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lxxvii. a door hanging off its hinges
.
“Home, sweet home,” Chihiro says, and tosses his bags into the corner where they have the grace to knock his lamp over. Feeling around the wall, Chihiro flips the switch, watching his apartment come alive with light.
Seijuro steps inside, and Chihiro sees him avoid a spot on the rug. He snorts. Have it your way.
“I wasn’t aware you lived in such a dingy place,” Seijuro says, and eyes the drawn blinds.
Chihiro flops down on his couch, waiting for its creaking to stop before answering. “Were you expecting a five star hotel?”
Seijuro blinks, but recovers quickly. “Of course not. You just have so much pride I thought…”
To Chihiro’s delight, he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Pride doesn’t play bills. If you’ve got issues here, you can take ‘em to a hotel.” He stops, looks Seijuro over. “Why are you staying with me, again?”
Seijuro walks to the doorway of Chihiro’s bedroom, making a point to size up the half-attached door. “What is this?”
Chihiro scowls. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Neither did you.”
I asked first, Chihiro wants to say, but he’s not eager to display his increasing levels of immaturity.
Seijuro has a scarf around his neck, the bottom of it disappearing into the collar of the coat he still has on.
“I meant to take it off,” Chihiro says, giving in as he often seems to. He rubs his neck. A lingering stiffness from sleeping on the plane makes him wince. “I just never got around to doing it.”
Seijuro slips off his scarf and coat, and Chihiro has to stare at the jeans slipping just low enough to bare the edges of his hip bones. Chihiro wants to slide them all the way off, and wow, that’s definitely intentional.
“Why not?” Seijuro asks.
Chihiro rolls off the couch and pulls it into a couch bed, figuring he could use the good 2 extra hours of sleep. “I dunno. Just forgot about it.”
“I see,” Seijuro says in a way that suggests otherwise, and hums. He stands in the doorway, peering into Chihiro’s bedroom. “Are you sure you’re alright with letting me sleep in your bed?”
Chihiro kicks his shoes off and rolls into his stomach, pulling a blasket over his shoulders as if it will make Seijuro shut up.
(It doesn’t.)
“I didn’t think you’d want to couch,” he says.
Seijuro coughs into his arm to cover what Chihiro knows is laughter. “No. I suppose not.”
He opens his eyes and is met with dark and a warm body pressed against his chest, and Chihiro takes a moment to muster whatever anger he’s sure he should be feeling.
“Wanna explain?” Chihiro says.
Seijuro blinks at him, hair falling into his head. He shakes his head until it isn’t. “It’s dark in your room,” says Seijuro, voice sleep-rough, before closing his eyes and contentedly pressing his face back into Chihiro’s chest.
“You’re not even afraid of the dark,” Chihiro tells him.
This time, Seijuro doesn’t bother moving. A beat of lightning illuminates his face before they’re both left alone in sleek black.
“No,” Seijuro says, “I’m not.”
Chihiro considers this. “Whatever. But if you kick in your sleep, I’m throwing your ass onto the floor first chance I get.”
(He puts his arm around Seijuro’s shoulders about ten minutes later.)