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“Welp,” Ryuji sighs, stomping into the apartment without taking off or wiping his shoes. Mud tracks in from the doorway and stamps onto the linoleum floor, and judging by the array of dried sneaker-marks leading in different ways across the tile, it’s a normal practice for him. He throws his ring of keys haphazardly onto a cluttered table, yawns and stretches his arms above his head, looks around boredly. “Here it is. Mi goddamn casa.”
It occurs to Akira that he’s never actually been inside Ryuji’s house before, only that one empty room in the complex. The living room itself is quite messy; there are used paper dishes at a tiny dining table in the corner, unopened bills and notices from the school and magazines spilling over counters, clothes and jackets hung over chairs. Blankets and pillows are thrown across the couch as if someone lives on it. In the corners of the room, there are moving boxes that look like they’re only halfway unpacked— hasn’t he been living here for years?— and the blinds are bent and closed in every window, letting in just a faint amount of gray light. There’s a short hallway to the left and a weird merged half-kitchen on the right. It smells like cinnamon air freshener, and the house feels cold. It seems like no one’s lived here for years.
Akira self-consciously takes off his shoes and places him by the poor doormat. He asks, “Are your parents here?”
Ryuji actually laughs out loud when he turns to him, as if the question is stupid. “Yeah, dude, Mom’s cookin’ us lunch right now,” he snorts, motioning to the empty kitchen. Akira gives him a concerned look, and he just huffs and shakes his head. “What, like your parents come home every day or somethin’?’
Of course they did when he lived with them. And even Sojiro is back from work in time for dinner nowadays. “... Well, yeah.”
There’s an awkward bit of silence. The rain continues to bucket down, and he hears a dog bark from another house as if the walls are made of paper. Ryuji’s expression falls, and he scratches the back of his hand, turns back around and heads toward the couch. A rather large TV sits on an out-of-place chest of drawers, the monitor tilted specifically towards the couch. Anyone sitting on the other leather recliner wouldn’t be able to see it. Ryuji must spend a lot of time on that couch. “I’m tired as shit,” he says, then falls flat into the cushions and blankets, haphazardly kicking his sneakers off the side onto the dirtied shag carpet. He’s tall enough that his head and feet go from armrest to armrest. “Tell you what: I’m gonna take a nap. There’s food in the fr— well, no, there’s prolly, like. Instant ramen in the cupboards.” He buries his face in a pillow, wraps his long arms around it. “Or cans of soup maybe? Or tea. Whatever’s in there, you can totally help yourself.”
“Thank you,” he says, though he isn't hungry. “I’m kind of tired, too.”
“I know, right?” He turns to look at him, and his hair fluffs with static when it rubs against the pillow. “I had three tests today. Three! Chemistry, Math, and History. Two were multiple choice, thank God, but I had to totally bullshit the History one. And this kinda weather always makes me wanna pass out, so I was half-asleep all effin’ day.” When Akira holds eye-contact, Ryuji gets uncomfortable again, turning to stare at the low ceiling. “... I just hope I didn’t fail. I mean, I don’t care about it that much, but I just. I can’t afford it if I wanna graduate.”
Akira nods, and there’s another pause. Then, Ryuji gets it and snaps his fingers.
“If you wanna sleep, my bedroom’s the first door on the left,” he points to the hallway, “It’s messy as hell, though. Shit keeps piling up on my bed, so I sleep out here most the time.”
“Why don’t you clean it?”
Ryuji snickers. “If you saw my room, you’d understand. Trust me.”
Akira hums, wanders around a bit more. He really didn’t know what he was expecting to happen while they wait for seven o’clock to roll around— Ryuji managed to get a reservation at this stylish restaurant downtown, and he couldn’t find anyone else to go with him— but it was certainly different than just going off and sleeping in different rooms until dark. It isn’t like him to judge, and he’ll never hold anything against Ryuji for it, but the dark, empty apartment is a bit depressing.
To try and help it out, Akira walks over to a small lamp by the recliner and clicks it on. Soft orange light fills the room, and it seems just a little warmer. “How about I sleep in here?” Akira suggests.
“What, on the floor? No way. I ain’t gonna be a shitty host.”
“No, on the couch.”
Ryuji furrows his brow. Then he starts to sit up, rolling his shoulders. “Alright, fine. I’ll just sleep on the other chair. Fair warning, though, the cushions can kinda fall out if you don’t—”
“No,” Akira chuckles again, and he shrugs his blazer off, draping it across the recliner and navigating around the cluttered coffee table to lay down next to Ryuji on the couch. He states, “Here,” and he props himself up on his side to look at him. It's quite comfortable; the suede material is soft and plush, and the pillow he’s on is big enough for the two of them.
Ryuji is looking at him as if he’s absolutely fucking crazy. There’s no way that they can both lay down on the couch without at least their legs touching, and Akira has to curl himself back so that his arms are at a distance, and he’s clearly not used to this type of thing. He keeps laughing and shuffling to make room and trying to start a sentence, giving up halfway through. He settles on, “Dude, you are so freakin’ weird,” and Akira just smiles a little. “You just wanna take a nap here? Two bros sharin’ a tinyass couch like no big deal?”
“Why not?” He asks, purses his lip. He takes off his glasses, folds them and reaches out to set them on the coffee table. Then, he folds an arm behind his back, sticks the other underneath the pillow. It’s a cumbersome position, he has to admit. He’d much rather just get closer, but he doesn't want to make Ryuji uncomfortable.
“I dunno, man, it’s just weird.” Ryuji yawns again, curls his knees away a little more and closes his eyes. He looks more sad than tired, and it doesn't suit him at all. “Whatever floats your goat, though. I’m shleep. Just don’t get too close, or it’ll get awkward.”
“You seem down,” Akira notes, and his eyes blink open. “You were really pumped on the train ride, and now you’re not. Did something happen?”
Ryuji grimaces, then sighs. “Nah, nothin’ happened… I really— hm. Do you mind if I vent?”
“Not at all.”
“I kinda hate my house,” he says softly. “I don't like being home. I-I just, I hate the mess, and I hate how there ain’t ever any shit to eat, n’ how my mom always sprays a shitton of that cinnamon-apple garbage when she’s here, and I hate how lonely it feels when I get home from school. That’s kinda one of the reasons why I loved the track team so much— it gave me an excuse to be out of the house for, like, ever. I got out to train early, n’ then the practices and the meets at other schools would go on for hours. Until dark, most of the time. I’d grab food on the way home, n’ then I’d basically only come home to crash on the couch.”
“Really?” Akira asks quietly. “I get how it’s lonely, though. Does it help when your parents are here?”
“Hell no,” he almost laughs, “Mom’s always goin’ batshit over my grades, and my dad’s never even—”
Ryuji stops himself there. He quickly rubs his eye with his palm, and when he puts his arm back down, they’re laying a bit closer together. “I-I never like it. It isn't like— it's not that I don't love my mom or nothin’, don’t get me wrong, I just— sometimes, she gets so— it's hard to explain. I can’t explain it.”
Akira just nods, gently pats a hand on his shoulder. He’s relieved when Ryuji doesn't seem to mind. “Did they ever—”
“And then you came along,” Ryuji exclaims, “I mean, there’s only so many times you can just go out to the goddamn arcade by yourself before you go insane, and it’s either that or come home and just watch freakin’ soccer or some stupid shit,” he jerks his head toward the TV, “And now you're here and I love goin’ to your house and playin’ video games or whatever, or trainin’ behind the school, or when you make me stuff at Leblanc, or when we’re gettin’ some goodass ramen together— dude, I’m, like, never home ‘cause of you. I effin’ love it. And even right now, the house feels a ton less lonelier with you here. I really— can I say somethin’ kinda weird?”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s not like me to say shit like this, but I’m... I’m really glad I met you. I’d kinda be SOL without you at this point. I— I mean, just finally havin’ somebody to talk to makes me feel like…” Ryuji gives him a warm look, and he suddenly feels very, very close on the cramped couch. “Like I’m worth somethin’, y’know?” He glances away. “N’ I ain’t felt like that in a while, I guess.”
Akira responds by pulling him into an embrace, clasping his hands behind Ryuji’s back and tucking his chin into his shoulder. Surprisingly, Ryuji hugs back, just laughing it off and pressing his cheek into his turtleneck. “You beautiful, vulnerable bastard,” says Akira, and Ryuji laughs even harder. His hands grip oddly at Akira’s sides, but they seem content like that, their legs tangled and their minds at ease.
They stay that way for long minutes, just hugging on the couch and listening to the rain. It’s sort of freeing. Guys always have to act so weird about this kind of thing— one long handshake, one prolonged display of sincerity and it’s a ruined friendship— but if only for a little while, the two manage to relax in one another’s arms as if it isn’t anything at all. Ryuji breaks the silence after a while, though, humming and fidgeting a bit. “Dude…”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but you, like…” He nuzzles his face into his sweater a bit more, and his voice is soft and scratchy. “You smell really good. Really clean, like nice cologne or somethin’.”
Akira snickers, feels his face flush. “What would be the wrong way to take that?”
“... I dunno,” he says, slightly wavering.
Barely a minute passes, and all he hears is Ryuji’s breath as it slows, becomes heavy and deliberate. Shaky. His arms go limp, falling off of Akira’s sides. His eyes are clenched shut, his expression pained. Akira feels another pang of concern. “Are you okay?”
When there’s no answer, Akira moves a bit to try and see what the problem is, and that’s when he feels it against his leg.
Ryuji is rock hard.
Akira’s mouth suddenly goes dry as the idea of platonic cuddling flies directly out the window. He has no idea what to do. He should probably say something, shouldn’t he? That he isn’t angry or anything?
“... Ryuji—”
“Don’t fuckin’ say anythin’,” he growls, his cheeks fiercely blushing red, and Akira’s heart suddenly leaps into his throat— for all Ryuji’s cursing, it comes as a surprisingly large shock to hear him actually drop an f-bomb. “Don’t say fuck about shit and don't move.”
“O-oh, sorry,” he says stupidly, and, in attempt to undo his previous motion, moves backward, effectively rubbing his thigh directly between Ryuji’s legs— the stifled grunt it draws from him almost makes him want to do it again, but the look he shoots him afterwards makes him ashamed for even thinking about it.
“What the fuck did I just say, man—”
“Shit, sorry—”
Ryuji takes a deep breath, obviously embarrassed out of his mind, no real anger in his voice. “I didn’t— I wasn’t even thinkin’ about— I ain’t like that,” he shakes his head over and over, “Lemme just get up, I’ll just—”
“Hey, hey, it’s alright, I’m not mad—”
“I don’t even know why I— I promise I don’t— I wasn’t,” He babbles endlessly, and Akira gets an odd tug in his chest when he realizes how flustered he is; granted, Akira would probably react similarly if he’d popped a boner while cuddling with his best friend. Nonetheless, he’s overcome with the urge to kiss him, to comfort him until he feels secure again.
So Akira cuts off his string of apologies and justifications, grasps his shoulders and looks him in the eyes. “It’s fine,” he says softly, shifting until Ryuji is below him, just a centimeter below him— and Ryuji goes still and nearly seems hypnotized for a moment before he tears himself away, presses himself back into the sofa as if he’s trying to phase through the ground, a whole new wave of panic overtaking his expression.
“Holy shit, wait, I’m not, oh my God, I’m not about to— I get that you’re that way, I guess, and that’s totally cool and all, but,” Akira can actually see sweat glint on his temple in the orange light, “Fuck, dude, I ain’t, I don’t— I like girls,” he blurts, clearly short of breath.
“Yeah, so do I,” Akira offers, and it’s the truth. “What does that have to do with this?”
Ryuji’s eyes go wide as saucers, his chest rising and falling wildly. He seems to consider it, cocking an eyebrow before nodding slow in a moment of understanding. “Mkay, alright, yeah, that’s, that’s valid. A-alright, that makes sense. This is— God, I’m so sorry, bruh, this is weird as fuck, I really—”
That’s when Akira leans down, closes his eyes and kisses him softly, slowly, just enough to quiet him, slight enough that Ryuji can easily pull away if he objects. And he doesn’t. Ryuji leans into it, nervously places a hand between Akira’s shoulder blades, and when Akira pulls away to ask if everything’s okay, Ryuji pushes up and kisses him for a fraction of a second, almost as if he's trying to hide it.
Akira just stares at him when he falls back. Ryuji’s practically shaking at this point, his hands gripping at the sofa cushions as if he’ll fall off at any second. His eyes bore through him, wide and anxious, deep and dark as fresh coffee. His tongue darts out of the corner of his mouth for an instant. “... Okay,” Ryuji warbles, closing his eyes and gently, gently wrapping his arms around Akira’s back. “Okay.”
He hesitates, dumbfounded. Ryuji’s breath puffs hot against his cheeks. “Okay?”
“... Yeah, man.” He nods, swallows roughly.
So Akira places his hand on the side of Ryuji’s neck and gives him another soft kiss, and Ryuji presses back eagerly, clumsy and without aim. His embrace tightens, and he shudders when Akira’s palm shifts to his nape, stroking back and forth with his thumb. His lips are soft and warm, and one of his arms slips down, his cold hand sliding under Akira’s sweater to find purchase at his waist, holding him there with an unsteady grip—
“Wait,” he gasps like he’s just remembered something important, “Hold on, hey, wait a sec.”
“Yeah?”
“It— It’s just— I promised myself that if I ever did any gay shit,” Ryuji explains, “Then I would be the guy that’s on top.”
When it sets in that he’s serious, Akira tries to stifle a laugh, almost chokes on his own breath. He can tell he’s done an awful job of it when he sees Ryuji crack a bashful smile as well, bowing his head forward, and soon the two are just laughing over the statement, the pent-up discomfort between them soon fading away. Akira kisses him again, lets him clumsily push them over until he’s flat on his back with Ryuji’s eyes on him, looking him over again and again. “Th-thanks, bro,” he breathes a laugh, and Akira snickers, pushes the hair back out of his face. “Wait, dude, can you even see right now? Am I hella blurry?”
“Wh— oh, the glasses? Those aren’t prescription. I can see fine.”
Ryuji hums in understanding, running his wide hands across his back as they kiss, pressing their hips flush— but then he pulls back again, squints at him. “So you're tellin' me that you’re wearin’ fake glasses with fake glass in ‘em every single day just to look cool?”
“Yeah.”
“... Wow,” he says in amazement, “That’s prolly the douchiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” He kisses him again when Akira cracks up. It all starts to go hot and fuzzy, eyes closed, nothing but two best friends in the comfort of each others' arms...
There’s a pause after it's all over, Ryuji laying still and catching his breath, Akira still staring at his hands. Ryuji must’ve put it together at some point, because he yells, “Fuck!” and starts to frantically fix the front of his jeans, pointing towards the hall with his other hand. “The bathroom’s the second door on the— wait, shit, the sink’s not working in the bathroom— the kitchen sink works, and, uh, I have clean boxers I could loan you? Y-your pants look fine, but—”
“Thank you,” Akira nods, carefully pushes up off of him and walks over to the weird kitchen, sees Ryuji’s figure blink over to the short hallway with a mad dash of footsteps over tile. He turns on the faucet with his clean hand and rinses away the ordeal, uses soap with the same fake cinnamon-apple scent as everything else in this house. He turns off the faucet and dries his hands off on his slacks. He actually can’t decide what he’s feeling, although it seems kind of like an odd combination of guilt and post-nut clarity. His heart’s still hammering.
“C’mere,” calls Ryuji’s voice from the other side of the house, and Akira follows it, sliding open a door on the right side of the hall.
Seeing Ryuji’s room actually makes Akira jump back a solid foot. It's absolutely chaotic. There’s clothes everywhere, over desks and chairs and strewn across the floor like carpeting. There’s even more clothes and textbooks and things like random coins and shopping bags and tangled headphones on his bed, so much stuff that he can't even see the mattress. At least a dozen track medals hang from his bedpost. Although it looks like hell, it actually smells pretty nice, like clean linen and shampoo. Gray light lets in through the half-closed curtains, and he hears the rain continue to pour outside, that one dog still barking. Ryuji digs through a dresser on the side of the room, casually discarding clothes over his shoulder as he searches, piling up even more on the floor.
To break the uneasy silence, Akira clears his throat and asks: “Damn, bitch, you live like this?”
Ryuji immediately puts his hands down on the dresser and starts wheezing with laughter, maybe out of surprise or maybe because of the actual stupid joke— either way, it’s a huge relief to have it all feel back to normal for a second. He turns and looks at him, hands him a pair of clean maroon boxers. “It’s a hellhole in here,” he says, laughing and nodding. “I don’t even have any excuses, I’m just lazy.”
Akira takes them, sits down on the side of the cluttered bed and starts to change out of his pants, and Ryuji promptly turns his back as if to preserve any scrap of modesty the two have left. “... Hey, Akira?”
“Yeah?” He pulls off the legs of his slacks, careful not to take his socks off with them, consciously changing out of his briefs and balling them up in his hand before putting on the borrowed boxers. It’s definitely more comfortable.
“I really… Well, first I just wanna say that I'm a hundred-percent cool with whatever you are. Whatever you’re into, I guess, that’s fine, but I’m— well. I thought I was straight ‘till a half hour ago, so I’m kinda feelin' real fucked up right now. I— I don't want anybody to know about this, okay? Nobody can know.”
And Akira was sort of expecting this, but his heart still sinks in his chest. “Yeah—”
“I-it's just that, like, I’m cool with it, but there are a tonna people who ain’t, n’— the guys from the track team are always lookin’ for excuses to give me hell, y’know? So if this got out— and then people’d come after you, you’re already at risk ‘cause you're the new kid, a-and if somethin' bad happened to you ‘cause of me?” His voice raises, and he scratches the back of his neck, slumps forward a little. “God, I dunno what I’d do. Kill myself or somethin’, prolly.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Akira says, picks his slacks back up and puts on one leg, then the other. “I totally get it.”
“Are you…” Ryuji glances at him for an instant, then keeps his back to him even when he’s completely decent. “You sure you still wanna go get dinner? I get it if you wanna bail, now, I mean. I really fucked up. God, I'm fuckin' stupid, huh? I really fucked up,” and it’s even more upsetting to hear him swear like that now.
“You didn't even do anything, though, man, I was the one who kissed you—”
“But I was the one who fuckin’—” He cuts himself off, slams a fist down hard and falls silent. A few coins roll off the dresser and hit the floor.
The rain seems to grow louder outside. Akira sits uneasily on the side of the bed, holding his shoulders; in just his undershirt, the apartment is much too cold. He wishes he had his sweater back on. He attempts to nudge some clothes and new-looking books aside, makes a space where he can feel the mattress underneath when he lays down.
“Hey,” Ryuji says softly out of the quiet, turning to face him. He’s smiling a little, looking down at the floor. “Wanna know somethin’ else kinda funny n’ kinda sad?”
“What?”
“That was the first hug I’d gotten in, like, six months, so.” He barely laughs, nudges some clothes around with his foot.
“...Oh,” Akira replies, sitting up almost involuntarily. He rolls up to his feet, steps over the mess and wraps his arms around Ryuji, holding tight around his waist and not letting go.
Ryuji’s breath catches, but he chuckles after, saying, “Dude, c’mon, I… I don’t need you to feel bad for me, I just…” And then Akira starts to lead them back to the cluttered bed, back to the cleared-out spot to lay down there. He can tell Ryuji’s confused, but there aren't any words exchanged after that. They don’t even look at each other.
At some point, Ryuji hugs Akira back, and they're close as can be. They stay that way until dark.