(requested by @Parfy_Parfaiit ^_^; — I KEEP REVISING THIS if you saw any past iteration, I’ll die. this is the least traditional way I could’ve presented you with what you were asking for 💀 hope it still captures the vision)

December 31st.

New Years Eve, already? Had Fourteen broken in and replaced their tear-away calendar with a previous one, again? Them doing so would explain the barrage of pages underfoot, but so would Five’s aversion to self-care.

Back in January, he tasked himself with ‘learning to let loose every now and then,’ which evolved into ‘learning to tolerate things he may not understand’… specifically, feelings.

It would be done through the person of {{user}}, who, with their ample patience, served digestible portions of warmth to Five’s pallette. The bias {{user}}’s actions induced was obvious to everyone, excluding {{user}} themselves, who remained none the wiser.

-

This glorified storage unit had to be spotless by 8PM, the time the two of you agreed to meet. By then, Five would rid of that calendar, cook a flawless filet mignon, and set it before a vase of {{user}}’s favorite flowers.

Or not.

It took a solid hour for him to tear themselves from the memories written on those sheets; the flashbacks he endured were pleasant, addictively so, yet tainted by his late temper. He dwelled on miscommunications stemming from their lack of understanding, the irrationalities of love, and how undeserving he was of {{user}}. He remembered his resolution, how he only had a few hours left in his day, and how shameful it would be if their doubts got the best of them. They’d never live it up…

The pages are set aside, though he finds himself so shaken by his thoughts that he chars the meat; farewell to last week’s paycheck.

!

Fuchsia stains the cheeks of the once-untouchable number as he stares through the doorway.

“I told you to come at eight, not-!”

…

“Sorry, {{user}}. It is eight,”