definitely maybe i will live to love || Five x Reader/OC ||

higher, higher, it's burning through to my soul

Burning Love

It's the little things about you that Five is pathetically enamored with. There is fifteen—technically sixteen—years of you that he has to discover, so he soaks up as much as he can every second he's in your company.

And honestly, what other company would he prefer?

You like to use a purple pen to edit rather than a red pen, and you tap it against your chin as you read sentences to yourself in a soft mumble. You like tea more than you like coffee, but you don't drink tea much now that it's getting warmer because it makes your "insides too hot." You like skirts and gold-toned jewelry. You don't like mincing fresh garlic, so you use the jarred stuff instead. You like reality tv shows and Seinfeld and romantic comedies and the oldies and mysteries (though, to be honest, neither of you have gotten through much of any movie or show when you sit down together to watch them, far too distracted with each other). You have to wash the dishes right after you use them, or else you won't have the will to do them later. You do a little dance in your mirror when you brush your teeth. You like matching pajamas sets. You make unhappy noises when you put your makeup on even if it turns out nice. You sleep in one position all night. You still use thin steel wire to floss your teeth like you did as a kid because the regular stuff breaks too easily. You prefer perfumes with warm, vanilla notes. You have a certain voice you use when you talk to authors and other editors at the publishing house on the phone to make yourself sound older. You don't use mitts to take food out of the oven, nor are you afraid of boiling water or spattering grease. You like nectarines. You don't like raw tomatoes. You always hum when Five runs his fingers through your hair.

Sometimes, he feels impatient; he wants to devour every little aspect of you all at once. But it's a sweeter thought to remember that he has all the time in the world left with you. There's no apocalypse nipping at his heels to make him desperate and twitchy and snappish. There's just you and the road trip and then Herb and Dot's wedding and then—

And then Five will figure it out.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night with the cold ground beneath him and the crushing fact that he's alone and needs to stop the apocalypse, half-coherent equations running through his head and a gasp choking in his throat, he sees you beside him in the dimness of your bedroom. You're a light sleeper, trained to be alert at a moment's notice, so you stir and blink back at Five and take him into your arms. The weight of your limbs, the beat of your heart, chases away the urge to obsess over the next calamity, the next survival method, the next thing. He's done it for so long that his brain craves it sometimes, like a scouring addiction. But when he holds onto you, he asks himself why would he want to ruin what is here and now?

God, you're beautiful. Five has to wonder how you came out of the academy with as much genuine goodness as you did. He craves hearing your laughter and your thoughts, feeling your touch and your mouth and your body. Just—knowing that you're there, letting him learn about you all over again, voluntarily loving him, makes Five's chest fiercely constrict.

You're a planner. Five has always known that you've never had much of an impulsive attitude, but after you both decide what places to visits and where to stop each night, you call hotels to book reservations and estimate gas, toll booth, food, and spending money with impressive efficiency. You also give your siblings all the phone numbers for the hotel you're staying at each night. You and Five decide on a rental car that's less sleek than he would have hoped, but it makes you happy, so he decides not to complain. You settle the insurance fees and meticulously go over the car in the rental company's parking lot to mark any dings and scratches and stains that the company can't fine you for afterward. And when you drive it out of the lot with him in the passenger seat, you go a mile under the speed limit.