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Normally, you’d find yourself in the market on Saturday afternoons, busying yourself with grocery shopping, or buying small trinkets for your new apartment. You considered yourself more than lucky to have found a cute 1BHK in central Yokohama, and nothing could stop you from enjoying yourself thoroughly at the thought of decorating and refurbishing your little space. However, that one Saturday afternoon, you found yourself napping on the couch, a tad bit drunk from cheap port wine, staring at the wall in front of you because the boy you had hit on at a bar last night had turned you down. Not only did you try to drink away your sorrows by buying the cheapest wine that the store could offer, but you also ignored the pitiful gaze the wine store guy threw at you, wore your thrift-shop bought jacket over your shoulders, and walked home with pride that bewildered those that took one look at you.
Yes, you were a tad bit poor considering the standards of your apartment, but it wasn’t because you couldn’t afford things. Growing up in a poor household left you bereft of any knowledge that could have made you comfortable in a glamour-based lifestyle, but you were more interested in saving money than spending it. Wasn’t that the whole point? You asked yourself before pouring in your fourth glass of port wine, and laying down on your 2-week new couch, with a white camisole, no bra, black shorts, hair let down—because who in the world was even going to visit you on a random Saturday afternoon anyway?
You enjoyed your space, and there was nothing that could—
A loud crash echoed from above you, crashing into the floor in front of you, throwing aside your drunkenness as if it didn’t even count; your eyes were wide, your body afraid, your mind screaming, and your jaw ajar at the sight before you. A man, with a lavish coat thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, a weird looking hat on his head, and his back turned to you, stood before you, no dust on him despite the damage he had apparently caused; and you screamed, alerting him at least because what the f*ck did he just do to your apartment?
“What the f*ck did you just do to my apartment!?”
The man turned to you, and his eyes widened first at the sight of you, and a moment later, his eyes wandered downward to your clothing (or the lack thereof) before gulping, and you inched closer to slap him across his face, which he somehow had let happen because either he was mesmerized with what he had seen or he clearly wasn't that much of a decent man as he had led himself to believe. Or both.
As if he remembered something, he turned to the hole he had created on your ceiling and groaned before red consumed him, he floated off—not a care in the world, and left you there, gasping and gaping, at the strangest and most bizarre thing that had ever happened to you.
“Come back here!” You screamed, tears now filling your eyes, “You destroyed my apartment!”
A part of you probably believed you’d never see him again, but you were more than surprised to learn that his name was Nakahara Chuuya, and he was part of the Port Mafia, the one organization that every other organization had been warned not to even mention or talk about let alone anger. If someone from the Port Mafia, especially this Chuuya, destroyed your home, then so be it. After all, it was quite common for ceilings to crash to the floor because of a man who can apparently control gravity.
“What do you mean I have to pay for the damages? I didn’t cause them!” You screamed at the landlord, who merely shook his head at you.
“I can’t obviously go ask the Port Mafia, can I?” He seemed to find his question funny, which was perhaps why he was laughing.
You found it ridiculous. Sure, you might be new to Yokohama, but you weren’t new to the concept of the mafia. You’d read and heard about the Port Mafia before, but it wasn't as if they were incredibly powerful that the police couldn’t handle it, right? The thought made sense to you, so imagine your surprise when you walked into the police station, and not one person accepted, let alone, bothered to listen to you complain about Nakahara Chuuya because apparently, he was untouchable. What the f*ck? You thought, before groaning and walking out with such rage plastered across your face that you barely had time to register that someone was following you.
You scaled through the market, the same anger nestled in your features, before pursing your lips and being side-tracked by the freshest looking cauliflower at the stands. You almost moaned at how radiant the vegetable looked before reaching forward and buying one, and then buying some carrots because they looked heavenly and then buying the tomatoes there because they were begging to be bought, and now you had a bag full of groceries and a ceiling-less house to go to. You’d asked around at work for Nakahara Chuuya, you’d asked the police, you’d even asked a few people in the street because you were now a deranged tenant of a flat with no ceiling, and a brand new couch with debris dust plastered all over it. It didn’t matter if you were called a fool or an idiot behind your back, if people had gone through what you went through, they’d know exactly how you were feeling.
On reaching your flat, your heart pummelled to the ground at the thought of entering it. You’d thought of buying aesthetics to the place, fairy lights, and lamps that could accommodate the insomniac that you were, potted plants because you loved plants, and perhaps a television in three months because you were saving; and now, now the entire flat looked like a goddamn mess. You held the bag of vegetables closely before stepping inside, at least thankful that the kitchen was intact. As soon as you stepped inside, however, you weren’t expecting Nakahara Chuuya to be standing there, hands in his pockets, looking around your place as if he’d been invited.
“What the…” You were bewildered, so your mind took some time before exploding, “What the f*ck are you doing here!?”
Clearly, Chuuya was startled with your choice of words. But, could he blame you? His eyes traveled to your attire—you were now wearing a black dress shirt with black trousers, a lot of black for a woman that looked like she wanted to paint her house like a fairy’s. He almost felt bad for you, since it was his fault you were now inside a ceiling-less house. He remembered you slapping him, and while that would have otherwise angered him, Chuuya wasn’t unreasonable.
“Listen,” You immediately blushed at his voice because dear lord, did he really have to sound like walking sex? “I’m sorry about your ceiling, alright?”
“That definitely fixed it.”
Oh, so you were a smart-ass. Great, that made his job easier. It wasn’t always that Chuuya was driven by the kindness of his heart, but it seemed like the universe didn’t like it whenever he was kind because when he chose to be kind, something always punished him. His eyes almost narrowed at your tone before he turned to you, ignoring the fact that you were holding a bag of vegetables that seemed to be a bit heavy for you since you were constantly shifting it from your right shoulder to your left. Groaning, he used his ability and made it lighter, earning a gasp from you at the sudden movement.
“What are you doing?! Stop that!”
“What?! I’m being a gentleman and carrying your things for you!”
“Did I f*cking ask!?”
F*cking hell, did you have to be so difficult? Chuuya groaned before releasing his ability, and now dropping all the fresh vegetables to the floor, and then gaping at it as if he were a child that was going to be scolded any minute. You cussed loudly before bending down to pick them up, before Chuuya blatantly let his eyes wander to your backside, before raising his eyebrows. Damn, that’s—
“Stop staring at my ass, you pervert!”
“Who’re you calling a pervert?!”
“The ghost behind you, of course, you! Or should I call you home-wrecker, because that’s what you clearly are.”
“Listen, I’m willing to pay for the charges. I came here for a—“
“Oh, right!” You stood up now, once again holding the bag full of vegetables, “You were in my house before I entered.”
Had you just realized that?
“You trespassed. And broke in.”
“Didn’t need to break in, exactly,” Chuuya answered, “You see the, uh—“
“Hole you created? Yeah, I’m familiar.”
He stared at you with a tired expression. He really didn’t know what to do. He was aware that you went around asking for him and it surprisingly took you just two days to figure out who the ‘red-glowing, hat-wearing red-haired man dressed as a lesbian pirate’ was. Chuuya watched you himself to learn if you were a threat, but with the way you were so easily distracted by fresh vegetables, he realized you were just a regular person. A cute, painstakingly innocent, regular person who was angry for the right reasons because a strange man had wrecked her home. He let out a sigh before approaching you, noticing that you were becoming a tad bit tense with how close he got, so he made sure to stand a few feet away. He pulled out a checkbook and scribbled something on it before handing it to you.
“Here,” He said, “A million yen.”
You stared at him as if he was the dumbest f*cking fool you’d ever laid your eyes on. Chuuya noticed that you hadn’t taken the check from him, and then looked down to your clearly occupied hands and then to your bewildered face before cocking one eyebrow.
“You want more?” He asked, wondering if a million yen could cover the damage charges of this apartment.
“Say,” You asked, your heart flipping, “How much is a million?”
Ah, Chuuya was such a fool sometimes. He was glad the f*ck Dazai wasn’t around, but even then, Chuuya felt a tad bit foolish for outrightly giving you a million yen. He looked up at the hole he’d created and then back at you before narrowing his eyes into a grimace.
“So, you’re one of those pompous f*cks, are you?” You asked, clearly struggling with the vegetable bag, “The Mafia must pay well, huh.”
“I’m trying to be nice here.” Chuuya grit his teeth.
“You needn’t even be here if you hadn’t fallen through the f*cking ceiling like some kind of freak show that I didn’t pay for!” You yelled, now shifting the vegetable bag from your left shoulder to your right.
That’s it, Chuuya used his ability once more before pulling the bag from your shoulder and then placing it on the kitchen slab, and your wide eyes noticed the redness vanish from him as an outline and then gulped at the sudden realization that this man was from the Mafia and most probably had killed people like you. You should have been scared, you should have definitely taken the check and allowed yourself the happiness to live a new life, but instead, you did something terribly dumb, something so revoltingly daft, something that fell along the lines of grabbing Chuuya by his collar, inching him closer to your face and then saying the few things you must never tell an executive from the Port Mafia.
“Get the f*ck out of my house.”
Now, if Chuuya was Akutagawa, you’d have definitely died. Since Chuuya wasn’t his rash-headed rabid dog subordinate, there were a few things many people didn’t know about him. Many people didn’t know about Chuuya’s aversion to soft people, it wasn’t as if he detested them, it was simply because he was not soft himself that gave him very little to work on when it came to being around soft people. Therefore, what a lot of people didn’t know was his natural and innate attraction to bold women—especially bold women who were a tad bit idiot, and maybe suicidal since you clearly were, and when you did what you did, the inane act that you’d pulled, what Chuuya should have done was push you down and shoot you in the head, but instead…
He grinned like a dumb motherf*cker he was and licked his lips. He pulled away from you before brushing his coat and shoving the check inside his pocket before knowing full well that he’d see you again.
“I take it you earn enough to pay for the damages yourself?” He knew he was taunting you because that was clearly what he was trying to do.
He watched over his shoulder how you tensed up—not at all in a good way, before turning to him with a livid expression. F*ck, he thought, She sure wears her anger in such a sexy way.
“I’ll make you pay.” You said, definitely not knowing how.
“Ah, is that so?” Chuuya was so charmed, it was driving him crazy. “Maybe wear the camisole from the other day while you make me pay.”
He left before he could see your reaction. He chuckled as he walked away, knowing full well what you were going to attempt next. You weren’t predictable, but your anger was. He knew you’d somehow magically turn up wherever he is, and then maybe try to bring in the cops or create a scene. He couldn’t wait until he could see your stunned expression at how everyone would refuse to help you, how everyone would just ignore you and do their own thing, and how frustrated you’d get and how that’d leave you red-faced and angry, and how much Chuuya wanted to see that expression on you almost shocked him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been with other women before, but there was just something about the fact that he owed you a ceiling that made this entire ordeal so appealing to him. He’d never really owed anyone a ceiling before, he didn’t even know if it was something he could owe, but what a strange turn of events, indeed.
Instead, you proved to him that you were nothing close to predictable and neither was your anger. Chuuya saw you that evening, at the subway station where he was, sitting at a desk, trying to get some shut-eye; he could now hear your voice at the back of his head now—your voice that asked him what the f*ck he was doing at your house, and then he’d heard it again, but softer this time… Almost as if you were cooing… Ooh, he thought, I’d like to hear that sometime.
He turned to spot you playing with a dog, you were kneeling down and playing with a tiny little creature and the girl holding the dog seemed to be happy as well. You were looking like an absolute moron with the way you were cooing but Chuuya felt a bit amused with how much you were smiling. Were you the same person that had yelled at him? Were you the same foul-mouthed, scantily dressed on Saturday afternoons, person who was playing with a puppy as if you’d seen nothing cuter?
F*ck, it was as if you were getting hotter and hotter in his eye and he didn’t really know if anything above this could even be possible.
Was it even appropriate to have a crush on someone whose house you had destroyed? Did he even have a chance if he knew for sure that you’d hated his guts? Was his type people who hated him? Because that seemed to be the trend so far with people he wanted to get with. How strange it was indeed, but you weren’t Dazai, you weren’t a suicidal moron (hopefully), you weren’t bandaged up everywhere, you showed more skin than Dazai ever had, and goodness he’d love to see it again, (the thought of which made him lick his lips in such a way that the onlookers wondered if he’d eaten any food at all); and as if you felt eyes on you that burned skin, you turned to spot Chuuya staring at you from afar, and your cooing ended, your smile vanished, your eyes narrowed and you stood up—walking over to him with a tread that could have scared people but instead turned him on. How he’d enjoy breaking you if he had the chance.
“Asshole,” So, that’s what you were going to call him now? How cute, “What are you doing? Are you following me?”
“Does the train station belong to you? Ah, is that why you turned down a million yen?” Chuuya knew he was smooth, but seeing you flustered was everything to him.
“Oh, yes, this and the neighboring station,” You were just as badass and he loved every second of it, “Nakahara Chuuya,” Shit, even his name sounded hot when it came out of your lips, “You still owe me.”
“I tried paying you back, sweetheart, but you didn’t want the money.”
“You don’t understand, do you?” You smiled at him, mockingly. “Money doesn’t pay for everything.”
What? Were you some sort of idiot? The sole purpose of money was to pay for everything, that was literally the one use for this weird paper, and here you were spouting nonsense. What did you want? To give him a jump scare? To make him realize what it feels like to lose everything? He almost rolled his eyes.
“I can’t give you anything more than money,” He said, threateningly, “Take it or leave it.”
“Leave it?” You were pissed if he didn’t know that already, “I’m not going to leave it.”
“Oh yeah?” Oh, please, what were you going to do? Go to the police? Hadn’t you tried that already? “What are you going to do?”
He sounded so confident you wanted to destroy it. Luckily for you, you’d come across a very interesting ad in the paper that suggested something that sort of seemed similar to what had happened to you; even though they don’t directly deal with the Port Mafia or even affiliate themselves with dealing with damages caused by them, the Armed Detective Agency had one particular person who was rather intrigued with the name you had mentioned and had told you something rather interesting about pressing the pirate lesbian dressed man’s buttons.
“I’ll go to Dazai because he can beat you to a f*cking pulp.”
The reaction was almost instant. You wanted to laugh but a part of you was suddenly terrified because Chuuya was glowing red now, and his eyes were uncharacteristically wide as if you’d said something terrible about his mother or dead puppy. You didn’t want to make him mad, you just wanted to push his buttons a bit but turns out you did something more than you could chew and Chuuya was irate.
“What,” He was placing gaps between the words he spoke, “Did,” And it was kind of attractive, “You,” Who were you kidding? It was hot, “Say?”
You let out a shaky breath before stepping back one step. Chuuya took one step forward. You realized you were still in public before shutting your eyes and groaning out loud, wondering if touching this man in front of you would be the right thing to do. You took a risk anyway, considering he was already angry enough to kill you and wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Chuuya didn’t calm down, but he was reasonable again and stopped using his ability and watched you.
“I don’t even know what this Dazai can do,” You whispered, “He told me of ways I could annoy you and I listened.”
“And that’ll magically help rebuild your ceiling, huh?”
Chuuya was a savage, and it was imprinted in your head. You frowned before realizing how foolish that act was, before letting his wrist go.
“I…” You weren’t going to do it. “…” You were not going to tell him why you moved here. “Forget it.”
You turned on your heel and left him there. As soon as you reached your broken flat, you noticed that the hole above was closed temporarily with tarpaulin sheets, and the sight of it broke your heart. It was the sight you had seen all your childhood, growing up in the slums, having barely anything to eat; and education had given you everything. You moved here, got yourself a house, earned some of your best salaries without having to do menial work like deliveries or cleaning houses, and in just two weeks—this was how you were repaid. The thought broke you. Tears leaked down your cheeks as you spotted the few port wine bottles you had bought the other day, and shed your clothes in the living room because you didn’t care, threw your pants aside, sat on the couch in the same camisole and a bra this time for good measure, and black shorts. You didn’t bother getting yourself a glass and downed the first bottle directly, and then got to work on the second.
By the time Chuuya decided to visit you because why not, you were entirely wasted. You were so drunk you barely noticed him there, and his eyes widened at how flushed your face was, how ridiculously underdressed you were, and how… he couldn’t believe he saw it… how utterly unhappy you were. Was it because of him? Was it because of the ceiling? Wasn’t money going to fix it?
“A day,” You suddenly said, “That’s all it’ll take to fix the ceiling.”
“That’s good—“
“It was my second week here in Yokohama, living in a house for the first time that had four walls and a ceiling made of brick.”
Chuuya immediately shut up, concerned with how your voice even while slurring had so much depth it was suffocating him. He stood there, watching you, as you lay on the couch, staring at the tarpaulin sheets above. Chuuya entered from there a few moments ago, and his heart was pacing. Or was it guilt? He didn’t really know. He couldn’t avoid these things, he could fix them, but turns out… With you, it wasn’t the fixing that was the issue. It was the idea of a home itself.
“Now,” You chuckled, a tear rolling down your cheek, “I’m going to live with the fear that a man could practically fall through my roof any second and I’d not be able to do anything about it because… because everyone’s afraid of the Port Mafia,”
Oh, f*ck. It was now, when he desperately wanted to call out to you, did he realize that he didn’t even know your name. He felt like such an idiot.
“And you just offer me a million yen, just like that…” You were laughing and it seemed to work because Chuuya felt like a f*cking joke, “How much is a million anyway?”
You’d asked him that already but it was now he realized what that question even meant. He knew leaving you alone would only make you miserable, but trying to comfort you would be worse. So, not knowing what to do, he looked around. You’d managed to clean the debris off your room to the best of your abilities, the heavier debris you pushed aside because obviously, you couldn’t move it on your own. He noticed the port wine near the tiny table near your couch and almost reeled and vomited inside his mouth, but he knew he shouldn’t judge you even if you were drunk on practically vomit. He looked at you, wearing the camisole and the shorts, just like the afternoon he had first met you and got slapped, but this time no dirty thought entered his mind. You were inches away from passing out and the least he could do was remove the debris from your house. He’d fix your ceiling without offering you the money, and leave your life entirely because he owed you that much peace, at least.
What neither of you realized right then was how being in the Port Mafia meant inviting men across the world who would believe they were capable of being enemies. Chuuya had many enemies, some of them he didn’t even know were enemies, because they were just that insignificant. However, such insignificance, when fed with a tiny bit of false information, could prove deadly. Anyone who’d noticed Chuuya go in and out of your little apartment would believe you were at least acquainted with Chuuya in some way. And before one can ask, this isn’t a story where you get hurt and Chuuya comes to the rescue. This is a tad bit different; where yes, you are in trouble, and yes, Chuuya does come to the rescue; but a whole new angle emerged when a man entered your apartment the next morning, unaware that you were a bit cranky when hungover, and apples were your go-to hangover foods, but you always peeled the skin off the apple using a knife before eating it, and while you were in the process of peeling one such apple, the man tried to strangle you from behind.
You screamed. Obviously, one would scream at a time like this. But, your reflexes when bare-handed were quite impressive, you’d even contemplated learning Aikido at some point in your life, but you weren’t bare-handed right then. You were holding a knife. You were peeling an apple at one second, and the next second your knife was embedded in this man’s unsuspecting neck.
His words to you before he closed his eyes forever were, “Fuck you, Nakahara Chuuya.”
Silence filled the apartment a second later, and then the man’s phone rang. Your hands were bloody now, and so was your camisole, and you were sure you were shaking but you couldn’t really tell considering so much had already happened. You bend down to see who was calling and your heart pummelled because it said ‘Chuuya’ and you pick the call anyway because you really needed to speak to someone.
“Don’t you f*cking dare hurt—“
“Chuuya,” You said, almost too calm for this situation, “Are you…” You clear your throat because there seemed to be a stone there, “Are you coming here?”
“Hey!” He recognized your voice but still didn’t know your name, “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” Hey, you weren’t lying, “But, uh…”
A second later, everything snapped. You snapped, the air snapped, the calmness snapped, your brain snapped.
“Chuuya! F*ck! F*CK! Is he dead!? I think he’s dead! Chuuya, I think I killed him!” You were pacing now, back and forth because well, staying still somehow seemed worse. “Do you think he’s dead?! My knife… Oh my god—“
“Shut up! Stay there! I’m coming.”
When Chuuya arrived, you were sitting on the couch, wide-eyed, bloody, disheveled and somehow, Chuuya found even that quite hot. But as soon as he entered from the front door this time, you pointed to your kitchen and pursed your lips. Chuuya stood beside you and stared at the sight before you asked the dumbest thing you could possibly ask.
“Do you think he’s dead?”
“No shit,” Chuuya slapped his forehead, “What… What happened?”
“It’s not my f*cking fault,” So you were the type to swear when agitated, huh? “He tried to strangle me! And his last words were ‘Fuck you, Nakahara Chuuya’.”
“Maybe later, sweetheart,” Chuuya turned to the man before using his ability, “Right now, we gotta get rid of a body.”
You slapped the back of his head, forcing him to drop the body back on your kitchen floor. He turned to glare at you before noticing your eyes wet with tears, body trembling, lip quivering—oh shit, was this your first kill? Your camisole was bloody, your breasts almost popping out because you were breathing heavily, and goosebumps prickled all over your skin; even scared, you looked hot as hell. Chuuya sighed before turning to you, removing his coat and placing it around you, and pulling you to his chest. You didn’t hesitate before hugging him, smelling how devastatingly intoxicating his scent was, and his arms wrapped around you. He rubbed his hand up and down your back before feeling you breathe, and placed his chin on your shoulder, before smelling your hair—which he shouldn’t have done because he was quite certain he was getting a tad bit aroused now.
He pulled away from you before wiping the tears off your face using his gloved hand. Chuuya could be smooth and attractive and charming and seeing that smile on your face should have prevented him from asking you the question he asked next.
“What’s your name?”
You kicked his leg before he winced at the aggressiveness, and then turned to the dead man in your kitchen you had accidentally killed due to self-defense.
“Was he after you?” You asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why did he attack me then?”
“No clue.”
“Did you do that really lonely thing where you told people I was your girlfriend?”
“What the f*ck? No! I didn’t even know your name until a moment ago!”
“You seem the lonely type—“
“Your social life isn’t exactly thriving either, (y/n), so shut up.”
“I don’t have any friends here because it’s been two weeks since I moved here.”
Chuuya turned to you and blinked. You blinked back because you had no idea what he was thinking, you couldn’t read minds. The dead man was floating in the air because of Chuuya but strangely, you were all he could stare at. For a moment, your gaze faltered as well—because his grey eyes were oof, they were hot. He blinked exactly twice before opening his mouth to say something and then deciding that it would be best if he didn’t. This time, you’d managed to get away from some moron that wasn’t good at what he did, but what if next time… What if next time the person that came after you was good at what they did?
“Chuuya—“
“You won’t be seeing me again.” He said, almost meaning it.
“Give me your number,” You said, throwing him for a toss, “So that if this shit happens again—“
“No,” The dead man fell on your kitchen floor again and you swore you heard a splatter. “This shit ain’t happening again! Can’t let it.”
“You worried or something?”
Yeah, obviously, he thought, wanting to roll his eyes at the idiocy of your question.
“I can just tell the assailants that I don’t know you and that you broke my roof.”
“And they’ll listen, have tea, and walk away kindly.” Chuuya snapped.
You narrowed your eyes, “Why do you even care? I thought the Port Mafia couldn’t afford loose ends. Wouldn’t I be considered a—“
“You don’t even know what a loose end is,” Chuuya said, groaning, “F*cking forget it.”
This time, Chuuya and the dead man disappeared. You instantly walked in to take a shower, clean the kitchen, and your hands a thousand times, and all you could think about was the fool that had fallen through your roof and the way he’d looked at you before turning your stomach into jelly. It sucked that you now knew you had a crush on someone from the Mafia, what a f*cked up tragedy, but Chuuya wasn’t really like the Mafia men you’d heard about. He was aggressive, he was a downright flirt, he was a tad bit shorter than the Mafia men you’d encountered, not that it bothered you, and he seemed a bit more lavish than regular dangerous folk. However, the qualities that stood out apart from the ones you mentioned were how regardless of his words, his actions, and his stupid f*cking hair that always looked glamorous no matter what, Chuuya was kind. It was his kindness that had him break into your house and throw you a check of one million yen, and it was his kindness that had made him wordlessly take away a dead man from your kitchen floor.
And it was his kindness that made you want to see him again.
That evening, you walked through the market and bought some more vegetables, some trinkets that could go with your house’s mood, and headed to the train station where you’d somehow run into Chuuya the other day. But, perhaps you’d thought of it and hoped for it, the universe decided to play a mean trick on you and have Chuuya remain absent from the train station that evening because it was funny to leave you disappointed and wanting like that. You blushed when you realized you’d asked for his number and he’d turned you down, before groaning and slapping your forehead at the utter stupidity that coursed through your veins.
You reached home again and froze. The tarpaulin was gone, and there was a brand new ceiling overhead. You walked inside and examined the ceiling before your heart broke just a little bit, now not having any reason to see Chuuya ever again, and then turned to spot four incredibly expensive-looking wine bottles on your coffee table. There was a small letter there, which oddly smelt like Chuuya, and you instantly picked it up before seeing the nasty scribble that belonged to the man you were currently obsessing over.
Stop drinking port wine, that shit’s disgusting. Sorry about the ceiling.
You didn’t know why you felt like crying at this strange picturesque moment that screamed goodbye in your head. You turned to the expensive bottles before wondering why in the world he wasn’t there to drink it with you and then turned to the ceiling before wondering where in the hell he was going to enter from if everything had been sealed off this way.
“What a f*cking asshole,” Making me like him and then disappearing, “Asshole.”
While Chuuya sat in his apartment drinking wine similar to the ones he’d gifted you, he couldn’t stop thinking about you in general. Initially, it was the cute things—your stupid cooing, your vegetable obsession, your port wine drinking, and your flushed face. Later, it was…deliberately turning into a naughtier, raunchy obsessive moment where he thought of your camisole more than he thought of you, and thought of what it’d feel like having it under the touch of his fingers, or if he’d run his fingers through your hair and how it’d feel to break your anger underneath him in bed, watch you beg for him instead of yelling and screaming as you’d do. He bit his lower lip before realizing that it had gone too far, that he’d seen more of you than he could afford to forget, that Chuuya was practically done for now that he knew where you lived and knew that you thought the same since—
You worried or something?
The second he realized he needed to see you, he was drunk. It didn’t take much for him to get drunk, but that didn’t matter. When he reached your door and saw you open it, even his drunk self knew you were drunk too. Pushing himself forward, he kissed you because let’s admit it, the sexual tension was just palpitating and downright idiotic to ignore, and you kissed back because that’s what you’d been dreaming of ever since Chuuya made a disappearing act. His hands roamed all over your body before settling on your hips and the two of you made a rather haphazard trip to the bedroom, and you landed there, wrapped up in each other, lips crossing boundaries, moans bouncing off the walls, and Chuuya could finally learn how you’d look underneath him only to have him toppled over and placed underneath you because dear lord, literally everything you did, you did well.
The next morning, Chuuya was the first one to open his eyes. He spotted your head nestled in his chest and his hat thrown to your side. You were wearing his white shirt, and his jacket was thrown aside on a chair (thankfully, it wasn’t on the ground); and his pants were on his side, and your bra was sitting comfortably on his hat, and the rest of your (black, why black?) clothes were on the ground. His arm was around your shoulder and his other arm was a pillow to your head. F*ck, he thought, This is so comfortable. You moved a bit before pressing your nose to his chest and he raised his eyebrows. Don’t be cute in the morning, he warned, but when you moved a bit and he could see your sleeping face, he cursed some more.
“Stop staring, you f*cking creep,” Your sleeping voice could literally end him, “Let me sleep, it’s like 6 a.m.”
“It’s 10 a.m., you pig.”
But, Chuuya’s morning voice? It was sex on legs. He was sex on legs. You opened your eyes and met his, before blinking to adjust your sight. You didn’t know if he was smiling or smirking but whatever he was doing, he looked hot doing it.
“You’re lucky you’re hot.”
“You’re lucky I crashed through your ceiling.”
You rolled your eyes, “I am never telling people how we met.”
“It’s a weird story.”
“A pitiful one.”
“It’s cute.”
“Please don’t say cute ever again, Chuuya, doesn’t suit you.”
A few moments passed before you nuzzled into him again, his arms wrapping around you protectively. You wrapped your hands around his waist before biting his shoulder playfully, earning a chuckle out of him. Leaning forward, Chuuya kissed your forehead before noticing you blink up at him, questioningly.
“What is it?”
In just a couple of days, he’d learned about you so well. Neither of you realized that love didn’t need months to be born.
“The million yen,” You said, “What’d you do with it?”
“Nothing, why?”
You pursed your lips, “I’m thinking of a few uses.”
He raised his eyebrow, “A gold-digger, huh? Never imagined that.”
“Shut up,” You scoffed, “I was thinking of buying you some new clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?!”
“Nothing?”
“Why’s that a question?!”
“Nothing!”
“(y/n), you are such a f*cking—“
“Chuuya, I love your fashion sense.”
“I can smell the sarcasm from miles away.”
“I mean it!”
Neither of you had realized that love could sometimes come masked as sexual tension that literally broke ceilings. But, since neither of you complained, it was easy to get by.