarouxReader lemon)

Part 11

Hello! If you think of a song to go with this fic, please let me know in the comments! 

(づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ

I think I will probably wrap this up in the two or three more chapters :)

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I put the book down and check the time, giving Delilah a quick scratch behind the ear. She's been butting my head with her nose for the last five minutes, waiting for attention, but I was just wantin' to finish this chapter.
"Time to go," I say to her as she rubs her forehead against mine.
I toss the book carefully back on the desk as I get up, Delilah looking up at me curiously from my bed, wondering where the hell I'm off to all of a sudden.
"You," I point at her. "You're gonna stay here and guard the house," I say as I turn back to the closet. "Not that there's fuckin' much to guard..."
Now. What the fuck am I supposed to wear to the fuckin' museum?

I gotta back up here. How the fuck did I end up here, scratching my head over museum attire? Last time I been to a museum was in elementary school when we went to look at dinosaurs. I fuckin' remember because we were supposed to buddy up or some shit, and yet, as usual I'd ended up by my fucking little self. That was thanks to that little fucker Tacchan. I didn't even fuckin' care to be honest. Better to hang out by yourself than tag along with a brat all day.
But I ain't here to tell you a sob story.

Cut back to last Saturday night. Back at her place. Dinner is finished. I've made a fucking idiot out of myself again, but I'm happy.
We go to the living room and straight away the guy makes a line for the armchair. That leaves me nowhere to sit but the floor or the couch with her. I was sure he'd want to sit next to his sister since they don't see each other all that fuckin' much. But no. He sits in the armchair, like a fucking king. And she sits in her usual corner of the couch.
And if I sit on the floor, that looks mighty impolite, like there's something wrong with sitting next to her. So I sit on the other side, as politely as my swimming mind will let me.
She puts on the tv, kind of quietly in the background. No one's really watching, but we're all catching the storyline anyway. It's one of those friendly, relaxed evenings. At least I guess that's what it is since I ain't exactly used to being around company.
To be perfectly fucking honest, I don't remember much of the detail. I just remember having a nice fuckin' time. Everything seems dandy. No one is hassling me, I just got a good fuckin' meal, and ice cream...I mean, what more can a man want?
But I remember this exchange. Because that's why I'm in this fucking little predicament now.
"So," he says, finishing off another glass of wine. I've stopped asking myself at this point how he can fucking drink and drink and drink that shit and remain so placid, "what do you kids usually do for fun?"
He looks from her to me, back to her.
"I don't know," she says casually, looking at her phone, slowly twisting a lock of hair around her finger. This question doesn't seem to phase her in the slightest. "I teach him to cook and we watch TV mostly."
"God," he sighs, "even Granma has more fun than that!"
She stops with her phone and looks up at him.
"Granma lives in a fancy retirement village where they have all the free time in the world and get to play bingo and poker any time they want. I come home tired after work. What do you want me to do?"
I look from him to her as she speaks. You know, I never really thought about that. When I come home, I feel fucking tired too. Not physically, but just this goddamn weariness of the whole situation. Being an adult isn't all it's fucking cracked up to be turns out. I'd never really considered how she might feel. She always smiles when she sees me in the evening and always talks to me, asks me questions. Always listening to what I gotta say. I'd never thought that that takes energy. I ain't exactly a great conversation partner.
She's doing all that for me, I suddenly realise. She could just tell me to fuck right on back home and sit in the bath all evening. But I'm invited in, fussed over, fed, even though she must be fucking exhausted. I feel like a goddamn idiot. And this hot feeling of guilt in my throat.
"Alright, alright," he throws up his hands after putting the wine glass down on the coffee table. "But come on now, you need to get out of this house sometime," he says, looking at her with half affection and half concern. "There must be something you want to do."
"Mm...kind of," she says and goes back to her phone and twisting her hair.
He stares at her with expectation and I find I do the same. She ain't ever mentioned anything. She probably thinks I'm not fucking old enough, or smart enough or whatever to talk to me about it. I don't blame her.
"Well...?" he says, exasperated when the answer is not coming and she keeps ignoring him.
She clicks her tongue in this slightly annoyed way, like she's a little self-conscious to say.
"I want to go to the art exhibition at the museum," she finally says, never taking her eyes off the screen. "They've got paintings from all over the world. It's supposed to only be here for three months."
That's not what I was expecting if I'm entirely honest. But it makes sense why she wouldn't have said anything to the likes of my delinquent ass about it. What the fuck do I know about painting?
"And what's stopping you from going?" he says, eyes narrowing.
"Nothing, I guess," she says. "It's just...not fun going by yourself. And I don't know anyone who'd like to go to that sort of thing."
Fuck. I'd like to go. Not for the painting. But if it means that much to her.