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By 1:30 a.m., Tokyo has decided it has had enough of them.
Sam’s phone reads 99,991 steps; his calves are already planning to skip leg day tomorrow in protest. Bucky’s been silent for the last thirty minutes, which usually means he’s planning something deeply unreasonable.
They’d tried everywhere.
Ramen shops with curtains already drawn. Izakayas stacking chairs with ruthless efficiency. A tiny yakitori stall that gave Sam a sympathetic look and a soft shake of the head before he could even ask.
“All I wanted in life,” Sam mutters, hands on his hips, “was one hot meal and a chair.”
Bucky nods, disappointment heavy in his entire being. “I was really looking forward to sitting down.”
Joaquín, meanwhile, is thriving.
They find him outside a neon-soaked Don Quijote, hunched forward under the weight of six crinkly yellow plastic bags, each one bulging like it’s hiding evidence.
“Please tell me that’s food,” Sam groans.
“Some of it,” Joaquín says, far too pleased with himself.
Bucky squints at the bags. “Why do you have six?”
“Because Donki understands me,” Joaquín replies smugly. “Also, tax-free.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “You seem to be the only one enjoying this.”
Joaquín shrugs. “It’s way past your bedtime. You’re both tired and cranky.”
One bag swings open just enough to reveal limited-edition Kit Kats. Another reveals boxes of serum face masks and plastic Casios. A plush Hello Kitty keychain dangles from a handle on one, for reasons known only to Joaquín.
•
Dinner ends up being Famichiki. They eat standing under a dim streetlight, grease soaking through thin paper sleeves. It’s hot. Crunchy. Salty enough to supply electrolytes.
“It’s good,” Sam admits reluctantly.
Bucky nods. “Yeah. Better than KFC.”
Joaquín finishes his in three bites. “You’re welcome.”
•
By the time they reach the narrow building with the glowing sign, Sam nearly cries from exhaustion. This was supposed to be a vacation, not a death march.
“This is the place,” Joaquín announces. “Capsule hotel. Very authentic.”
Sam sighs, long and hard. “Capsule? Like coffin rooms? Why can’t you just book us a normal hotel?”
“For the experience,” Joaquín says. “Of sleeping like being inside a womb.”
Sam glares at him. “Dude, you’re weird.”
•
The lobby is spotless. Judgmentally quiet.
A tired front-desk attendant looks up as they approach. Joaquín steps forward, still holding all six Don Quijote bags like an exhibit of poor life choices.
“Check-in for Joaquín Torres. No middle name,” he says cheerfully, handing over their passports.
The attendant types. Nods. Slides key cards across the counter.
“Two capsules for three nights,” she says gently.
Sam freezes. “We’re three.”
Joaquín blinks. “Oh.”
Bucky closes his eyes, done.
“Oh?” Sam repeats.
Joaquín scrolls on his phone, plastic bags screaming with every movement. “Huh. That’s weird.”
“What’s weird,” Sam says calmly, which means violence is imminent.
“I must’ve… accidentally booked only two pods for us.”
The attendant’s polite smile tightens. “Every capsule is booked for tonight.”
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “May I please have the single pod?”
Joaquín shakes his head, his features devastatingly sympathetic. “Sorry, Cap,” he says. “I need space for my Donki haul.”
Bucky flatly stares in the middle distance, like he’s vaguely remembering 1943, or 2014, or whatever year he was contemplating murder.
“So, you booked us,” Sam gestures weakly at Bucky, “one coffin.”
“It’s not a coffin,” Joaquín says. “It’s a pod.”
The attendant clears her throat. “Capsules are single occupancy only.”
Sam straightens immediately. “Yes. We understand. This is a mistake. Gomen nasai.”
“We can fix it in the morning,” Joaquín adds quickly, smiling like this is charming. “Right?”
“All hotels in Minato Ward are fully booked,” the attendant replies, sympathetic. “Internet cafes as well. Trains are closed. It is very late.”
Sam sags. Bucky exhales slowly, nodding.
“We promise,” Joaquín says, earnest now. “No noise. One night only.”
The attendant studies them. The quiet and exhausted man is clearly dissociating. The apologetic one is already bowing too much and saying gomen nasai like a mantra. And the third, suspiciously energetic, is clutching six Don Quijote bags like emotional support animals.
She sighs.
“Okay. One night,” she says. “No trouble. No noise. We fix it in the morning.”
Sam bows so hard his backpack slips. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Joaquín grins. “See? Japanese hospitality is topnotch.”
•
Upstairs, on the capsule floor, Joaquín stops at his door, already swiping his key card.
“Well,” he says brightly, plastic rustling. “Good night, lovebirds.”
Sam spins. “You little shit—”
Too late. Joaquín is gone. He slips into the pod, locking it. Sam peeks inside, only to see Joaquín grinning at him as he slides the privacy window. They hear bags drop and something crunchy being opened.
Sam turns to Bucky.
The capsule awaits.
•
It is exactly as bad as advertised.
Narrow. Low ceiling. One thin mattress that does not pretend to accommodate two people.
“This is stupid,” Sam mutters.
“It’s shelter,” Bucky says.
They climb in.
Carefully. Too carefully. Limbs negotiating space like diplomats. Bucky lies flat, rigid, arms tucked in, hands on his chest like a vampire preparing to sleep. Sam wedges himself beside him, knees bent, facing away from Bucky, his butt accidentally touching Bucky’s thigh.
They freeze.
The problem announces itself immediately. Quietly. Undeniably.
Too close. Too hot.
Sam can hear Bucky’s breathing, steady but just a little too fast. Bucky can feel Sam’s pillowy posterior pressed against him, heat bleeding through fabric like it has nowhere else to go. It’s so soft, so—
“This is… uncomfortable,” Sam whispers.
Bucky cringes. “Yeah,” he murmurs. A pause. “Absolutely.”
Sam swallows. Shifts slightly. It does not help.
Bucky stills completely, like if he doesn’t move, his body will stop betraying him.
“Sorry,” Sam whispers.
“It’s fine,” Bucky exhales. “Just… yeah.”
Minutes pass. The capsule hums softly. Somewhere down the hall, someone snores. From Joaquín’s room, a soda can pops open.
Eventually, Sam murmurs, barely audible, “If you need to… move your arm or turn your body, you can. You look like a corpse in that position.”
Bucky hesitates. Then carefully turns, draping his arm around Sam’s waist. Not bold. Not possessive. Just anchoring. Sam’s breath hitches.
It makes everything worse.
Bucky presses his forehead against the nape of Sam’s neck, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to breathe too hard, to be normal.
They are not normal.
They stay anyway. Uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Sweaty. Aroused.
Outside, Tokyo sleeps.
Inside, the world shrinks to shared heat, exhausted bodies, inconvenient desire, and the understanding that this is temporary.
In the morning, they’ll fix it.
Sam closes his eyes.
“Joaquín’s definitely fired,” he whispers.
From the next room, Joaquín laughs like a villain.