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You're pretty sure Zidane wants to ask you out, but you've been friendzoning him for every one of his flirty comments. Truthfully, he's not your type at all. Physically he's fine, you suppose, save for his prehensile tail that he's been evasive about ever since you asked about it. It's his personality that's spectacularly shit in where everything he says always makes it sound like there's a meaning and that meaning is he wants to get into your pants. You tell him off, but every time he does flirt he just says it's a joke. You're not sure if it is or not, but it feels like Zidane is the only one who is down to spend time with you with no strings attached. All of your other friends are busy or 'busy' and sure, you don't particularly want to respond to Zidane's messages where he asks heyyy wyd :* every single time you're off of work. It's strange how he knows your schedule so well, but he just says he has a sixth sense and leaves it at that.
Today has been a pretty crummy day. Nothing bad has happened, but it's been exhausting and your social battery is all out of juice. When you're trudging up to your front door you see Zidane loitering there holding two paper bags full of ingredients.
"Zidane?"
He looks toward you and between the bags he's grinning. "You're back! I went ahead and brought over the things we need to make dinner tonight."
"Oh… um, I wasn't expecting you." Your kitchen is a mess, and the only thing you really want to do right about now is hose off your body and crash into bed. You could sleep like the dead, but Zidane is looking at you like he's pitying you.
"We made these plans two weeks ago, remember? You said you were excited this Monday."
Did you? Maybe it was verbally. You know you haven't been messaging Zidane about anything this week. The dreaded silence is making Zidane look so very disappointed. You hate to waste his money for him to come here and get told off.
"Oh… sorry, Zidane… we could take a rain check for tomorrow night?" It's the best offer you can make right about now, and he's still looking like you kicked him in the stomach and spat on him.
Even though you've told him not tonight, he perks up a little more. "Well, I, I could make all of it for you! All you'd need to do is be hungry."
"My kitchen's a mess." You gesture to your apartment like he can see the state of your space.
Before you can try and tell him off again, Zidane perks up. "I'll clean it for you! It's no big deal, and I'd hate to have it stuck in your fridge 'til tomorrow. Your day must have been exhausting, so it's the least I can do for coming over and surprising you."
You don't want to cook, sure, but entertaining a guest is still entertaining him and work you'll have to trudge through. You bite your cheek and sigh, defeated. "All right, Zidane. You can stay for dinner."
His tail curls in on itself, and he's adjusting the bags in his arms with a grin. "Oh, really? I'll have to pull out all the stops then!"
When you unlock the door and let yourself in, Zidane is saying something along the lines of, "oh, this isn't even that bad." Maybe it's not squalid, but you'd be embarrassed if anyone else entered your home. Zidane is going over to your countertop and setting down the bags as you shut the door and take off your shoes, wearily going to go sit at the dining table to supervise.
Already he's at the sink washing the dishes you've left there. He's even bringing the pot you used last night that was sitting on the stove to cool down to wash, and you watch him and wonder how long you'll have to humor him before he goes home.
Zidane turns and glances at you. He's grinning. "Like the view~?"
"Thanks for doing my dishes," you say instead.
Too bad he can't play off of that as well as he wants. He turns back to the sink. "Why, you're welcome. If you want to go get comfy, I promise I won't set anything on fire. Yet."
You've spent enough time together that you're sure he can be unsupervised if you need a bathroom break, but you don't want to leave him alone in your kitchen for too long. But you know you're sweaty, but you know you don't want to change and have to shower later. Zidane will just have to bear it, but you're sure it's fine because he was loitering outside of your door. "I'm fine, I'll just be sitting here."
Zidane glances back at you like he thinks you're being funny. "Everything's covered here, I promise. You look like you need to relax for a minute, anyway. Unless you want me to help with that~?"
Another unnecessary, forced comment, but at this point you expect it and roll your eyes. "I'll be fine."
His face falls just enough like he's pretending to be serious. "Then go take a minute. I'll holler if I need your help."
You push in the chair as you stand. "All right. I'm going to go take a quick shower, if that's cool?"
"No problem! I'll be here. You know where I live, so it's not like I could steal anything." He says it like it's a joke. Zidane turns back to the sink to finish cleaning, and you force yourself to chuckle as you go to grab your clothes to shower.
When you emerge from your bedroom with your things he's still in the kitchen drying off the pot, humming to himself. You hurry on towards the bathroom and shut and lock the door, feeling very awkward that he's just helping himself. There's something about Zidane that makes you uneasy, and the flirting doesn't help. You're not sure what it is, because he acts like a decent person. He's a little pushy - maybe assertive - but he's not bad. He's making you dinner right now. You take a very quick shower, and the water does help, but all you're doing is fretting over what Zidane is doing. He is a kind person. He's making you dinner and he spends time with you with very few strings attached. All you have to do is humor him for a bit and then he'll go home. Then you can finally relax.
By the time you emerge Zidane is still making your dinner. He's stirring a pot right now, and when you meander over you see he's boiling spaghetti.
You nearly shriek when you feel something touch your back, but Zidane doesn't give you a chance to yank away as he curls his tail around your midsection. He's pressed up against your side now. "You smell nice."
"Thank you," you mumble, feeling very awkward. "How's dinner going?"
"Oh, it's going." Zidane doesn't unwrap his tail around your stomach. "The meat is in the oven now. I made a dressing for the salad, but I was hoping you could taste-test it for me~?"
"You'd have to let me go for that," you say, grabbing his tail very gently to pry it away. Zidane makes a face as his tail unwraps from your body, and you try to ignore his pouting as you open up the fridge to see the glass bowl of sauce. There's a bowl of vegetables cooling in your fridge, too. How much did he do in so little time?
You take a little spoon and get just enough of the dressing to taste it. It's fine. Tangy. Zidane is looking at you already when you turn to him.
"Tastes great," you tell him.
He grins, clearly flattered. "Good! Everything else should be done soon, too."
You take it upon yourself to bring out plates for the main course and bowls for the salad, and do your best to make yourself useful. The shower helped you physically, but something about Zidane brushing and bumping against you is making you on-edge. It's nothing just like usual. But it's still an awful feeling especially when he's been so kind and is making you dinner and really isn't being as bad as he could be.
The timer beeps and Zidane shoos you away so he can finish cooking everything. You watch him take the food out of the oven and finish off the pasta and fix up two servings of salad, and then he shoos you away again as he carries the two bowls and plates on both of his arms to your tiny little dining table. It's impressive how well he balances everything, and he sets the table with ease. You're delegated to utensil duty as he pokes around your cupboard.
"What are you looking for?" you ask.
"Do you have any nice glasses?" Zidane is opening up the cupboard of glassware, and without asking for help he hops up onto the counter just enough to grab the wine glasses that you don't remember buying.
You watch him blankly. You don't have any alcohol in your home right now. "Where's the drinks?"
Zidane sets the glasses down and then opens the fridge with a flourish. The wine bottle definitely was not in there before, and your look must be stupefied enough because he laughs. "A magician never reveals his secrets! But I didn't steal it. It was pretty cheap." He's taking the bottle out of the fridge and you don't know whether or not to comment on that the bottle definitely wasn't in your fridge earlier. Maybe you're so tired that you ignored it, but it's a pretty hefty bottle. Zidane pours the two of you a glass each and carries it over to the table. You sit down across from him once he's done, and he scoots in his chair before shifting and grabbing the stem of the wine glass.
"Cheers?" Zidane offers.
You pick up your own glass. "What are we cheers-ing to?"
Zidane hums, thinking for just a second. Then he says you'll "cheers to dinner!" And the two of you clink your glasses. You take a sip. The wine tastes like wine, drying out your mouth like every other wine could. You set down your glass and begin eating.
The food is fine. The meat's a little overcooked, and the pasta is a little undercooked, but it's not bad. The salad is hard to mess up on, and the dressing with the crunchy lettuce gives it a nice flavor but the leaves themselves are a little wilted. Out of his control, probably, and at the very least it's better than whatever you would have made yourself tonight. You give your compliments to the chef, and all he does is say thank you and that he'll cook for you more if you'd like. Maybe another day, you say, and you keep eating. The food is good, and Zidane is a good conversationalist. Better yet that you don't have to try and talk about yourself; he seems to get that your social battery is nonexistent. But at least he made you food.
You're exhausted by the time you clear your plate. Zidane is talking about one of his friends and a funny story back home when he goes quiet.
"You okay?" Zidane leans forward. "Had too much to drink?"
You've hardly touched your wine. "No, I just got really tired all of a sudden. Sorry."
Before you can tell him he can continue with his story, Zidane stands up. "Let's get you into bed then. You look like you're gonna throw up!"
"I'm fine," you say, "let me see you out and I'll go rest."
Your head spins as Zidane wraps an arm around you, snaking his hand under your armpit. "I've got you, don't worry! Come on, let's go get you into bed."
"Zidane-"
"-I'm right here." Zidane squeezes you closer. "Can't even get up, huh? You look like you needed this."
What? You're about to argue and tell him to let go, but Zidane heaves you up on his scrawny arms and squeezes your midsection tight as he walks you to your bedroom.
"Let me see you out," you say, feeling like if you do you'll just go to sleep on the floor. Your face is melting into your skin, and it's so hard to keep heavy eyelids like yours open. All he does is ignore your plea, focused on something you can't figure out. Zidane's tail moves around his body to open your bedroom door, and he helps you get into your bed.
Your body lands on the bed with a fwump. Zidane's hands are warm as he grabs the backs of your knees and hoists them up.
"Zidane?"
"I'm just tucking you in," Zidane says. "I'll be back soon to check on you. Get some rest, sweetheart."
The pet name isn't lost on you. "Don't call me sweetheart."
"I'm sorry." He doesn't sound sorry at all. "Get some rest." He pulls the blanket over you, makes sure your body is covered, and then he leaves the door ajar as he wanders back into the main space of your apartment.
You're in-and-out of sleep. When you do sleep you don't dream, and when you're awake everything is too tiresome to register. Zidane does come to check on you once or twice, but otherwise you can't tell what he's doing except being here. Your head aches and the darkness of your room is nice, but you're overtired as sleep pushes on your eyes. You don't want to get up, but you have to. Everything is sluggish and melting and it feels horrible as you roll over into a warm body.
You freeze. Then you're awake because Zidane is in your bed and he shouldn't be here at all. You gasp and make a sort of panicked noise as you move away from him, but he's still asleep curled in on himself right next to you. He's still… sleeping? Here? Why is he in your bed? You don't like how you're in your pajamas and he's in an undershirt, but not dressed up like normal. Dread pools in your stomach. No, no, no, Zidane's a nice guy, he's firmly in the friendzone and he knows it no matter how hard he tries and you're sure he could get anyone else but… oh, god, oh god, oh god. No, you would have remembered if you had sex with him last night. Right? You ate dinner and he put you to bed and that was it. Nothing else happened. Your throat is dry and knotted. You take a deep breath, trying to assess the damage. Well… lack thereof. Your pajamas are still on. His underwear's still on, too, so he must have just stripped to be comfortable. Hopefully. Maybe.
His tail presses against your thigh as you shift to lay back down, panicking. You don't want to wake him up, but you also have to kick him out. Surely he's got… business… to attend to. You're not sure what he does as his day job but he always talks about it vaguely, so maybe he's under an NDA. Or maybe he's just really, really creepy because why else would he help himself to your bed?
Zidane mumbles, then he rolls over right into your arms. He presses himself against your body. "Mmh," is the only sound he makes, hands curled up on himself. Is he going to wake up? Maybe he's already awake. You shut your eyes and pretend to sleep, wondering if he can feel that you're awake or not.
It's another few minutes of pretending to be asleep before Zidane rolls back over. You hear the sound of his phone being picked up. So he really did make himself at home. You open one of your eyes just enough to see where he is. His back is turned towards you, and he's texting someone. You can see the previous message.
Lmk how it goes
Zidane is typing out his own message:
the plan workd!! sooo soft :) props to u n ill bbl
What. You stare at the message, trying to figure out what he means. Props to… whoever that is. And the plan worked. And… and you're not sure what any of that means, but he's got to go.
"What the hell, Zidane?!"
Zidane seems startled, turning his phone and sitting up. "You're up! How are you feeling?"
"Why the hell are you in my bed?" you ask.
He seems just as frazzled as you are. "I wanted to make sure you were okay! You were so sick-looking last night, I didn't want to leave you here all alone."
"I'm-" What? You were just tired, not sick. "You're-"
"-you're welcome!" Zidane exclaims. He grabs at your shoulders, gently pushing you back down even though you fight to sit up. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. Now. How about I make some breakfast?"
"Get out of my apartment." You push him away, and Zidane grips onto the bed for purchase even though you've seemed to make him falter easily enough. "Get the hell out. You're- you don't even know what a boundary is, and you've crossed so many of them, and I don't want you here!"
"Calm down!" Zidane doesn't leave. "Just calm down! You're going to hurt yourself."
Hurt yourself your ass. If pushing him away doesn't work, you do the next best thing and slap him upside the head. Zidane makes a satisfying wince sound as he clutches his cheek, reddening rapidly.
Your voice is shaky, but you have to be firm. "Get out."
Zidane stares at you. Then his hands shoot back out and you shriek as you try to get away from him.
Your self-defense skills are absolutely shit against him. You didn't think he'd be very strong at all, but you kick him in the ribs as he grabs one of your feet, and he pulls you back towards him even when you're trying to squirm away from his grasp. His tail wraps around your calf and pulls you into his lap. You shriek when his hand lands on your ass, but he doesn't try to pull your pajamas down or do anything. Miserably, you realize you've lost.
"What the fuck," you cry, voice hoarse. "What the fuck?"
"Did I hurt you?" Zidane asks, suddenly sounding worried. His hand isn't moving anywhere else, just resting on your asscheek uncomfortably low. "Did I get your leg?"
"Let go of me." You're not asking anymore.
"Calm down. You're not calming down."
"Let go of me and I might!"
Zidane doesn't let go of you, just keeps you there with a racing heart and labored breaths. Fuck. Fuck, what the hell's wrong with him?
"We don't hit people," Zidane says, "even when they deserve it. You can use your words."
Fuck using your words. You try to struggle out of his grip again but his hands shoot towards your back to keep you there in his lap.
"I'll even show you," he says, and you can't tell if he's being sarcastic or earnest. "I love you. I know you know that, so when you're worrying me, I want to be sure that you're safe and healthy as you can be. Don't you get it? Don't you get that I care about you?
"And it's so, so frustrating," he continues, "when I give you all of this attention, and all you do is… ugh, what, blow me off? Is that right?"
"I don't blow you off," you argue, voice rising. How could he choose his words like that? "I let you in to make me dinner. I didn't say you could stay."
"That was before you got so sick you couldn't stand without my help." Zidane's tail moves from your calf, unwinding gently. "So how about we have a nice, easy, slow morning together? Where we'll go shower and I'll wash your back, and then we can have breakfast."
"I-I have work," you say, feeling like that's the lamest excuse you could come up with. But it's true! You do have work, and he has somewhere to be later today, and you've already told him so many times to get out.
"That's okay, you'll get there on time." One of Zidane's hands wraps around your chest again and he pulls you up, wrapping his arms around your body. You feel like you've lost, but you're not even sure why you're trying to fight it so hard. Zidane cooks. And he's kind. And maybe he doesn't understand why it was so bad. He did say something about being from somewhere else. You can't find it in you to try and argue anymore, especially when he's telling you something about how he'll make sure you're nice and clean by the end of your shower. Why try to fight it now? There's no point when you can't get away from his affection.