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It was one of those nights again, full of teens running the last hours of the day, drinkers who slide away from the lamppost they meet, workers on heels and toes chasing after time itself; and them.
They dance, they try impossible moves, they chomp back beer, and drink more, sing, smoke, talk, watch, uncharacteristically roar in laughter—wash and repeat.
Out of necessity, yearning anchor, but never out of love.
They like the music buzzing their eardrums off, the scratch of alcohol at the back of their throat, the adrenaline needling with the surface of their skin. They're awfully aware that they shouldn’t be there, not as objects of adoration, not together. The outings—once sporadic invitations, others impudent bets—became habits. It makes them forget for a few hours; it resets the world for a second more. Existing where they shouldn’t, subsisting where reality runs by a thread of dawn.
A given that they get to regale everyone with tales of their terrible habits, albeit twisting their anecdotes just enough to not raise suspicions—to best fit their agency policies and contract clauses. A little lie or two, as long as they’re good at it; it takes a liar to recognise one, after all.
"It's all a part of the experience," sneers Rinne once, walking down the steps of an overcrowded live house. HiMERU got used to it, and agreed to this terrible excuse they shared in casual discussions, eyes meeting halfway, sometimes deep from the preceding hours.
They get lost by the bar's chairs, the cerulean gazing down at the world he discovered to fit in so well, ice glazing and melting under the dim spotlight. The dance floor, a stuffy sardine-can party, almost beckons him from where he stands: perhaps it's his innate will to dance, or maybe he wants to feel whole, fill the hollowness his pretenses cave in. He spares a glance at the hypnotising clapping of bathroom door: bet there's talking, and laughing, and chugging, and kissing—warmth grabs hold of the iced-cup he was clutching out of habit.
Now in the just-as-teeming bath, his partner leans against the stall walls, gesturing HiMERU to find a seat on the sink: he mumbles something about the blue-head looking dazed, taking out another cigarette. HiMERU joins Rinne's silent prayer for the fire alarm to be out of service, just for these few minutes. HiMERU leans onto his leader for the warmth of lighter and smoke, for the musk by his jaw to intoxicate every inch of a body he fails to own anymore.
He lingers too much, too close to the red's mouth—feeling, flinching, and living for once. Uncanny, he thinks, as Rinne presses his forehead on him, enough to push him away.
But he stays.
Something in HiMERU longs for things that shouldn't be for “him”. He needs stability, assurance, yet yearns for things that will put “him” in jeopardy. He craves, he desires, he wants worth and to feel real: something ugly in nature, loud in laughter, honeyed and warm against the ice of his cups. Something for which “he” is not suited.
Something Rinne isn’t either, really, technically, he's sure of it, as much as the opposite may attract.
The redhead lets out a mask of smoke, snapping the cerulean out of his thoughts before the tip of ash he lit would fall, faint hiss escaping his lips. "Cold?"
"Not really. " HiMERU bathes in the smog of booze and perfume a second, resting his head on the mirror behind him, rubbing a thumb at his temple as a distraction from the throb bass pervading in his head. “My turn. Hand yours over.”
Cheshire-like grin spreads across Rinne’s face, puffing circles in the air, “You look like shit, Merumeru, no way in hell I’m handin’ more reasons to get fired on a silver plate.”
“Amagi.” His voice barely makes for a warning growl. Talks like that feel like spiteful déjà-vu he wished he didn’t want to indulge in more as the nights went by.
Under the few working lights, the king of bees maneuvered between HiMERU’s sink-sitting legs, sliding between his thighs to rest—no, lay—his back on his blue peer.
“Nuh-huh~” Dyed-garnet locks brushed on HiMERU’s lap, veiled behind another puff of white nicotine, tease changing his leader’s features into fox eyes. “Ya want to see my ass kicked so bad by Snakey-boy it makes you look dumb.”
Inhale—he coughs a bit on the sudden breath of air in his lungs—and exhale. “At least give HiMERU the pack.”
“Huh sorry, who ?”
HiMERU could have choked him to silence with his legs. He could have taken a page of Oukawa’s “Thousands Ways To Silence A Foe For Noobs” book. He could have made his death swift and unnoticed, all deductions leading to an unfortunate turn of event that he definitely could not prevent.
“Oi, Merumeru. Don’t just flick the cig’ away, these cost me pachinko abstinence y’know.”
“...Me.”
“Hm~?”
“I want it.”
Tobacco-less mouth simpered, HiMERU feeling the same-old taunt they based their dynamic upon looming at the back of these lips.
“Twoomp-twooomp. Oopsie-daisy Merumeru, looks like 't was the last one.”
Of fucking course.
Hooking the redhead's jaw, HiMERU’s glare meshed with the upturn of his eyebrow. Oh how much he abhors the thought that just came to him, vividly picturing HiMERU lingering on that very jaw as they make their way back to the dormitory before parting their groggy ways to their respective rooms. His thumb dug hole in his leader’s cheeks, feeling teeth through, comically pursing his lips—ugly, something only “he” can’t find force to hate.
“Merumeru, no murder, please, you'll make Rinne-kun cr--”
Mouth flattened him shut, nearly missing, the bittersweet ale flavor sticking at the rim of his lips. In a dramatic lucidity, the redhead spared a thought for HiMERU's lip balm who, at least, sort of prevented the impact. The teeth pressing into a smirk against him were spitefully melting away the nicotine Rinne had carefully been sneering at his blue counterpart.
“Ashfole .” Rinne tried to hiss, feeling fingers now clawing at his chest.
Earning nothing more than a huff, the runaway gripped at the collar of HiMERU’s jacket, shoving him closer, regretting the awkward position he decided to annoy his fellow vocalist with. He’ll hold off the regrets for now if the price to pay is an inch of their shared humanity, warm, in a place that has never felt so close to rational reality—where they belonged.
The tip of their parted mouths sizzled deliciously to Rinne before ice-gust took over, eyes yanking open at the surprise.
“Jackpot, got it.”
“Oh come on , jackpot my ass.”
The culprit tapped the newly-stolen pack in his palm, popping out a roll of tobacco with the same perfidy the snake tempting the original sinners had. Rinne swore he could have seen him stick out his tongue like a kid—not like the picture-perfect idol HiMERU pretended to emulate, but like the nerve-wracking moron he truly is.
Silence took over for a moment—enough for the cerulean to light up his share—Rinne repressing a pant of frustrated exhaustion from the zest his partner had the gall to hand him. It was his turn to run a thumb at his temple to shake it off. A smile creeped at the corner of his mouth—huh? This was nothing like their routine banters, pushing every last buttons to see who will break first. This was not the cat-and-mouse chase they based their relationship on.
Yet the smile stayed on.
A huff, a puff, and a long exhale might have almost set off the fire alarm.
“Ya good now?”
“HiME-... Yeah.” The musk stung his nostrils as he inhaled smoke, too close, but one and the same.
Lost souls lingered, haunted the stalls until midnight-extravaganza switched for a dull peep of day—the realisation prompted Rinne: “We should go back, Merumeru.”
“Stay.” Ash dropped by the sink, sky colored locks now washing over Rinne’s collarbone, morning poking through dawn, “Just a little bit longer.”