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"i still have your sweater."
chuuya hears how your voice is a bit quieter and more slurred than usual due to the effects of alcohol in your blood, and he can't really tell if he likes it or not with how you'd woken him up at nearly 2am to talk. again. sure, alcohol and all that, but he doesn't know if his current, sleepy comprehension of what's going on is better than your drunken one.
he intakes a breath at your words.
"the grey one," you continue quietly, and chuuya can hear you shifting your head on whatever you're laying it on through the speaker. "i haven't even washed it yet. it still smells like you."
in that very moment, he wants your drunk ass to just shut up and go to sleep.
but then there's your voice. intoxicated and quiet and soft, almost as soft as it was when you'd talk to him when you were together.
chuuya hates reminiscing.
he remembers that sweater. just a plain, grey sweater, but he also remembers you taking a liking to it very quickly. he still remembers you walking around in it, still remembers how he had to force you to take it off because you wouldn't budge.
he remembers a lot.
"just how drunk are you," chuuya mumbles as if scolding or complaining or both, but he can't deny that he tries to mask the shakiness in his voice with the sounds of his bedsheets' shuffling.
"mmmaybe two sake bottles in," you tell him then.
"jesus," he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. he's trying to remain composed, but god, is it hard. not only is he pissed off due to your drunk phone call, but a mix of bitterness and sorrow also runs through him at the realization that you still have a bit of him in your life and you still keep these bits.
well, he isn't any better, actually.
"you still got my sweater, huh?" chuuya blurts, trying to ignore the ache in his heart.
he scoffs, a frown on his face. his tone is harsh but his actual feelings still somehow manage to show through the way he speaks; he's hurting more than he's angry.
"...i still have your stupid fucking lighter," he ends up mumbling after a beat of silence.
there's more silence from you as he says the words, and chuuya exhales a breath through the lump in his throat, wishing for it to just disappear.
he hears you hum. "the silver one?" you ask, and it's his turn to hum in reply. "...you still use it?"
"yeah," he ends up breathing out.
"every fucking day," chuuya responds, words much softer now somehow despite the curses, his eyes now fixed on the ceiling above him.
and it hurts, it really does. to know that you, despite having a new life, still call him when drunk, still own his sweater, and now the realization that he still holds a piece of you as well.
he never told you that, never said a word about how the lighter never left his pocket ever since you left him, and he wasn't planning on, but chuuya, in fact, had started smoking much more since after you left.
he hopes the lighter will never break.
chuuya hadn't answered your calls for a month.
"where the hell have you been?" you throw at him instantly the second he picks up on the fourth ring.
"in france, idiot," he points out with a scrunch of his face, plopping down on his bed and exhaling a near groan-like sigh, the memories of the recent overseas mission creeping up his mind.
fucking city of love.
he hears you hum, and then sound of rustling, as if you're shifting in your own bed. you're not drunk this time—thank god—but you do sound a bit more... melancholic, if he compares to your voice during the latest calls.
"mm, and how was france?" you ask, voice slightly quieter like you're focused on something else besides the call. he hopes you aren't.
chuuya scoffs. he takes in a breath, turning to lay on his side and press his phone to another ear, "ça aurait été bien mieux avec toi," he mumbles out at an exhale, using the harsher tone of voice to make it sound like he'd said something bad about his trip—and not like he'd said something about you. no. not in a century.
and you laugh. you actually laugh, and, at first, he doesn't understand why—at what are you laughing? did you somehow understand what he said? were you secretly learning french all these years away to catch him saying something like this? could be possible, knowing you, but the sound of your laughter literally interrupts all his thoughts and he can't focus on anything—
"at least translate, come on," he hears you say, voice still a bit breathy from the recent laughter. "don't tell me france was that bad."
chuuya has to move his phone from his ear for a good few meters away to exhale a loud, relieving breath through his mouth.
"not translating you anythin', i'm not your personal translator," he says once he brings the phone back to his ear, scowling and huffing. "you're gonna struggle with trying to understand what i said for the rest of your life now, that's what you get."
he still has to get over the sound of your laughter. perhaps it's the first time he's heard it in years.
("would've been much better with you.")
it's nearing half past midnight, and chuuya, somehow, already knows you're drunk as hell as he picks up the call.
he's in the middle of a trip back home from work when he does, leaving a single hand on the steering wheel as he answers.
yeah, you're definitely drunk.
"enjoying yourself?" he mutters dryly, huffing out a breath as he hears your nearly incoherent mumbling on the other line.
he listens to it nearly a minute, stuck on a red traffic light.
"hey," chuuya calls out quietly, exhaling a sigh, he's really gonna have to do this now, isn't he? "be a dear 'n pass the phone to the bartender, will ya?"
it's a miracle you do as told, as intoxicated as you are.
once he hears the shuffling sound of that said bartender picking your phone up to their ear, he asks for the address, and once he gets it, the traffic light turns green and chuuya goes for a quick "u" turnabout, making his way towards the bar, not before asking the person on the other line to watch over you so you won't wander off before he arrives.
you're already slumped on the bar counter with your arms under your head and a finished glass of—clearly—something strong beside you as chuuya comes through the door.
he thinks of if you try to silence your desire to call him every time with alcohol and if it—alcohol—almost always makes it worse. it certainly does, he catches himself thinking.
he thanks the bartender for the address, paying for you and carefully swinging your hand over his shoulder to safely exit the bar and carry you over to his car, listening to your drunken babbling all the way through.
chuuya sighs once he gets you into the passenger seat, and you seem to almost immediately slump into the leather.
so you've had that much.
he can work with that, now that you're already fast asleep as he's back to starting the car.
once him and you in tow are at your doorway, he fishes the keys out of your pocket and lets himself in.
your apartment has remained as he remembers it—there are some minor changes, but the little details are the ones that he notices first and they're still there, even throughout the years.
at least you have some sort of stability in your life.
chuuya ends up shrugging off your outerwear and shoes and bringing you over to your bedroom, contemplating about whether or not you would like to wake up in fresh clothes in the morning, but he realises thay you two aren't that close anymore for him to go through your closet and, moreso, change your clothes. he lets it stay like it is.
before leaving, chuuya makes sure to place a glass of water and a pack of hangover pills on your nightstand.
he leaves using that same spare key you made for him years ago.
his forehead finds the steering wheel as soon as he collapses into the driver's seat.
"we should stop doing this," you tell chuuya quietly during one of the next calls, and chuuya can tell you loathe the words coming out of your mouth.
you're absolutely sober this time.
"we should," he confirms just as quietly, staring up at the ceiling above his bed.
there's silence on both ends for the next five minutes. after that, you wish him good night and end the call.
chuuya doesn't try to bring his phone away from his ear for two more minutes.
tuesdays are always shit.
chuuya does not want to receive any phone calls on a fucking tuesday night while he's buried in paperwork and stupid reports, but he ends up receiving one.
from you.
he nearly snaps his phone in two once he picks it up in his free hand, stopping for a moment as he sees your contact popping up on the screen.
he hesitates for a moment, the hand holding the pen he was previously writing with halting.
chuuya exhales a breath, eyelids closing. he presses "accept".
"what now?" he snaps as soon his phone touches his ear.
a moment before he did so, he could hear you intaking a breath as if you were preparing to speak. as if you were excited to propose something.
you're silent on the other end after that. he can tell you were taken aback, but he was really just too tired to care. maybe.
"...you, me, chateau latour 1977?" your voice is quiet; quieter than it was supposed to be before he snapped, and he can actually feel it, because your voice actually falters in the end, but he can trace the bits of hope remaining in it.
something in chuuya's chest squeezes at that, and then he registers your words.
...oh.
you're inviting him over to drink.
...oh.
chuuya is actually silent as the gears turning before in his head and the flow of his thoughts literally stop—they just stop. there's nothing in his mind except for your voice offering to drink together. he unintentionally drops the pen from his hand.
and then his eyes shift towards the two incomplete stacks of papers on the table in front of him.
you over work? his ex over work? his ex the thought about whom he can't seem to be able to get rid of as much as he wants, over work?
what an easy choice.
unfortunately, today is one of the days when chuuya ends up speaking before he thinks.
"i'm busy," he ends up barking in the end, ending the call barely a second later.
he stares at the now lit screen of his phone, showing the earlier message from you, containing a single photo of the wine bottle you'd offered him just a minute ago.
he stares at it, and stares, and stares some more, before he throws his head back and clenches his eyelids as hard as he can, because his eyes suddenly start watering with tears.
chuuya is an idiot.
"i'm sorry."
chuuya doesn't remember which of you two said this. he hopes it was him.
"i know."
he doesn't remember who replied.
call ended.