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It smells like bleach. That’s how potent the alcoholic stench is, and it takes all of Chigiri’s willpower to not wrinkle his nose at it from his seat at the bar. He’s convinced that the owners of this place are somehow pumping alcohol into the air, like they’re diffusing tequila and beer as herbal essential oils. Aromatherapy for sleazes. Chigiri knows it’s impossible to get contact drunk, but he’s slowly becoming convinced that a secondhand hangover is a thing with how incessantly his head starts to pound, the pressure behind his eyes building slow and steady. The music, a beat fit for a club, all heavy bass and whispery vocals, is too loud. The lights, a rainbow of high-lumen LEDs, are too bright. It’s a circus of a sensory hell, and Chigiri is regretting his agreement to come out tonight. Isagi and Bachira—two resident clowns of the apparent circus of a venue—had begged him to, saying that “It’s a Friday night, and working on your thesis can take a break.” Technically they were correct, he did have ample time to complete his masters’ thesis for Sports Medicine. However, they seemed to not consider that bright and early tomorrow morning Chigiri is meant to be at a job that funds said masters’ program, and he wants to be well-rested for it. He’d told this to his best friends, but they had responded how they always do. “Live a little.”
Chigiri sighs. He’s been bullied — with no real animosity —into going out with them, and they aren’t even spending time with him. He tries to side-eye the dance floor, but it’s impossible with the way he’d styled his bangs to fall over his face. Since the end of high school, Chigiri has been growing his hair out, and when it’s left alone, it reaches the small of his back. Currently, most of his rosy pink hair has been tamed into a braided up-do, but there are tresses left out that frame his face and prevent him from casually spying on the floor. He resolves himself to turning to the dance floor fully, swiveling around on the circular stool, and lo and behold: Bachira and Isagi. They’re half-swaying, half-grinding to the same beat from earlier, or maybe it’s different and Chigiri can’t tell because all club music sounds the same. Bachira’s hands rest on Isagi’s waist, and it must be obvious to everyone around them that they’ve danced together before. They know each other’s moves in a way that carries a practiced, fluid ease, and leaves room for flawless improvisation. The masses would also probably assume they’re a couple. Chigiri does too, but the idiots have yet to define it, officialize it, even though they make out in their shared apartment and sometimes go out to dinner with just themselves, leaving Chigiri to fend for himself with what they have in the fridge. Now, Chigiri doesn’t have a surplus of experience in this regard, but he’s certain that seems like a pretty damn good indicator of boyfriend status.
His fingers press against his temples, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his head. Chigiri can hear how agitated his internal monologue sounds to him, honey voice bitter and scathing. He’s not especially pissed off, not really, he’s just never been the kind of guy that likes nightclubs. He makes the executive decision to take a moment of respite in the bathroom. It’s about as nice as he expects it to be, he notes upon entering. The mirror is speckled with dried stains of something that Chigiri really hopes is water or alcohol. It’s still an assault on his sense of smell, but the fluorescent bulbs above him are somehow more forgiving on his eyesight—perhaps because they’re just one solid color—and the thrumming bass is muted through the concrete walls. He stays here for a number of minutes, poking at his phone to pass the time. There’s a thread of emails from other people in his master’s program that he’s yet to respond to, something about meeting times for a group project. Chigiri will respond in the morning, he’s not interested in emailing at unprofessional hours of the day. He studies his face in the dirty mirror. The concealer he’d applied covers his eye bags, but it can’t erase the look of exhaustion otherwise. Slowly, he blinks at the reflection.
The sound of the door opening alerts Chigiri, and on impulse he glances to look at the entrant. It’s Friday night, and he could be researching for his thesis right now, but no, he’s standing in an awful smelling bathroom and looking at an open door because it’s the most interesting stimulus in his environment. The man enters the room quietly, almost uncharacteristic given just how much man crosses through the doorway. He’s got to be just a few centimeters shy of two meters tall, and although Chigiri can’t see his figure through his clothes, he’s well aware of the outline of the man’s muscles. They push against his cream colored polo, stretching the fabric taut. His manner of dress seems far too put-together to be someone who belongs here. The stranger’s hair—short, spiky, and copper-colored—is handsomely styled. So either this man just entered the club and beelined for the bathroom, or he just looks that good despite the atmosphere. “Are you waiting?” The man asks, gesturing to the stalls behind Chigiri. His voice is deep, certainly lower than Chigiri’s. Whereas his voice is smoother, more velvety, the stranger’s timbre is something husky.
“Nah, you’re good,” Chigiri responds, inclining his head in the same direction the man had indicated. “Just standing here.”
“Standing here?” The stranger repeats, and when Chigiri hears those words come out of a mouth that’s not his own, he realizes how strange they sound.
“Well, you know…” He stumbles over his words, wondering how to recontextualize what he’d said in a way that doesn’t make him appear even more odd. “It’s a little loud out there, I was taking a break from the action.” The action? Chigiri’s internal monologue pauses its talking to laugh at him, and then asks exactly what action he was removing himself from.
“Ah, I totally get that.” The man grins at him. Chigiri knows fake politeness, he knows small-talk cordiality, and this isn’t it. This smile, wide and toothy, is genuine. Maybe it’s the slight crookedness of his bottom row of teeth that adds to his smile’s sincerity. “I’m not really made for this environment, just here to be the designated driver for one friend and support another.” He pauses for a brief moment, before it seems he’s struck with an idea, his amber eyes sparkling beneath the fluorescents. “Tonight’s DJ, actually! His name’s Mikage. Mikage Reo—I totally recommend checking out some of his mixes if you get the chance.” He’s selling his friend like he’s a product in an infomercial, and now it’s Chigiri’s turn to smile at the stranger. Chigiri’s grin is exactly the type of feigned fellowship he didn’t recognize in the other man. It seems mean, but it isn’t an action born of malice. He doesn’t hate this guy, not in the slightest. The guy is cheery, immensely attractive, probably good company if Chigiri had the chance to get to know him, but he just feels awkward about small talk. Chigiri doesn’t respond with anything but a nod, and the man doesn’t seem to push for an answer. He walks toward the stall, and Chigiri takes that at his cue to leave. As the men cross each other, Chigiri can get a better look at him. The man has the body proportions of an athlete. The hands of one, too, large and seemingly calloused.
The music assaults his ears yet again when the bathroom door opens, but Chigiri is slightly more hesitant to criticize it. Bathroom guy appeared to be a decent enough person, so his friends must be, too. Even if the music isn’t his style, he can appreciate the technicalities behind the way the DJ spins the tracks. Chigiri can’t tell the difference of when one song fades into another, so that’s got to speak to the DJ’s mixing prowess. He makes it a few meters away from the bar to see, with abject disappointment, that each seat is full. He doesn’t even want alcohol, just a place to sit down and keep an eye on his housemates. “Oi, Hyoma!”
Speak of the devils. Before Chigiri realizes it, he’s got Isagi on one arm and Bachira on the other, dragging him out toward the dance floor. “Guys…” He complains, but it goes unheard. They aren’t ignoring him, they wouldn’t. Chigiri did kind of mumble out the lament, and the music is even louder here.
“Dance with us!”
“We told you to come out with us to dance, Hyo!”
Chigiri doesn’t know which voice comes from which body, isn’t even entirely sure that he heard what they’re saying correctly. Their shouts and their bodies form a hurricane around Chigiri, and he’s swept away in the wind. Bachira spins him, and Isagi catches him when he lets go, moving both of their bodies with a guiding hand on Chigiri’s shoulder. It’s not like he needs the help to find the rhythm, he spent the majority of his life as an athlete with ballet conditioning, after all. Isagi just doesn’t want to lose contact with him in the densest part of the crowd. Some of Chigiri’s apprehension washes away as they all dance together. They had first met each other on their university’s football team during their undergrad years; the Chigiri of today considers it impossible to be stressed when he’s dancing with his best friends. When he’s spun around again, he locks eyes with someone a few feet away. They seem to be staring at the three of them with a type of hunger, and it’s one that Chigiri is sure he can place. The way Isagi and Bachira are dancing around him, leading him, using his body almost as a prop to enhance their own movements, he definitely looks like the fresh meat the not-yet-a-couple has found and decided to toy with. They’ve taken on thirds before —never in the apartment, as per Chigiri’s request—and he wouldn’t be surprised if he currently appears to be the latest one. He’s also not surprised if the guy wants in on the situation, to be between Bachira and Isagi.
They only let Chigiri go once he’s thoroughly drenched in sweat and demanding a water break through peals of laughter. He makes it to the edge of the crowd, and that’s when the magic of the dance floor fades. His white shirt is glued to his body with sweat, reminiscent of his days as a football player. Continuing the uncomfortable sensation nostalgia is the twinge of pain in his right leg, never back to its full capability after a career-ending ACL tear. He still plays recreationally, but he’s not strong enough to go pro. He’ll make sure to stretch extra tomorrow and take some pain medication when he gets home. Chigiri heads to the bar, now with open seating, and orders a glass of ice water. Once he’s sufficiently hydrated, he’ll order a Sprite or some virgin drink just for the satisfaction of sticking it on Isagi’s tab. He’s given the glass and gulps it down quickly, flinching once when the ice touches his teeth the wrong way.
“Another one?” The bartender asks with an amused giggle, the corner of her electric blue lips quirked up in a smile.
“Yes, please,” Chigiri hands her back the glass gratefully. “I appreciate it.”
“You were workin’ hard out there.” She says as she fills the cup again, flicking her head to the side to get her hair—it matches her lipstick, Chigiri realizes—out of her face. “It was impressive.”
“Ah, thank you.” He grins, shy, thanking the young woman both for the compliment and for the water, which he sips slowly this time. He nurses the water like it’s a glass of wine, watching the crowd undulate on the dance floor. Not his style in the slightest, but objectively interesting. Chigiri has always found it intriguing how clubs have the ability to transform a multitude of people, more inebriated than not, into a living, breathing, single performer. He wonders what the reason for that might be, if it’s a shared energy or a lack of self-consciousness. Either way, from an outsider’s perspective, it’s enjoyable to watch. For now.
“Hey, man,” The bartender catches Chigiri’s attention, and he turns to face her. It’s a respect thing for him, he wants to give the woman his full attention. “My shift’s over in five, anything I can getcha ‘fore I leave?”
“I’m alright, thank you.” Chigiri nods to affirm his statement. “Oh!” He exclaims just a moment after, standing up from the stool to reach into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a crumpled 1000 yen note that he tries to smooth out on the counter before handing it to her with a gracious smile. “Thanks.”
“Ah, thank you, dude.” She takes the bill with a sparkle in her eye. “Have a great night.”
She leaves for the night, and Chigiri is a bit jealous of her. He’s got…shit, he doesn’t even know how many hours he’s got left to spend here, that’s entirely dependent on when Bachira and Isagi decide to go home. The club closes at five, and it’s just now hit one o’clock. The realization brings Chigiri’s headache back. If the bar counter wasn’t so sticky, he’d put his head down to try and rest. Any enjoyment he’d found in the showiness of the clubbers has been lost, and now he sits on the stool, rocking back and forth, trying to count the seconds as they pass. Chigiri gets to two hundred fifty-six before he’s interrupted, which is frankly impressive. “Hey, cutie.”
And Chigiri loses his counting streak. He can’t help but cringe at the opener, it’s an overdone cliche in his mind. Not quite the level of skin-crawling discomfort, but this voice isn’t scoring any points either. He glances up at the man and is surprised to see that it’s the same one he saw on the dance floor, the one that had been staring at him and his friends. Chigiri had made the assumption that the guy was interested in the other two, but it dawns on him that with the current standing of things, the opposite was true. Not a third. This guy does not want to be their third for a night. Chigiri doesn’t answer him, takes the time to actually look at the guy up close. He’s not entirely Chigiri’s type, but he’s not the antithesis of it either. He’s the lean kind of muscular, toned, probably somewhere around Chigiri’s height give or take a few centimeters. His hair must have been well-groomed when he first entered the club, but some strands now stick to his forehead, weighed down by sweat. His hair is dark and thick, like his beard. “What’s a sweet thing like you doing alone?”
“I’m having water.” He deadpans, elevating the glass. Chigiri can’t even consider this interaction entertainment, not when it’s going to be excruciatingly painful to get through.
“Can I get you somethin’ more than just water, hm?” The man asks, sitting down on the only open stool next to Chigiri. Wonderful, Chigiri’s inner voice says, a continued conversation.
“No.” With his terse responses and lack of eye contact, Chigiri isn’t sure how this guy hasn’t gotten the hint of his disinterest. Maybe he’s too drunk to realize, but that explanation is even further from an excuse than pure oblivion.
“Aw, c’mon…” He prods, nudging Chigiri on the shoulder, who instantly tenses. He doesn’t even try to hide the disdain on his face, and shifts his weight to lean away from the dude, but the clues keep flying over his head. “Pretty boy like you should get something in him, getcha to loosen up, yeah?”
“No.” Chigiri repeats, a bit more firm. A guy this forceful and oblivious doesn’t deserve politeness. There’s no room for a ‘no, thank you’ here. Chigiri has to bite his tongue before he tells the guy that he doesn’t want any alcohol, that he’s supposed to be driving his housemates home tonight. This dude doesn’t need to know that, and in the worst case scenario, it’d be outright dangerous for him to know.
“Hey now, there’s no reason to be so difficult.” And the guy moves closer. He’s not just encroaching on Chigiri’s space anymore, no, he’s entirely infiltrated it. Chigiri can’t possibly lean any farther away, or else he’ll completely topple over, so he settles for holding his breath. “I just wanna do something nice for a pretty doll like you.”
Gross. Chigiri’s sharp canines dig into his bottom lip, nearly piercing it, all his energy devoted toward concealing his grimace. He wonders if this man seriously thinks his pick-up lines work, if he’s genuinely got enough faith in this tired dialogue. Has he ever scored with it? Chigiri disguises his scoff as a clearing of his throat. He certainly won’t tonight. “I said no.”
“Oh, that’s bullshit!” If Chigiri wasn’t so used to people like this, he probably would’ve flinched at how the man’s voice raised so suddenly. The change in demeanor was sharp, but Chigiri had half been expecting the shift. “C’mon, I saw how you were gettin’ passed around by those two on the floor, you’ve gotta be too easy of a catch to deny me.” Chigiri, against his better instincts, side-eyes the man with a snarl, the corner of his glossy lip curling up in disgust. By the grace of whatever deity of audacity that must have blessed this man, he takes Chigiri’s reaction as encouragement. “There we go, doll, finally gotcha to look at me.” With a roll of his eyes and sharp glance away, the man is even more enticed. He pushes closer until Chigiri can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Well don’t stop now, beautiful…”
“Are you done?” Chigiri spits. His plans to ignore the man until he lost interest have failed, there’s no other option than to fight back with a fire of his own, piss the guy off until he leaves. It’s an irritating situation to deal with at the moment, but at least when the night is done, he’ll have enough ammunition to convince his roommates to let him skip their next club night, if not also buy him a consolation lunch in the coming days. “I’m not interested.”
“Bullshit!” The guy repeats his previous expletive, and Chigiri notes the lack of creativity. “For a slut like you, no way’re you not interested.”
“H—”
“What do you think gives you the right to talk to my boyfriend like that?” Huh. That’s not a voice Chigiri recognizes, but it’s strangely familiar to him. Certainly not Isagi or Bachira, it’s far too low and gravelly. The voice came from the opposite side of him that the man is nearly pressing against, and he tries to make his turn toward the disembodied voice as natural as possible. Keeping his expression scarily neutral, Chigiri comes face to face—well, face to chest, face to well-defined pectoral muscles, but still—with the bathroom guy from earlier. His copper hair is still perfectly in place, and the light coating of sweat on his face and neck he must’ve developed from dancing only makes him glow under the multicolored lights. They make eye contact, and the standing man gives Chigiri the most subtle nod humanly possible. If Chigiri had a single drop of alcohol in him, he’s sure he would have missed it. That, or he made the gesture up in its entirety, and the bathroom guy is about to be very confused when Chigiri starts playing along with the little act. Hopefully it’s not the latter.
“Really?” The creep pipes up again, apparently fully recovered from the interruption. “You really think I’m gonna fall for that?”
“Fall for it?” The auburn-haired man’s gaze is glacial, cold and hard as he stares down at the other guy. His voice is condescending, and Chigiri is glad that he’s not the one on the receiving end of it. This guy is exuding power in excess, it’s a stark difference from the friendly smiles he’d received from him just a few hours ago. Even though the ire isn’t targeting Chigiri, he still feels his heart skip a beat at the aggravated twitch in the man’s face, the muscle pulsing right above his perfectly sculpted cheekbone. “I don’t appreciate you insulting my partner. What is there to fall for?”
“That’s… That’s bullshit.” He stammers. Third time, Chigiri observes. The drunk guy must have given up on trying to win a battle of words with the copper-haired man, since he turns his attention back to Chigiri, glaring at him like he’s trying to bore a hole through his skull and read his thoughts on the situation. “There’s no way you even know each other.”
“Is that so?” What? Chigiri isn’t one for the mainstage of a theater, but a vital component of sport is performance, and during his time as a college athlete he did adhere to his persona quite successfully. His voice is level when he asks the question. “We’re both here to watch Mikage deejay.”
“So you know the guy doin’ music, that doesn’t mean anything!” If this guy wasn’t such a messy drunk, Chigiri might be scared of his growing anger. For now, it’s just amusing to see how red his face gets. Maybe alcohol is really bad on this guy’s memory and he’s already forgotten how his last verbal beatdown with the copper-haired man ended. Chigiri can’t think of any other reason the guy would try to face him again. “Then how come you let him get passed around like a whore?”
“He wanted to dance with our other friends.” With how calm this man is, nearly lackadaisical in his delivery, Chigiri is glad he’s in on the bit; there’d be no way he could ever tell this guy was—as the drunk man would say—bullshitting. “My boyfriend isn’t a whore, and I’m not the ‘controlling asshole’ type. There’s no way I’d stop him from dancing, especially with a talent like his.” Chigiri can’t help but flush at the compliment. He’s not even sure if it’s real, he hadn’t seen this guy while he was dancing… Well. If anything, Chigiri’s cheeks flushing pink at his scene partner’s words help to corroborate their story. “I’m not one to fall victim to petty jealousy.”
“Well—” This guy is floundering for his words, looking between Chigiri and the standing man with a scowl so pronounced it’s comical. “Fine then, just ‘cause you know each other doesn’t make you anything more than friends trying to pull one over on me.”
“So that’s how you see it…” The auburn-haired man mutters. He places a hand on Chigiri’s shoulder, and he can feel how respectful he’s trying to be about it. There’s barely any pressure against his body, but it’s not like Chigiri can just talk to him about the nuances of their little game, about how much physicality he’s okay with. He settles for reaching for the hand on his shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. I’m doing alright, is what he tries to convey, hoping the message sends. What about you?
“‘Cause that’s how it is!” The drunk man barks, arms crossing in front of his chest. Chigiri holds in a sigh. The guy’s reaching incorrigible toddler territory, which either means he’s about to give up or they’ve still got a long night ahead of them.
“Hm.” The standing man looks bored. He uses the hand on Chigiri’s shoulder to spin him around, only by ninety degrees until his back is facing the slimeball. After looking into Chigiri’s vibrant eyes with the first bit of apprehension on his face since this whole ordeal began, the man gives a pointed look down at Chigiri’s mouth, and Chigiri feels his heart skip another beat — in the exact same way it did earlier. So maybe that first time wasn’t fear… Chigiri grins at the man, something wicked. Go for it, dude. There’s a hot guy helping him escape this situation, so what’s Chigiri going to do, deny this? At least his story for Bachira and Isagi will have a part where it really gets interesting. “This is ‘just friends’?” The man’s hand moves from Chigiri’s shoulder to his chin, his thumb ending up right by his lips. His hand is softer than Chigiri expected it to be, but he can still tell that it’s calloused from the feel. His fingers are thick and warm where they support Chigiri’s jaw, and Chigiri isn’t mad about the touch in the slightest. He watches as the man bends down, lets him lift his face slowly, ever the gentleman, and closes his eyes as the distance between them slims until it’s nonexistent.
Fireworks. In all their cliche glory.
The man’s lips are softer than his hand. They seem to be coated in chapstick of some kind, maybe something citrus. Soft and smooth, but not carrying the slight tackiness that his own lips do from the cherry gloss. It feels like their mouths fit perfectly together, the contours of their faces meeting each other in the middle like connecting puzzle pieces. The way Chigiri’s mouth is blanketed leaves him almost dizzy, and when the other man pulls away, Chigiri’s head spins. It had only lasted for a few seconds, Chigiri would estimate five at most, but it had felt like five minutes, five hours. A light pressure, but it felt caring. Good. Chigiri stands up and puts significant effort into staying balanced on his feet, almost entirely forgetting about the drunk creep a foot behind him. He stares at the taller man—significantly taller, especially standing right in front of him—with a new fire lit in his eyes and mirrors the glance at his mouth. The man is smiling, and Chigiri sees the suave confidence waver for just a moment, replaced by genuine joy. The sparkle in his amber eyes returns for just a moment; he’s giddy. Chigiri surges forward with a tiny exhale, a small breath that says I can’t believe we’re doing this, and kisses the man again. The collision isn’t the smoothest thing Chigiri has ever managed to do, balancing on his tiptoes, but God, is it right. His mouth moves against the other man’s with passion, and Chigiri can’t bring himself to care that he doesn’t even know this guy’s name. It doesn’t matter, at least not in the moment. The only thing on his mind is the way kissing this man feels, soft and warm and exhilarating, so yes, maybe now he is a believer in getting secondhand drunk. It feels like he’s floating, a tingling sensation blooming in the pit of his stomach. He laces an arm around the man’s waist to steady himself, his hand pressing against the small of his back to find a sturdy frame beneath the polo. The man kisses him back feverishly, and Chigiri’s knees almost buckle from the excitement. Chigiri is pretty sure he’s catching feelings if they haven’t been caught already, and there’s a chance the growing feeling is mutual. There’s requited lust, at worst, and he takes no issue with that.
Chigiri is more than happy with their current arrangement, but he’s hungry for more. There’s that inner voice again, but by now it’s lost all its sardonic scorn in favor of cheering him on. Delicately, he pokes his tongue out of his mouth to swipe at the man’s bottom lip. He’s chanting please, please, please… in his mind, and his already closed eyes roll back farther in his head when the other man’s lips part and he’s granted access. Chigiri drinks the gift up like it’s water and he’s spent days wandering the desert. If the man’s lips were warm, then the inside of his mouth is volcanic. Chigiri traces along the man’s mouth with his tongue, with all the vigor of a man trying to memorize the terrain by touch alone. The copper-haired man is meeting him with equal energy, similarly wrapping an arm around Chigiri’s lithe waist to pull him closer until their bodies touch, the material of their respective pants scratching against each other. Chigiri has to wrestle with himself to pull away, and the only reason he does is to give the man a chance to breathe actual oxygen, not just used air. The man doesn't want to let him leave, though, gently nipping at Chigiri’s lower lip as he moves back. His cheeks are flushed a deeper rosy pink from before, a mixed cocktail of attraction and exertion.
“He’s gone.” The man says with a smile, wiping away the spit on his lips with a sheepish glance at the ground. His lips still retain the glimmer left behind by Chigiri’s gloss, as do the corners of his mouth.
“What?” Chigiri asks, dumbly. “Ah—” He turns to look at the chair the drunk man had occupied, and is more than pleased to see a vacancy. “Jeez, thank you for all that, he was a handful to deal with…” Chigiri rubs at his exposed neck, a bit embarrassed now that his adrenaline has started to fade.
“It was nothing, really. I overheard some of what he was saying, and you looked uncomfortable. I couldn’t just see that and let it go. Telling security might have made a scene, and, well, if it had gotten physical I’m sure I could have done an equally good job as any bouncer.” He shrugs, fully believing his words. Chigiri shakes his head with a soft giggle. Not many people would do that for a person they knew, let alone a complete stranger. “I was honestly impressed by the way you just, like, got right into it. I mean, we really matched energies back there.”
“If not for you name-dropping that Mikage guy in the bathroom, I’m not sure I could’ve done it.” Chigiri grins. Now it’s his turn to shrug all nonchalant, as if achieving the misdirection with such efficacy had been an easy feat. “It’s like fate, or something.”
“Fate…” He says with a nod. Chigiri notices that he does that a lot, that echoing of what other people say. The man sways a bit on his feet, perhaps passing the time. His motions suddenly stop, and his face pales. “Oh, God…” The golden color of his skin drains as he looks at Chigiri, almost fearful. “Is— Is it okay that I kissed you?” He blurts out. “I know we like…” He explains the next part by pointing at his mouth while his ears get red. “But I didn’t technically ask so I just wanted to know if that was, like, an okay thing? I’m really not the type to kiss before the first date but I didn’t know what would’ve been more convincing to get him off your case, so—”
“Hey, hey…” Chigiri says quietly, trying to break up the anxious rant before it could progress further. “Dude, we literally made out. And I was the one to initiate that, yeah? You just plain kissing me was very much an ‘okay thing’. I liked it.” Chigiri looks up at the man through his lashes, coy and playful. And then he mirrors the man’s freezing-in-place and loses the debonair aura. “Did you say first date?”
The other man’s ears get impossibly redder. “I, uh— Did I? I did?” He giggles nervously, and it’s one of the cutest sounds Chigiri has ever had the pleasure of hearing. It’s low and bouncy, like a bubbling stream. “I mean, I meant, like, in general I like to go out with someone before I kiss them, and I would totally go out with you if that was something you’re interested in…?” He trails off, and the uncertainty in his voice makes it sound like a question. Chigiri feels like the last few minutes have been a fever dream. Secondhand drunk.
“I’d be very interested in that, yeah.” Chigiri’s heart is beating out of his chest. The rhythm is in time with the thumping bass that hasn’t stopped pounding since he’d walked through the front door. “You know, I didn’t expect you to be this…unsure? It’s sweet, don’t get me wrong, you just seemed a lot more confident when that ass was here.”
“I had to be,” The man defends himself with a bashful grin. “I’m good at playing that confident heroic act, yeah, but the real me is a lot softer than that. Still as protective, though, I’ll say.”
“I’d like to get to know him.” Chigiri makes quick work of pulling out his cellphone; there’s no way this man is going to leave without giving his phone number. “I’d like to start with your name? I’m Chigiri.”
“Oh, shit, I never…” The man does something that’s a mix between a wince and a laugh, and Chigiri finds it too endearing for his own good. “Kunigami. My name is Kunigami Rensuke.”
“Alright, Hero-gami.” Chigiri holds his phone out to Kunigami, the display screen showing a space to enter a new contact. Kunigami gleefully takes it, his large fingers tapping furiously against the screen. It’s adorable how excited he is, and Chigiri can’t help but stare. Their fingers brush together when Kunigami hands him back the phone, and Chigiri swears he feels sparks. “How does Sunday night sound?”