Work Text:
It's four in the morning.
That is, Duke thinks it's four in the morning. He's about 88% sure, give or take a few percent.
He'd jerked awake for no particularly good reason (well, compulsively checking Instagram likes is a halfway-decent reason), fumbling around in the dark for his cellphone. Unfortunately, he'd terribly misjudged his brightness setting, and was now half-blinded and fully cursing. His whole body feels like a sack of lead and hurts likes hell. Especially his head. Actually, kind of only his head.
More alcohol would make this better, Duke thinks.
But part of Adulting is not day drinking (or would this be morning drinking? no, night drinking. if it's still dark, it's still nighttime. sound logic.). Instead, Adulting entails going back to sleep and then getting ready for work in a few hours. That's practical. Something that somebody with full control over their life would do.
Definitely not throw wild, irresponsible parties on weeknights and then wake up hungover. He half-shrugs to himself (although it's really more of a twitch, but same difference). Anyway, what's done is done, and will probably happen again.
Hangovers included, unfortunately.
Duke squeezes his eyes shut, loosening his grip on his cellphone. Right now he's thinking about how much he'd like a caramel macchiato and some biscotti. And maybe a permanent "DO NOT DISTURB!" sign on his front door (like a hotel room, but without muffled moans behind the door. just some contented snoring.) Then again, that wouldn't pay the bills or the rent for his posh little condo. His landlord would never let such a thing slide, devilish Devlin charms or not.
Duke is entertaining the possibility of putting up the sign regardless, but mostly wishing he could go back to sleep. That isn't entirely possible, however. Someone's toenails are pressing painfully into his back.
Dragging a hand out from under his comforter, Duke reaches behind himself, attempting to swat at the toenails. He misses. "Move," he mumbles into his mussed bedding, sure that someone has stuffed a cotton ball or ten into his mouth.
"You're the one lying on the wrong side of the bed," the owner of the toenails sleepily replies.
"'S my bed," he says, slurring slightly. It occurs to him then that it's a little odd that someone is sharing his bed and cramping his leg space. "Hey," he croaks indignantly, shoving himself onto his elbows. The room tips a little to the side. "Why aren't you gone yet?"
There's a brief pause, and then a rustling noise as the someone pushes herself up. He's disappointed when she doesn't move to leave, but instead announces the time spelled out in neon green from his bedside.
"4:16am. To answer your rude question, you fell asleep two hours ago and I had to haul your drunk ass to bed."
"And then your drunk ass fell asleep right after."
He hears a haughty little sniff before she collapses back into the sheets, tangling them further around her legs as she curls into a ball. He groans when the comforter is dragged halfway off of him.
"By the way, your bed smells," she says, kicking him in the back as he tries to grab the blankets back.
"That's 'cause you're getting all your perfume on it," he snarls. "I told you that scent was no good. Now the whole place smells like cheap magazine samples."
"If it bothers you that much, make yourself useful and clean up your mess."
"This mess," of course, is referring to the various empty bottles strewn alongside tipped over takeout boxes. Duke figures that they're still littering his floor, covering up wine stains and some more questionable puddles. But that's just his room. He doesn't even want to think about the real earthquake beyond that.
"…I'm not your maid, Téa," is his eventual reply.
Téa snorts like this is all very funny and well played. It is a loud sound and ensues a throbbing sensation in Duke's temples similar to a very small migraine.
"It's your place," she points out.
"And yet here you are with your cheap perfume. Now lemme sleep."
"Tut tut, Duke Devlin. That's no way to talk to a lady in bed."
Duke has no snappy comeback to this. He's hungover and annoyed. He's annoyed that he has to wake up in approximately three hours with no caramel macchiato, no biscotti, and no "DO NOT DISTURB!" sign. He's annoyed that he'll have to spend the next ten hours at work, hunched over his laptop, compiling and debugging lines upon lines of code, trying to get the next big virtual reality game to run smoothly (fuck KaibaCorp, but fuck, KaibaCorp, please respond to his emails). And then, after all that, Duke will have to come home to a disastrous mess that he will probably not clean up, but instead move around so that he can eat takeout on his couch while watching old reruns of mecha anime.
Duke is annoyed and aghast. He's not entirely sure how his life became so monotonous, outside of the horribly impractical and wild parties. When did he and the rest of his friends somehow grow up and start leading more mundane lives? More importantly, how had he reached a point in his life where the person in his bed would rather banter than make out with him? Duke is tempted to tell Téa that they're almost obligated to do it for the aesthetic: hot programmer and hot dancer, old friends, half-dressed and half-drunk, kissing in the early hours.
(actually, they did tipsily make out the night before, but both are pretending not to remember and not to think about what that means. it doesn't really matter, anyway: Joey has already uploaded the pictures.)
This may sound melodramatic, but Duke thinks that even his Dungeon Dice Monsters franchise suffered less than he is suffering right now.
"Téa," he says, groping around in the dark and catching her ankle. "Tell me that I'm a promising young entrepreneur that anyone would be lucky to invest in. Tell me that I'm just as unfathomably cool as when we first met. Also, tell me that my eyeliner is chic and not early 2000's goth. Tristan was drunk when he said it, but now I can't unsee it."
Her response is almost immediate. "No."
Now, to be fair, Duke is still slurring and both of them are still sleepy. It's entirely possible that Téa didn't hear him properly, and just as probable that she is completely unaware of his fragile, hungover emotional state. But it's also entirely possible that Téa is being mean as hell, and just as probable that she never liked his eyeliner.
"How dare you, and in my own house," Duke groans, shoving at her with his leg. He'll swear later that it was more of a fond tap, but the motion is enough to send Téa flailing onto the ground with an indignant squeal, taking his only set of clean sheets with her.
In more normal circumstances Duke wouldn't have even attempted such a feat. If he was completely sober, he would've taken immediate evasive action under his bed. But Duke isn't completely sober. He's also a little hurt and a little bitter, and so he fumbles around for a pillow and buries his head under it (it seems that ostriches know a thing or two about conflict resolution). There is a pause before he hears footsteps trail out of his bedroom, and then Duke is a strange mixture of relieved and disappointed. As it turns out, he had no reason to be: a minute later he is letting out an undignified yelp as Téa dumps icy water onto his bare torso.
A chase around the room, several nearly fatal stumbles over debris ("Wait, I dropped my phone! I can't see shit in here because of your stupid blackout curtains!" "I have those clap-on lights!" "You what?"), scattered applause, and a weary collapse back onto the bed later, Téa and Duke lay next to each other, breathing in the stuffiness of the dimly lit room together.
"...I've got to stop doing this," Duke says finally, gesturing vaguely. "On weeknights, anyway."
"It's messing up your sleeping schedule," Téa agrees, shifting onto her side to look at him. Their arms are touching and Duke's skin tingles.
"It just makes no sense with my lifestyle. Plus coding is harder when you're hungover."
Téa arches an eyebrow. "That's weirdly mature of you to say."
He rolls his eyes at her. "Don't get all hot and bothered over my practical life decisions just yet. I need this so I don't go full Kaiba-robot-inside. I'm the only one out of you guys who throws parties where we can all get smashed and still talk about important shit. Like Duel Monsters. Not to mention I provide free bedding for people too lazy to go home and bother someone else."
(not to mention he might be hoping that they'll kiss again. he needs a second opinion, and alcohol seems to give better excuses than his tongue. especially when the latter is occupied.)
It's Téa's turn to roll her eyes. Her hair falls a little over her face. "I'm not the one who can't hold my liquor," she says pointedly. "You always end up vomiting in the sink. It's unhealthy and freaks Yugi out. He's almost called an ambulance three times now."
"...Does that mean you're shooting down breakfast mimosas?"
Téa stares at him before letting out a long sigh. "You're hungover and talking about 5am breakfast mimosas on a Wednesday. I can't believe I thought you were pulling your life together." She sits up, patting him on his shoulder. He's almost positive her hand lingers a little longer than necessary. "But rehearsals are late tonight anyway, so sure, make me one."
They make their way out of the bedroom, gingerly stepping around crumpled napkins, greasy paper plates, stray dud Duel Monsters cards, and loose dice ("Sometimes I still can't believe Industrial Illusions funded Dungeon Dice Monsters." "Dice dice, baby." "...This is exactly what I mean."). Duke isn't wearing a shirt and Téa isn't wearing pants ("But together we make a complete outfit!" "Um, I don't think my crop top goes well with your sweatpants." "Yeah, not on you."), but Duke can't help but think that maybe this isn't such a bad place to be in his life right now.
Because Duke knows how to show people a good time, he makes the mimosas with lots of flourishes and finesse. As it turns out, this neatly breaks a champagne flute and spills Tropicana over his countertops. They end up drinking out of coffee mugs while Téa scrambles eggs, not trusting him to be around a stove.
"This is nice, right?" he says, shoving aside chip bags and solo cups to clear space. "You know, both of us hanging out. Nice."
Téa snorts, rummaging around his cabinets for salt. "We've been hanging out for years."
Duke coughs. "I mean by ourselves. Just us." It might be the mimosas, or maybe watching Téa walk around in boy shorts, but Duke is feeling a little daring. "Being half-naked is just a bonus."
Téa scoots onto the stool next to him, pushing a plate of scrambled eggs between them. She deliberately avoids his gaze. "That's the hangover talking. Eat something."
"It is not," he insists, grabbing a fork from under a nearby magazine, still watching her face. "Spending time with you is always great. I know you have all that high school history with the guys, but I'm still learning stuff about you. It's not enough when there are other people around."
Téa still isn't looking at him, drinking deeply instead from her mug. There are dancing dice on it.
"Learning stuff," she says finally, slowly lowering the mug. "Like what?"
She's looking at him with a guarded expression, and Duke spins the dial all the way up on his devilish Devlin charms.
"Like... how you have to eat almonds before a performance. Or, the fact that you think Dark Magician and Dark Magician Girl would make a cute couple. Or, how you're the only person I know who can listen to Kyary Pamyu Pamyu unironically. But there's some things I still want to know." Duke totally isn't nervous (this is Téa, after all; she's seen him after three straight days of coding with no eyeliner and unwashed hair), but his throat is dry for some reason. "Like... if you kiss as well as you dance."
Téa is quiet, her lips parting soundlessly. Duke is beginning to think of the hundredth thing that he could've said instead when she clears her throat, badly biting back a smile.
"Shouldn't you know that last one by now?"
Duke is so surprised by this response, he actually completely forgets his Grand Plan to sound suave. "Uh-"
And then Téa is tugging at his ponytail and he's tasting orange juice on her tongue, his arm winding around her waist.
This is a lot more satisfying than a macchiato and biscotti.