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Alcohol and Chuuya didn’t mix well. He’s been aware of it since he had his first drink in the sheep-days. And continued to ignore that weakness in particular because the burning sensation sliding down his throat had always tasted much better than it had any right to be. He was a harmless drunk, and annoying one- according to Akutagawa (directly), and Tachihara (indirectly). Chuuya never minded so much, a little booze in the system to make the nerves settle down and he’ll be jovial and happy as any twenty-three year old could be under normal circumstances.
Now he wakes up with a massive headache and an especially foggy mind, events of the day prior just out of reach and ready to hit him when he least expects it.
Without seeing his surroundings he does as he always does, swinging his legs to the side in hopes of sliding down the side of his bed to the floor when he feels too lazy to stand up properly. Except the expected drop below his knees never comes, and his feet are firmly on the ground while his body still resides on a soft mattress.
Chuuya blinks a few times, the haze becoming a little clearer with each one, until it’s good enough to at least see that this room, is in fact not his.
Oh, no he recognizes it, and maybe that’s even far worse.
He turns his body to face the direction besides him, finding a softly rousing body radiating warmth still there. Baby blue fabric peeking from under the blankets, and silver hair being messed up by the pillow’s friction.
It takes approximately two seconds for Chuuya to remember where he is, followed by a very restrained and quickly muffled shriek of pure, unfiltered shame.
Oh fuck, oh fuck. I did not. He thinks to himself, repeats the sentiment over and over again in hopes that conjures the thought into becoming truth.
Besides him is Nakajima Atsushi, a newer member of the Armed Detective Agency, an organization Chuuya had spent the better part of his life in the mafia fighting, but somehow he had met Atsushi during a truce, and said truce has yet to find its end along the way. Atsushi had made an unlikely friend, a deceptively sharp-tongued guy with commendable strength he doesn’t seem to recognize within himself.
And now Chuuya is here at the tail end of a party between the two organizations, waking up (fully clothed, thank god) in Atsushi’s bed. He could confidently say nothing really happened, it hadn’t. Because Atsushi wouldn’t take advantage of someone being drunk, and if Chuuya had been any less drunk and remembered it then he would’ve been in his right mind not to jump the poor were-tiger like that.
The gaps in his memory still ask to be filled in, and he knows it’ll come back to him throughout the day, but staring down the sleeping form of the agency’s cutest member is all he needs to know he must have said something. Why else would Chuuya be here when his apartment was much closer to the venue than Atsushi’s, almost half the traveling time by foot.
“Ah, you’re awake already.” Chuuya blinks until noting the set of sunset eyes now boring into him, wide open with a smile behind them that Atsushi’s mouth refuses to betray. “Headache?”
“Massive one- I’ll be fine, had worse.” Chuuya cringes at how hoarse his voice sounds, and the little slur to his speech like he’s still drunk of the sleep itself.
Atsushi is up on his feet in no time, glancing down at Chuuya every so often while going through the motions of getting his clothes for the day. It’s subtle little stares, but Chuuya hates how the dread drips down his spine with each one, feeling like a lab-rat being observed at the precipice of an experiment.
Like Atsushi knows something he doesn’t.
“I’m not a huge prude, but Chuuya-san would you mind turning around for just a second?” Atsushi holds up a pair of black pants, and Chuuya gets the hint, turning his head to look away.
“So… if you don’t mind me askin’” Chuuya manages to force over his throat while trying to ignore the rapid beating of his own heart, mind racing with imagination on the sight he’d been asked to willingly give up, “Why am I here- exactly?”
The first response he gets isn’t in words, no, Atsushi giggles, loudly, almost mockingly. Rustling of fabric before he’s told he can look again, and Chuuya finds Atsushi fully clothed in everyday wear, a black shirt with short sleeves that hugs his torso a little too well. At least nothing needs to be left to the imagination here.
“Well, I think that conversation is one for a more ‘mentally present’ Chuuya.” My shower isn’t super luxurious, but it might help you clear up while I get us some breakfast.”
Usually Chuuya would call bullshit on the vague ways his questions aren’t being answered, but one whiff of his own odor is enough convincing he needs to take Atsushi up on that offer. He smells as bad as the booze had tasted yesterday, and yet he kept going and going just because Dazai told him to.
“The slug I knew wouldn’t let a few cheap drinks beat him, grown weaker in the days I wasn’t there to carry your ass Chibi?”
“Hah?! I ain’t fucking weak, bastard. I’ll drink yer shitty beers, all of them.”
In hindsight, Chuuya knows he’s been duped, he knows he rose to a provocation he really should’ve ignored. It’s Dazai after all.
Another gap, but his mind is clearing up little by little. He remembers a conversation with that annoying detective runt, his name escapes the mafioso, but he’d been poking and prodding at personal things all evening, and Chuuya had very nearly punted the little shit’s grin right off of his face if it wasn’t for-
For- what? Why did he stop, exactly?
“Oh, I can wash your clothes for you, if you’re okay with wearing something of mine in the meantime-“ Atsushi looks back at him, expectantly with those puppy eyes wanting nothing more than to be of help.
Chuuya sighs, “Suppose that’d be a good idea,” before taking another whiff of his shirt and recoiling now that his senses are returning. “No scratch that, definitely a good idea- Jesus christ just what the fuck.”
He doesn’t get an answer again, but met with the corners of Atsushi’s lips curling up ever so subtly as the man leans against the doorframe with crossed arms is not helping his nerves. “Just drop something I can wear in the bathroom while I scrub whatever the fuck this is off of me.”
It’s alcohol of some kind, and he suspects he’d gotten doused by something last night, which doesn’t entirely explain how his clothes hadn’t felt like they’d gotten wet and dried up again, but he’s working on less than half a brain and grated cheese for his memory.
It doesn’t take all too long to thoroughly scrub his skin clean, fighting the urge to rip his top layer of skin off for comfort just because he can, and while the water from the shower-head above seeps over him it gives him just enough peace of mind to remember exactly what he really didn’t need to remember. The flashback invades him completely off-guard, and Chuuya drops whatever bottle he’s holding the moment it does.
Okay.
This is fine.
I was drunk, he knows that.
Then a little treacherous voice cackles back, Is it fine, though?
I mean, listen to what I said to him.
And he’s officially lost it now that he’s debating himself like he’s playing Sméagol and Gollum from the Lord of the Rings movies. No a mentally sound prospect to have, especially not when standing under the shower in an apartment that isn’t his while the boy he likes is right outside with a far better memory of the prior night than himself.
That fucker… that’s why he was giggling so much.
He finds a clean set of clothes waiting for him by the door, neatly folded on the ground. He hadn’t heard Atsushi come in, but now he’s grateful not to have noticed.
With every second that passes Chuuya’s head gets clearer and his regret grows a little fiercer. Now he almost wishes he’d never remember and Atsushi pretended not to have either.
He watches Atsushi through the doorframe while gathering his nerves. The boy’s back turned to him while he’s doing something Chuuya can’t see, but the smell makes it clear it’d food related. He could stand there for hours if he had the chance, he thinks. Watching Atsushi with that little smile of his on his face finding joy in the mundane things he never had before.
That trance has to end however, when the boy notices Chuuya’s presence and turns to face him, a shit-eating grin on his face while he wordlessly beckons for Chuuya to come in.
“Stop that.” Chuuya finally snaps, a little louder than he’d intended, but Atsushi doesn’t budge.
“It’s pretty difficult not to be like this, Chuuya-san.”
“Who the fuck taught you to be so smug, brat.”
“I don’t know, is it the same person who draped himself over me yesterday?”
Chuuya’s face flares up, he can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, an intense heat he wishes would burn him to death right now.
The thing is, Chuuya has liked Atsushi for a little while now, and not in some friendly ‘It’ll pass if I just ignore it’ type of way, no. Chuuya had woken up from dreams about this boy, and fantasized about kissing him one day. All things he strictly told himself were off-limits, Atsushi is off-limits. Chuuya Nakahara doesn’t do relationships, he can’t.
Or so he thought.
But it seems his subconscious desires are stronger than his iron will, especially when the walls keeping them separate all but evaporate under the influence of alcohol.
“So.” Atsushi says before properly turning to face Chuuya, leaning back against the counter. (A good idea for both of them, as Chuuya had been a little pre-occupied staring at Atsushi’s ass until then)
“It’s still a hazy mess up here.” Chuuya admits. It’s not a lie either, he remembers, but it’s all still clouded. “You tell me.”
“Are you sure.”
No, he wants to say, but in reality he should hear it. “Yeah.”
Atsushi sighs, huffing with that little, subtle smile of his. “Well, you came over to me near the end of the night, absolutely drunk out of your mind.” He remembers that bit, not too egregious.
“You talked a bit about how much you hate Dazai-san.”
“Sounds like me.”
Atsushi rolls his eyes, “It wasn’t before long that I noticed you were really struggling to keep yourself up, so I offered to walk you back to your apartment.” His smile widens, and Chuuya groans in the knowledge of what’s coming.
“Chuuya-san-“
“Don’t, just fucking tell me- wait I didn’t get handsy with you, did I?”
The boy shakes his head, “Not at all, you were rather courteous actually. After gathering our things and going outside, you started insisting on going back to ‘our’ place. And when I asked you what you meant you said-“ Chuuya takes a deep breath, wishing a hole would swallow him up right this instant. He doesn’t dare to look Atsushi in the eyes though.
“It’s alright you know?”
“It’s fucking embarrassing.”
Footsteps creak the floor beneath their feet, muffled by the tatami mats, until Chuuya’s down-cast eyes catch sight of Atsushi’s legs.
“If there’s something you want to say to me in your own way, you can do it now.”
Ah.
Atsushi is far too graceful in his mercy, letting Chuuya have this chance where most would probably keep taking joy out of his shame.
He remembers all-right, exactly what he said.
“Our place-“ he slurred, eyes heavy and falling shut with every word.
“Our place? Chuuya-san what do you mean?”
“Fuck you’re cute, place.. the one where we live.” He stumbles a few times, and Atsushi catches him before it can actually cause a fall. “I wanna..”
“There, you’ve had way too much, just let me help. Your apartment’s that way-“
“No, yours.”
“Chuuya-san-“
“Yours.” He whines like a child, “I’ve always wanted to go… see what you live like..”
Atsushi sighs in defeat, and they drug themselves across Yokohama for far longer than needed because of a drunken childish tantrum. Somewhere along the way, Chuuya’s muddled brain seemed to have some concerning epiphany of sorts that needed sharing, and so he opened his mouth once again,
“When did we get married again?”
Atsushi stops, sputtering incoherent noises in response “Chuuya-san?!”
The redhead is far too gone to explain himself though.
“I had to carry you the rest of the way there, but not without you muttering into my neck about how nice I smelled and that I ‘have a cute smile, you always thought so’”
“Fuck I’m gonna be sick. Again.”
Atsushi’s smile doesn’t let up, instead he chuckles. “Oh that’s not everything.”
“Of course it isn’t, why the fuck would it be.”
“You had an interesting word choice for me when someone asked us what we were yesterday. I think someone you knew.”
“Can this possibly get any worse?”
Atsushi’s expression tells him that, while he finds it very entertaining, that yes: it can get worse.
“I believe what you said is, and I quote ‘he’s like my wife.’”
Dead silence.
“I did not.”
“Did.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“Then just ask Akutagawa.”
“I said that to Akutagawa?!”
This is where Atsushi’s restraint throughout the morning seems to reach its limit, faltering in the face of a loud and boisterous laugh, when he’s reeled himself in just a little he turns back and steps towards the kitchen counter, “So I suppose I should do as a good wife does and get your breakfast in order.”
“Atsushi I swear to god-“
“Anything else you need dear?”
“Atsushi.”
“No really, It’s an honor, but I think you skipped a few steps along the way.”
“Ya think?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who called you my wife, for the record. If you want to take a couple of steps back though, you can do that- after we eat breakfast. I’m starving.”
Silence overtakes the room as they both eat, a more elaborate meal than Chuuya had gotten used to, too tired to cook for himself in the mornings. Steamed rice, miso soup, and grilled fish. Atsushi quickly apologizes for the lacking meal, saying Kyouka usually cooks breakfast for both of them because she gets up at unholy early hours in the morning.
Chuuya fondly thinks of the times he’d woken up in the morning with Kouyou and Kyouka already in the kitchen. Eating breakfast between the three of them seemed about the only times any of them had a semblance of a ‘normal’ life. Knowing Kyouka got to keep doing that now that she’s with the Agency does bring a semblance of comfort to his conscience, even if not enough to beat the guilt he’s felt, and still feels, around her treatment.
“It’s more than what I usually eat.” Chuuya says in return, “So, thanks for making the effort to feed me, after everything.”
Atsushi lays his chopsticks across his bowl, folding his hands together and muttering something under his breath.
“What do you usually eat for breakfast, Chuuya-san?”
Chuuya shrugs, “My schedule is pretty inconsistent, sometimes I go to sleep in the middle of the day, sometimes I don’t sleep for days on end- don’t look so shocked, the mafia ain’t exactly a ‘contract hours’ typpa business you know.”
“Yeah, I know, but still- I’d think it’s unwise to expect you to stay up for multiple days on end? With a job as dangerous as yours?”
“Ahw, is kitty concerned for my well-being? You think a lack of sleep will have me catching bullets with my face sooner or later?”
Across the table, Atsushi huffs without giving an answer, but it’s clear that the thought did cross his mind so Chuuya feels an obligation to ease him just a little “Really, I’m fine, it doesn’t happen often, and the Boss isn’t so reckless.” He’s also tempted to point out how part of Atsushi’s combat strategy involves him getting maimed and dismembered more often than not, because his ability allows for that to be a viable option.
Still doesn’t mean Chuuya has ever liked it, hearing Atsushi’s screams of agony when getting his leg severed, only to transform into the hulking white beast that shares his body seconds later. It’s never a pretty of pleasant sight, but there’s nothing Chuuya could do about that.
He mimics the chopstick positioning, laying them flat across his plate.
Well, no time like the present he supposes, having already embarrassed himself thoroughly the day prior. Atsushi already knows how he feels now, so the only hurdle left is to bring it into words with a clear mind.
“So, Atsushi…”
Those clear sunset eyes flick up to look directly at his own, taking Chuuya’s breath for a second before he manages to compose himself. “I guess, delaying this shit isn’t the best way to handle it.”
He stays quiet, intently listening without a word, “So I guess my point is… fuck, why’s this so damn difficult?”
He takes a deep breath, “Well, sorry for starters I guess, for yesterday.”
“Apology accepted, though not what I was looking for.”
“Yeah, I’m getting there you overgrown house-cat.”
Atsushi giggles again, laying his face in the palms of his hands with a fond smile remaining, his eyes soften as though he’s looking at some cat video he’d found online.
“It’s not a fucking surprise anymore, but I guess what I meant to say is: I fucking like you. A lot. And it’s annoying so please do something about it before I go insane.”
“Why don’t you finish what you start, Chuuya?” Atsushi purrs lowly, rumbling his throat and causing Chuuya’s mind to quickly consider throwing the entire table aside just to pin him down to the ground as quickly as possible.
Restraint.
He won’t deny how refreshing it is to see Atsushi in such a position of confidence, like he’s struck accidental diamond while digging for gold. And he wouldn’t be opposed to the were-tiger exercising it a little more often either.
Because he’s practicing this exercise in restraint, Chuuya doesn’t throw any furniture aside when making his way to Atsushi’s side, kneeling down next to him and feeling once again scrutinized by the sparkling gaze that has no right to be a magical as it looks. Chuuya couldn’t care less about the seven wonders of the world when Atsushi’s eyes are right there, and they’re looking at him.
He’s watched enough movies to feel the cliché of this moment for what it is, but instead of scoffing at how unrealistic it is, Chuuya can’t fight against the cosmic draw pulling him forwards as his hand settles on Atsushi’s cheek, pulling the boy’s face into him to meet. Atsushi makes no efforts to move, no attempts to fight back against the act. Instead their lips touch only briefly in a chaste kiss that turns into nothing more like Chuuya might have hoped, at least not until they’re parted and he can feel the hitching, nervous breaths from between Atsushi’s barely parted lips, not until Atsushi’s hands slowly settle down on his own shoulders and Chuuya grasps at the silver locks while pulling him in again, this time letting his restraint go completely, his grip tightening as though Atsushi would disappear if he let go now.
When they pull apart this time, Atsushi’s face is well and clearly flushed in a deep shade of red, dusting his cheeks with the adorable color of affection Chuuya recognizes all too well.
“I guess it might not be a stretch to be calling you my wife in a few years.”
Atsushi, to his credit, bursts into a fit of chuckles before leaning his head on Chuuya’s shoulders while his fingers wind through the fabric of Chuuya’s shirt. “Why wait? I never said I had an issue with you calling me that.”
It’ll be their little joke, Chuuya surmises. A fun way to get his friends’ heads turning when the contact on his phone flashes up with a call from ‘Wife’ and watching Tachihara go through the five stages of grief trying to process when and where Chuuya got married to a woman?
He doesn’t tell them the truth, because as Atsushi had so kindly demonstrated to him, it really is funnier to leave people in the dark until they put the pieces together by themselves.