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“Why you gotta be such a fucking bore, babe?”
The words sting. It would be one thing if they were directed at Angel in private, away from the ears and eyes of coworkers and strangers alike, but they’re not. The words are spoken with the knowledge that Aki’s coworkers and friends can—are going to—hear.
It’s a Thursday night, seven minutes past eleven P.M., and Angel is standing in the local bar Aki and his coworkers frequent for their half-priced draft special. He wants to be anywhere else: back home and in bed, at work, huddled beneath the dingy booth so the prying eyes of their city’s police force can’t stare him down the way they’re doing now.
He’s uncomfortable, painfully so; he’s never quite fit in with Aki and his group of friends—at least, he’s always been told he didn’t. They’re a long-standing clique, a group of friends that found each other somewhere between junior high and the police academy, and all positions in the friend group have been filled, according to Aki. Partners don’t have a place during evenings like this, Angel’s been told time and again.
So Angel has never come; he’s never been welcome.
Except as he’s standing there, he notices Denji’s boyfriend tucked beneath his arm, glassy-eyed and happily oblivious to what Angel thought was a strict no-partners rule.
He slides his eyes away from the dark-haired stranger he’s never met and back to his own boyfriend. He’s sitting open-legged so the outside of his thigh is pressed flush against Himeno’s, arms spread across the back of the booth like a king holding court.
Himeno watches Angel watching Aki, fully invested in the tug-of-war that’s about to take place.
“Aki,” Angel says, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of the bar but not too loud. If Aki thinks he’s being shouted at, they’ll never leave. “C’mon, we made these plans this morning.”
Angel grips the keys in one hand and shuffles a step closer to the booth Aki and his coworkers are taking up as a group shoves past him. He’s underdressed and out of place, a plain white tee and a pair of sweatpants he thinks may be his boyfriend’s. He crosses his arms beneath his chest, skin crawling at the thought of there being so many people, and tries to make eye contact with Aki again.
That, at least, is successful. Aki cocks a lazy smile at Angel and tips his head. His ponytail has gone sloppy, crooked like someone’s taken it down and put it back up for him.
Angel tries not to think of a stranger’s hands on his boyfriend’s hair.
“What plans?” Aki asks. He looks to Himeno, then Power. “You gonna take me home and make me go to bed like some fucking prude?”
The teeth of the car key dig into Angel’s palm when he squeezes, the physical discomfort a tangible reminder to not cry. Not in front of Aki, not in front of Aki’s friends.
It would embarrass Aki, and he doesn’t want to do that.
“Maybe he wants to fuck you,” Himeno drawls. Her eyes are undressing Angel piece-by-piece, stripping off the threadbare t-shirt and shimmying the sweats down his thighs. “Take you home, see if you still get whiskey dick the way you used to.”
Power laughs, a loud, ugly thing; the pale amber liquid in her mug sloshing over the rim to splatter across the table.
It’s not that funny, Angel thinks.
“I never got whiskey dick, you bitch,” Aki grumbles. He slides out of the booth, stumbling when he stands, and grips the back of the seat for balance. “I just never liked fucking you with the lights on.”
A chorus of oohs goes up around the table; Power stands and offers up a palm. Aki slaps it, grinning, as Himeno stares impassively at Angel.
Himeno’s continued partnership and previous relationship with Aki is another sore spot in the years-long relationship Angel has had with the man. Chalked up to teenage insecurity at first, young as Angel was when they first met: now, years later, Angel isn’t sure.
He sees the way Himeno looks at Aki. He sees the way Aki looks at her when he thinks nobody is watching.
There it is. Angel hates this, hates the shards of insecurity that spear into his chest as he watches Aki pull his wallet from his back pocket, thumb out enough bills to cover at least half the tab. He must be down on arrests this week if he’s paying, Angel figures, but he says nothing.
If he mentions it now, they’ll never leave, and he’ll never hear the end of it.
“You got your way,” Aki breathes into his ear. He slips an arm around his shoulders, the hold tighter than necessary. Angel can smell the booze on his breath, cheap beer mixed with burn of whatever shots are on the dollar special board.
Angel’s done this song and dance often enough he knows how the bar works. He’s on a near first name basis with the bouncers and never gets carded even though he’s barely twenty-one; they let him in, direct him to Aki’s table.
One of them, on a particularly bad Thursday evening, even helped Angel haul Aki out to their car.
To his friends, Aki gives a salute. “Ladies,” he says, wobbling as he sweeps into a deep bow, “and Power. I say this with all the love in my heart: you’re all bastards, and I hate you.”
Several middle fingers and I hate you mores are thrown into the air before Aki allows himself to be steered from the table. Angel drags him along, arm around his waist to try and tug him forward despite the size and strength Aki has on him.
They don’t speak as they exit the bar. One of the bouncers shoots Angel a thumbs up only to receive a look from Aki, that arm around Angel’s throat tightening to near-dangerous levels of pressure. Angel returns the thumbs up, more embarrassed than anything, and lets Aki pretend like he knows where Angel’s parked the car.
Gravel crunches beneath their shoes as they shuffle slowly across the car park. Aki’s head nods once, twice, and Angel nudges him with his hip.
“Head up, Aki. We’re almost to the car.”
“Did you want me to drive?”
Angel huffs out a breathy laugh: half-surprised, half-shocked. “No? You’ve been drinking.”
A sidelong glance, and then Aki is wrenching open the passenger side door and clambering in. “Still a better driver than you,” he grumbles.
Angel makes sure both of Aki’s legs are inside the car before shutting the door. He goes around, tries the driver’s side door.
It’s locked; Aki’s face peers at him from inside, tongue sticking out.
A burst of fondness erupts behind all the irritation, and Angel forgives him for the words he’s said tonight—just a little bit.
“I didn’t think partners went out with the squad,” Angel says once they’re on the road. It’s a mistake to bring it up and he knows it, but he does it anyway.
He can’t seem to stop himself.
Aki groans and knocks his head against the car window. The streets fly past, a blur of color as Angel makes the all-too familiar drive back to the apartment they’ve shared for years now. “You’re really gonna start that shit now?”
“I’m not starting any shit,” Angel says quietly. “I’m just… I don’t understand why I can’t come.”
“Don’t,” Aki says.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me say it, Angel,” he sighs. He unclips his seatbelt, the monitor starting up its beeping, and rolls onto his side so he’s facing away from Angel in the driver’s seat.
Angel almost asks. He wants to hear Aki say that he doesn’t want Angel there. He wants Aki to feel guilty for once for marking such a clear delineation between the rest of his life and what he shares with Angel, but knows that desire is futile.
Aki doesn’t feel guilty for the things he does. Angel has learned that the hard way.
The walk up the apartment stairs is slow going. Aki is half-asleep and, drunk as he is, trips on almost every step he tries to ascend. He falls when he leans down to take off his shoes, electing then to lie on the floor with his boots propped on Angel’s thighs as Angel takes them off.
“What would I do without you?” Aki asks. He stares up at Angel dreamily, another one of those heart-stopping smiles screwed onto his face. He really is handsome, hair spilling free from its tie and the first few buttons on his shirt undone to expose the sharp wings of his clavicle.
Angel sees for a moment the version of Aki he’d first fallen for, the one who’d worked to woo him.
The one he hasn’t seen in so long now.
Angel tugs one boot off Aki’s foot and gets to work unlacing the other. His answer is softly spoken, his responding smile foolishly gentle. “Sleep with shoes on, probably. C’mon, up you get.”
Angel isn’t pulled onto the ground with Aki, but it’s a close thing. He’s heavy, his strength backfiring when Angel reaches out both hands to pull Aki to standing. The larger man lumbers upwards, swaying hard and leaning against the wall for support.
“Give me a second,” he says, slightly green in the face. “I’m fine, I just—give me a second.”
Angel watches and waits. When Aki doesn’t make any immediate moves, he nods and steps around his boyfriend to head for their bedroom.
He’s stripped out of the sweats he’d thrown on for the bar and standing at the sink brushing his teeth by the time Aki reappears, naked save for his underwear and a single sock.
“Gotta piss,” Aki grunts. He shoulders his way past Angel to flip up the seat on the toilet, shove down the waistband on his boxer briefs, and take himself in hand. He grunts when he starts, a low groan of pleasure like he’s held it for some time.
The sound of piss splattering against the surface of the water turns Angel’s stomach.
He steps out of the way when Aki, drunk but not drunk enough to not wash his hands, reaches around him for a pump of hand soap. They stand side-by-side, Angel working the toothbrush over his teeth slowly, methodically; Aki nodding out as he does a sloppy job of rinsing the soap from his hands.
On his way out of the bathroom, Aki smears a hand down the wall to hit the light switch. The bathroom is plunged into darkness, the only source of light the soft glow from the nightlight plugged into the socket next to the sink for those late-night trips either of them make.
He hears as Aki collapses onto their mattress, likely crossways so Angel will have to either curl in a corner or struggle to shove him onto his own side. He won’t have bothered with blankets, prone to night sweats after an evening out; Angel will be responsible for washing the sheets tomorrow regardless of whether or not Aki gets between them.
He stares at himself in the mirror: toothbrush bulging his cheek out, foam on his lips, the too-thin shape of his legs extending out past the holes in the pair of Aki’s boxers he’s wearing as pajamas. His eyes are dark, exhausted; the last thing he wants to do is climb into bed next to his boyfriend.
He wants to stay. He wants to leave. He wants to convince his mother and his friends that Aki is a good man—that he’s capable and reliable and all of the things that love should be, that he loves Angel in the ways he deserves.
Not in the way he does: the way landslides love houses, the way water loves iron.
Destructive. Corrosive. Devastating.
The toothbrush clatters into the sink. Angel spits and wipes his mouth on his sleeve just before he lowers himself on shaking legs to settle on the floor, knees pressed to the paper-thin bones of his chest. He tucks his face into them, breathes past the inevitable ache that tells him all of the things Aki thinks, all of the things everyone thinks because he stays with him.
Still, he has to try.
Why you gotta be such a fucking bore, babe?
When he slips out of the bathroom to hover at the edge of the mattress, it’s exactly as he assumed: Aki is starfished out across the mattress, head at one corner and feet at the opposite.
Angel sighs, and he curls up at the head of the bed opposite Aki. The blankets are trapped beneath his weight, dead and too-heavy for Angel to pull free to put to use. Instead, Angel curls into himself, arms wrapped tight around his torso against the chill from the humming AC.
Aki’s face is peaceful in sleep, mouth slack and his forehead free of the lines that so often mar it. Angel gazes at him, the backlight from the glow of the streetlamps outside their bedroom window casting him in a yellow haze. His skin looks sickly with it, jaundiced and pale. Angel touches his fingers to Aki’s cheekbone, to the slope of his nose, the familiar curve of his lips.
“You’re a good man, Aki Hayakawa,” Angel whispers, touch dusting along his jaw. Aki doesn’t stir. “You’re a good man.”
And he almost, almost, believes it.