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Atsushi isn’t quite wasted, but he’s three drinks deep for the first time in his entire life, and Chuuya has nobody to blame for that but himself.
Nakahara Chuuya had been a social drinker long before it was technically legal. Kouyou had refined his palette from a young age, and his appreciation for expensive wines was one of the many luxuries afforded by the Port Mafia’s salary for anyone sitting towards the top of the food chain. Years of training to keep his faculties in check, combined with Kouyou’s stiff expectations for him to be on his best, most presentable behavior, meant that he avoided the trap of relying on it as he had seen so many others do; he enjoys a glass of wine at dinner, a little more at parties, collects bottles of imported European finery, but he watches his habits, treats the idea of the bottle with respect rather than as a necessity.
He’s never been one for sweets, but he imagines it’s how children treat the types of candy their parents never let them have.
On the flip side, Nakajima Atsushi never had a sip of anything other than water before he was eighteen, and the idea of ‘going to a bar’ was so foreign to him still at twenty that Chuuya had to explain to him what it would be like beforehand. Alcohol was a thing that existed almost exclusively outside of Atsushi’s world - which felt so fuckin’ weird, considering where he grew up and who his senpai was after he’d been found.
Chuuya never expected him to drink at all, - it hardly even crossed his mind - he’d only suggested they go to the bar for a date night because he’d been friendly with the barkeep for years now and thought it would be nice to introduce Atsushi to one of his safer haunts, considering the Mafia didn’t exactly open the door wide to boyfriend-friendly possibilities for ‘cool places to flirt’ without having to look over his shoulder the whole time. Hell, Chuuya doesn’t even enjoy most of the Mafia-owned businesses that are on the tamer side of safe, and he was used to that sort of thing.
He shouldn’t really be surprised that Atsushi was eager to order something he’s never even heard of; that’s how it started with a Cinderella, because Chuuya thought if he was that interested to try a drink, he ought to start off with something more familiar in flavor. When that was a hit, - worth a pleasant hum and half the glass gone before Chuuya had even acknowledged the French red on his own coaster - his boyfriend was skimming the menu for other attractions.
He was only going to order one more, ‘just to give a try’, he said, but when Chuuya asked him what sounded good, he’d been between three completely different drinks.
And, well, Chuuya was planning on treating him anyway, and it’s not like he can’t afford a few drinks, and it’s more than fine if Atsushi doesn’t actually finish any of them so-
So he orders a Mojito-Eight, a Moscow Mule, and a Charlie Chaplin all at once, and tells Atsushi to sample them as he pleases; Atsushi is responsible, Chuuya is a heavyweight despite his size, and they can share it all, anyhow.
Somewhere in there, though, he had an oversight.
That’s why he feels really, really fuckin’ guilty now when Atsushi leans over onto the table, lays his head in the crook of his elbow, hides his face flushed red with the burning alcohol under one hand, and starts to cry without any warning at all.
“Hey, hey, shhh, it’s okay,” Chuuya murmurs under his breath, simultaneously cursing himself out mentally. He slides over into the booth seat where Atsushi is situated across the table, leather pants sticking to the worn faux leather of the old chair. “Atsushi, what’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
He can take any number of guesses. It was clear that Atsushi was getting tipsy off the Cinderella by the time the bottom of the glass became visible. Chuuya could tell he was definitely drinking too much for a first-timer after he’d downed half the Mojito entirely on his own, even though Chuuya insisted they were just samplers for now and he should start with little sips. But he had thrown back the second half of the glass without even batting an eye before Chuuya could suggest slowing down. It was concerning, to some degree. This is entirely new territory for him, and he dove into it so quickly, and that’s Chuuya’s fault because he was too quick to pamper and only should have ordered one drink at a time. He really had thought Atsushi would have been more cautious around alcohol, considering his lack of experience among other things.
The only defense he has for himself, flimsy as it is, is that he had no idea Atsushi’s tolerance would be THIS low.
The Mule and the Chaplin still sit completely untouched on the table.
Atsushi’s only actually had two drinks.
“Atsushi, beautiful, what’s the matter?” he asks again, slowly moving closer until their thighs are touching on the seat. He gently maneuvers one arm around Atsushi’s shoulders to pull him into his side, and when his boyfriend doesn’t recoil at the contact, he starts rubbing his thumb in idle circles against his upper arm. “Was it too much? Did I overwhelm you?”
Shockingly, Atsushi shakes his head and, without lifting it away from his arm, tips his chin up to look at Chuuya.
“N-not your fault, Chuuya-san,” he hiccups like its punctuation, but his speech, slurred and unsteady as it is, is undeterred by the alcohol in its confidence. It’s hard to sound sure of yourself when you’re drunk. Chuuya’s been there before. It’s almost worth calling a miracle.
Because of Atsushi’s habit to try to hide how he feels, Chuuya takes it with a grain of salt anyway. “I think I pushed you by orderin’ all this shit at once. That’s my fault, sweetheart.”
The bar around them is mild. The lights are characteristically dim, the room is full of chatter and laughter that veils their conversation in some specific illusion of privacy. The bartender is chatty while she works and the air smells like a cocktail of booze and perfume that’s not quite strong enough to prove itself unpleasant. The wood of the table is dark and the booth seats are a fading shade of evergreen that’s starting to peel at the corners. Chuuya likes it here because it’s quiet in comparison to some many other little places like this, homely in a weird way, but it’s not too quiet that he’s ever alone with his thoughts in that uncomfortable sort of way. He knows it’s the kind of atmosphere Atsushi normally enjoys when they go out. He hopes to whatever God is actually out there giving a shit that he didn’t ruin this experience for him.
“T-that’s not the- the problem,” Atsushi insists, sounding more defiant than he is upset in the moment. “I w-wanted to try. I did. I wanted to.”
Chuuya bites back a sigh. “Atsushi, I know you did, but I have more experience with this, so I should ‘ave made sure you paced y’erself-“
“Nooooo,” Atsushi whines, looking up for the first time since Chuuya sat down next to him. Violet-golden irises sparkle with unshed tears, his lips curled into a frown that’s furrowed at the edges. It’s impossible to tell if he’s sad, annoyed, or working up to a tantrum that he probably deserves to have at this point. His nose is scrunched up and if Chuuya weren’t so concerned right now, he would tease him for how cute he looks when he’s pouting.
It’s clear that he’s aware, far from insensible, his autonomy is intact, he’s just… emotional. He stares at Chuuya for a very long, long moment. Chuuya can practically hear the gears turning in his head, so he waits for Atsushi to form whatever thought is curling around his tongue.
Atsushi rakes his eyes over Chuuya’s form very, very slowly. Chuuya traces the path of his gaze; the way he squints ever so slightly while observing Chuuya’s nervous expression, how he seems to follow the lines of his face from top to bottom, how he pauses just a little longer at Chuuya’s chest before glancing at his naval and the small bit of his stomach exposed by his cropped shirt that allows for a gap between his hip and the waist of his pants without properly sitting like a crop top would. If it were anyone else scrutinizing him this way, Chuuya would deck them in the nose in and leave the print of his boot on their stomach.
When Atsushi does it, Chuuya sits and glows under the attention without ever meaning to. The only thing that’s keeping him from preening completely is the fact that he’s still not sure what exactly triggered Atsushi’s upset other than (presumably, at least) the foreign presence of the alcohol.
Atsushi opens his mouth, closes it, picks his head up slowly off the table, opens it, closes it again, blinks the tears out of his eyes, then opens it a third time. He looks completely serious all of a sudden, and the only proof that he had been upset is the red around his eyes and the blush under his cheeks.
“Byakko doesn’t l-like the alcohol, a-and she went a-away,” Atsushi finally announces, tilting his head to one side while slow, tiny tears roll down his cheeks. “And i-it’s so lonely s-sitting here all by myself b-because s-she went to sleep and- and you w-were so far away at the other end of the table…”
He trails off at the end, hiccuping again, but he more than gets the picture.
Chuuya’s thumb stops drawing random patterns into Atsushi’s shoulder. Atsushi is looking him in the eye, not like he’s making a complaint about the drinks, but as though he’s informing Chuuya of a simple and inconsequential fact.
To be entirely fuckin’ fair, that’s something they probably should have thought about ahead of time. He never really considered the Tiger in relation to how Atsushi might take to a drink, and Atsushi had never mentioned it as a concern either, so it went completely over Chuuya’s head. It makes sense, though; Tigers out in the wild don’t usually drink, as far as Chuuya is aware, so of fucking course they have no tolerance this sort of thing. Atsushi on the other hand is average height, average build, and plenty nourished nowadays, so Chuuya never stopped to figure him as a lightweight in any sense of the word. Whatever part of him is biologically inclined towards his ability must be offsetting it.
“Okay,” Chuuya starts slowly, unsure of where to begin unpacking this as an issue. “Is this better now, beautiful? Sitting together?”
Atsushi nods eagerly, a small smile tugging at his cheeks. He leans into Chuuya’s arm wrapped around the expanse of his back and nuzzles into Chuuya’s shoulder at the same time.
“Okay,” Chuuya says again, sounding a little dumb. “You said Byakko went to sleep. What does that mean?”
Atsushi shrugs minutely. “S-sometimes,” he pauses to hiccup. “Sometimes she g-goes to sleep. I-it used to h-happen-“ another hiccup. “-all the t-time, ‘cuz she didn’t l-like me. B-but now it only happens if uh-“ he swallows, tilting his head until his temple hits the crook of Chuuya’s neck. “If something happens a-and- and she doesn’t like it.”
So Chuuya was pretty much on the money, then. “Like alcohol?” he guesses, dipping his chin to keep eye contact with Atsushi.
“Mmh-m,” Atsushi hums as if he’s proud.
Chuuya releases a breath, sinking into the seat a little beneath him. It’s still concerning how quickly Atsushi became inebriated, and his slurred speech sounds… wrong, in all of the ways that it usually would and then some, given how meek Atsushi can be. But there’s some relief to be had in the fact that he isn’t having a goddamn panic attack like Chuuya had first thought when Atsushi burst into tears that alleviates some amount of his guilt. If Byakko ‘sleeping’ isn’t a new sensation, then maybe he has less to feel nervous about. Maybe.
“So you… just wanted me to sit here?” Chuuya asks him, reaching his free arm around to offer an open hand to Atsushi.
Atsushi takes it eagerly, linking their fingers together in a pattern of Atsushi’s pale fingers and chewed nails in between the faint freckles over Chuuya’s knuckles. “It’s so l-lonely w-when Byakko goes to s-sleep,” Atsushi insists, breathing in deep and pressing his nose into Chuuya’s collarbone. “Want y-you. Y-you’re so pretty, Chuuya-san. W-want you t-to stay forever,” he hiccups, but it devolves into a nearly imperceptible giggle. “So, so pretty. N-never want you t-to go so far a-away again.”
Chuuya is suddenly very thankful that Atsushi is cuddled into his side and, therefore, blind to the fact that Chuuya’s face is suddenly on fire. The tips of his ears are burning and he can only imagine that his cheeks are as red as his hair. Atsushi is affectionate normally, that’s nothing new, but there’s something about his drunken flirting that cuts whatever wire runs between Chuuya’s heart and his brain to keep him functional. High on the unfamiliarity of his first drink, and the first thing Atsushi did after waking up in foreign territory; he shed tears in the supposed absence of a Chuuya who was three feet away and yet so far gone that it was apparently unbearable. That shouldn’t make him flush like a school girl nursing a kiddie crush.
But it does.
“Chuuya-san,” Atsushi mumbles, sounding exhausted. The yawn that follows, unhinging his jaw and bearing his tiny front fangs, drives the point home, unconscious as it clearly is. “Do you l-love me?”
Chuuya swallows past the lump of his heart in his throat. He won’t survive this. “Of course I do, Atsushi. I love you more than you know,” he whispers, without ever missing a beat. He can feel the guilt ebbing into something… less. Atsushi is a lightweight, clingy, sentimental sort of drunk. It’s fucking adorable. “Always will, beautiful.”
Atsushi giggles. It’s a bubbly, incredible little thing. “Good. I love y-you, Chuuya-san,” he grins against Chuuya’s shoulder. “Thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-s much,” he drawls, pulling out the vowel until he’s practically out of breath.
His laughing fit persists until he’s shaking against Chuuya’s chest, grinning at a joke that nobody else will ever get to hear, and Chuuya decides that he’s falling in love all over again; his heart threatens to give out and all of that love and affection stirring in his chest belongs solely to Atsushi. He squeezes Atsushi’s hand, turning his head to press a small kiss into the top of his hair, smiling over the crown of his head. He’s going to kiss him properly, kiss him utterly SENSELESS when he’s sober tomorrow, teasing him for all his silliness once he’s helped him work through what’s bound to prove an obnoxious hangover in the morning, but for now-
The giggling devolves rather suddenly into a very loud, very hasty sneeze that he has neither the time nor the awareness to hide inside his elbow. A thick clod of snot lands on the front of Chuuya’s shirt, sticky against the delicate silk. Ironically, Atsushi sneezes more like a cat than a human person, sharp and lacking in any semblance of grace; he hardly even reacts other than bunching his nose up and glaring, cross-eyed, in what Chuuya assumes is the ticklish aftermath. Still, Chuuya can’t help but find it cute, and maybe that’s his occupation talking, but mucus really doesn’t bother him, especially when his boyfriend is clingy and a little out of it, and, well, he’s in love, dammit. Sue him.
Atsushi tilts his head and blinks up at him. Chuuya half expects him to start apologizing like he usually would, and there’s already a reassurance on the tip of his tongue telling Atsushi that he doesn’t mind it and-
Atsushi only blinks a little faster.
Once.
Twice.
And then he giggles again, louder still, glowing in all but the literal sense. It’s punctuated with hiccups and muddled by his cheek pressed into the juncture of Chuuya’s shoulder, until he’s wobbling a little in his seat, nearly tipping over to kiss the table nose-first as his head slides off Chuuya’s arm. But even as Chuuya hastens to catch him and prop him back upright, one hand still around his waist and the other cupping his cheek gently between his thumb and forefinger, Atsushi only keeps laughing into the crease of Chuuya’s palm.
Okay, so maybe Atsushi is just the SLIGHTEST bit tipsy, and Chuuya has nobody to blame for that but himself-
But, ah, he’s okay with taking the fall.