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If it weren’t for Muzan, Akaza would never step foot in this fuckin’ place. Being a bouncer for Club Kizuki isn’t exactly what he had in mind for his life growing up, but at least with Gyutaro working the front door, Akaza can keep an eye on things inside the club.
But above everything else, he can keep an eye out for the only thing that makes this gig bearable.
Kyojurou.
Brilliant, beautiful, strong Kyojurou.
They met by complete chance, the fire-haired man coming into the club, dragged by who he’d later learn was Kyojurou’s worthless fucking boyfriend, Tengen. The man was…fine looking. Objectively. Big muscles, stark-white hair, jewels hanging from his neck, and a smile that never seemed to slip to the wrong side of flirtatious.
The few other instances when a patron of the club had caught Akaza’s eye went one of a handful of ways: a quick fuck, a kind refusal, or a mention of a partner. Normally, a partner being involved—let alone present in the room—would be enough for Akaza to limit himself to appreciative glances from a far, and that’s exactly what would’ve happened the first time they came in if Tengen hadn’t almost immediately dropped Kyojurou in a chair next to the dance floor and then disappear into the crowd to grind on some strangers.
That’s grounds enough for Akaza to see Kyojurou as free game, but even beyond that, beyond the blatant disrespect that Tengen showed—and shows every fucking time hes here—was Kyojurou himself.
As the man passed him in the entrance, Tengen’s arm still flung over his shoulder, Kyojurou’s eyes stuck to Akaza’s, golden and wide and shining in the dark, pulsing light of the club. Just that single glance sent a shiver down Akaza’s spine, made his heart beat three times as fast, and the way that Kyojurou held his stare only confirmed that he could feel it too.
They were meant for each other.
Of every bar and club in this city, Kyojurou came into this one. With every night that Akaza isn’t working, Kyojurou came in when he was. Of all the people to lock eyes with when he entered, it was Akaza.
That first time, he didn’t speak a word to Kyojurou. He just sat back and… observed. He knows he has a temper—Douma and Kokushibou won’t let him forget—but he’s also a martial artist. A fighter. He knows when to sit back and observe your target, when to watch how they move, how they speak, where and when they do what.
Was he technically working? Yeah, maybe, but he didn’t like Muzan enough to care.
So observe he did. It took a full hour for Tengen to seemingly remember he even had a boyfriend, and even though his request to dance was half-hearted, the question made Kyojurou’s face bloom. Akaza’s certain smiles exist just for him, for his eyes to brighten and crinkle at the edge, for his cheeks to rise as just the right amount of teeth show behind his lips.
Then, he saw Kyojurou dance, saw his hips sway and his ass move, saw how he leaned into Tengen’s hands, how he let the larger man guide his body so willingly, and Akaza knew he had to have him.
But that was so long ago.
Now, his shift ended nearly half an hour ago, and there’s still no sight of Kyojurou at all. Not a single flash of golden hair in a sea of multi-colored heads. At this point, Akaza’s ready to call it a bust, to just resign himself to the fact that Kyojurou isn’t coming today, that he’ll just have to head home and rub one out to the thought of the man again, when finally, the gods hear him.
In all his glory, Kyojurou enters the club, and Akaza can’t help how hungry his gaze turns.
He’s not even wearing anything particularly revealing—just his usual collared shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose his thick, strong forearms and a pair of black slacks that hug his ass in every perfect way—but that doesn’t matter to Akaza.
Tengen unfortunately follows shortly after him, but the man doesn’t even bother to pretend to care where Kyojurou goes, immediately bee-lining for the bar.
Kyojurou settles on a table in the far corner, two chairs around a single table, lit only by a few chintzy electric candles on the table, and the occasional light from the dance floor that passes over the spot.
Even in the shitty light, Kyojurou still looks like a work of art.
Akaza maintains his spot, familiar with the routine by this point. Tengen comes to the table shortly, drops off a drink for Kyojurou, and then disappears into the crowd, leaving his boyfriend—his beautiful amazing incredible powerful boyfriend—behind.
What a fucking idiot.
Once Tengen disappears into the mass of moving bodies, Akaza rises from his dark corner, stalking around the perimeter of the dance floor, eyes fixed on Kyojurou, no matter how many times someone passes through his line of sight, how many times the entire room momentarily fills with darkness, his eyes never leave Kyojurou.
Based on the way that Kyojurou stiffens, he feels Akaza’s eyes on him too. With almost terrifying precision, Kyojurou immediately turns to lock eyes with Akaza across the club.
He bites back a moan. The two of them are so fated that they can practically sense where the other is. They were just made for each other. He’s just waiting for Kyojurou to realize.
The man’s eyes track him the entire rest of the way to join him, looking away only when Akaza stands right before him.
“Finally alone, huh?” Akaza smiles, the little beast in his chest ruffling at the hate-filled glance that Kyojurou throws at him. It’s such a fun little act he puts on, like his pupils don’t dilate the second they land on him, like Akaza can’t tell how his cheeks start to darken when he leans close, when he can feel Akaza’s breath puff against his skin.
Even in the dim, irregular light of the club, Akaza can see the appreciative once-over he gives him. He even feels a little thrill when Kyojurou’s eyes pause just a little too long on how his leather pants stretch around his thighs.
Kyojurou turns away, directing his gaze back to the dance floor, and Akaza sees it for the invitation it is. He grabs the chair across from Kyojurou, pulling it around and spinning it so he can face Kyojurou head on, so that if he wants to see anything in the club, he needs to see Akaza first.
Kyojurou rolls his eyes, but doesn’t try to move or readjust. Permission.
Akaza smiles, kicking his legs out to hook around Kyojurou’s chair.
“Could you believe I almost went home?” Akaza purrs, leaning forward into Kyojurou’s face, eyelids hanging low as he takes the man in. The button at his chest practically begs for mercy as the fabric of his shirt stretches taut across his chest, biceps bulging with each minute movement the man makes. “I almost missed my chance with you.”
“Akaza,” Kyojurou responds, arms crossing, and Akaza thinks—hopes—that the fabric is gonna tear then and there.
“Kyojurou.” He responds in their usual, well known routine. It’s a little game they play. Kyojurou comes in with his boyfriend, Akaza waits for the hulking man to eventually abandon this piece of divine beauty, and Akaza sweeps in to lather the man in the praise he deserves, the praise that he is rightfully owed, and Kyojurou pretends to hate it.
He doesn’t bother to hide the hungry way he looks at Kyojurou, how his eyes rave upon his neck, imagining the tan skin marred with bruises, with bite marks, proof that he belongs to Akaza.
His eyes follow up to his jaw, his lips parting as he can practically taste the man's skin on his lips, the salty tang of his sweat, the slight scratch of stubble that he can see peeking through in the light.
A muscle in Kyojurou’s jaw tightens as he stares past Akaza’s shoulder. After a moment he huffs, frustrated before leaning back and resting one arm on the table.
Akaza follows where he was staring, and lo and behold, finds the moron that he calls a boyfriend. Interestingly, Tengen seems to be talking to someone, smile wide and eyes lidded, the man at the bar laughing like that idiot could ever say anything funny enough to warrant it. Most importantly, Akaza notices how the man's hand seems to have found a happy home on Tengen’s shoulder, rubbing the larger man’s back with so much lust it’s pathetic.
And Tengen isn’t pushing it off.
“Ya know, if I was your boyfriend I’d never do this to you.” Akaza speaks, eyes’ returning to Kyojurou and running a finger along his arm. “Never leave you alone in the corner of the room when you should be the heart of it.” He flattens his palm against the swell of his forearm, stroking the man's skin and relishing in how he can feel the goosebumps rise in response. “I’d make sure everyone’s eyes were on you.” He slides his palm further, until it wraps nicely around Kyojurou’s wrist, and he can practically feel how nicely they’d both fit in his hands. “I’d certainly never flirt with someone else right in front of you.”
That seems to be enough for the man, Kyojurou recoiling like the touch and words burned.
Akaza frowns, knowing this usually means the end of their little game, but unlike their usual routine, Kyojurou turns to him, frown firmly affixed to his face, but not yet fleeing.
“I will be better than him, then.” He speaks the words like they physically hurt him to say. Like he doesn’t truly believe them. Before, the refusals always came harsh and, though there was doubt, for certain, there was always a layer of obligation or certainty behind them. This time, all that Akaza finds in those words is anger. And that’s when Akaza knows tonight will be different.
“That’s more than he deserves.”
“Maybe so, but it is what...it is what is right.”
“What’s right?” Akaza scoffs, leaning forward as he pulls Kyojurou’s chair towards him with his legs, indulging in how a beautiful pink rises high on Kyojurou’s cheeks, as how lips fall open on a gasp.
“You’re in a club. What’s right is to dance. Can you at least give me that?” Akaza tries, tilting his head and smiling to show his pointed canines in the way he knows makes Kyojurou’s pulse beat faster.
Kyojurou swallows, and Akaza watches the motion enraptured, knowing that this pause, this moment of brief consideration, is already an answer.
“Fine,” Kyojurou huffs, eyes darting briefly back to the bar, where that bastard is still flirting. “One dance.”
“One dance.”
Akaza smiles, wicked and mind already running wild with how things are working out so much better than he ever expected. After all, one dance is all it’s going to take. Without pause, he rushes them to the dance floor, his heart pounding in time with the heavy bass that thrums through the speakers, and as they come to an open spot, Akaza spins around to face Kyojurou.
What he doesn’t expect to find is Kyojurou already a hairs-breadth away, breath puffing gently against his skin, yet body stiff and immobile.
That won’t do.
“Come, Kyojurou, move! I know you can, I’ve seen you do it before.” He winks, delighting in the rolled eyes that it brings.
But even with Akaza’s encouragement, even as Kyojurou’s eyes go wide when a new song he apparently knows comes on, the man stays still. The song gets him tapping his foot in time with the rhythm, and he’s starting to do a small shuffle to the tune, but that isn’t nearly enough for Akaza, least of all when he looks around and sees the other club goers all over each other, practically dry-humping.
He looks back at Kyojuoru, hoping he’ll see how the others around him are acting and follow their lead, but instead, his eyes stay affixed to the bar. To Tengen.
Akaza frowns. That won’t do at all.
He puts his hands on Kyojurou’s hips, giving a single squeeze and the way the man's eyes widen will make Akaza’s heart race for years to come. The choked breath he lets out when Akaza spins him around so they’re back to front and pulls him flush to his chest will give him enough material to come to for just as long.
“Come, Kyojurou,” he purrs into the man’s ear. “Dance with me.”
This time, when Akaza starts to guide the man’s hips side to side to the beat of the music, Kyojurou doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t fight, no, he gives in. He comes alive.
And Akaza can do little more than meet him, to push when he pulls, to slide when he slides, to squeeze the man's hips, and pull him flush against his body, reverent hands running along his body, up his chest, angling the man’s head to rest against shoulder, fingers ghosting along his collarbone, lips brushing lightly against his neck.
Fuck, his fantasies are coming true under his hands, and when he squeezes Kyojurou’s waist in time with planting a soft kiss right where his jaw meets his neck, the choked gasp that’s pulled from the man’s throat is better than anything he imagined.
Kyojurou responds so beautifully. He presses back, his eyes slide closed, his breaths come hard, and he lets Akaza feel every inch of his body.
That is, until Akaza’s hand slides just a little too close to the waistband of his slacks, until his fingers start to slip inside. Until Akaza can see Kyojurou’s eyes open and shoot towards Tengen.
It’s as if the sudden reminder of his boyfriend's existence douses him in ice water. He goes stock still, his eyes wide as he stumbles forward, almost knocking into the people around them as he whirls around to stare at Akaza.
“I—We—”
“Kyojurou—” Akaza tries, reaching out to this man that has become the subject of his every fantasy and desire. And the man runs.
Akaza sighs, watching the man disappear through the door to the club as it shuts unceremoniously behind him.
Akaza follows after, thoughts running a mile a minute.
This is the closest Akaza has ever gotten to reaching Kyojurou, to show him what he could offer, the kind of pleasure and joy that could await them if Kyojurou would just let go. It’s clear Tengen already has, made even clearer when Akaza glances over and sees the giant man disappearing into the bathroom, and he’d bet money that handsy guy from the bar isn’t far in front of him.
If Kyojurou saw that, then…
‘Shit.’ Akaza might have to be serious now.
Kyojurou and he are fated to be together. He’s the sexiest man Akaza has ever seen, but he’s still a man. And seeing your no-good, negligent partner leave to fuck some nobody would hurt any man.
Even if Akaza knew it was only a matter of time.
Wordlessly, he follows Kyojurou, waving off the arched brow of Gyutaro as he passes.
Outside, it’s like he walks into a wall of heat, the air muggy and the streets still glimmering from the rain that fell a couple of hours ago. The bright lights of the club reflect on the puddles that dot the ground, and the air smells of sweat and gas, heavy in that way that only summer in the city can bring.
He shoots a quick glance either way down the block, but sees no sign of Kyojurou. So instead, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets his feet do the walking.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets and wrapping around the box of cigarettes that sit within, he walks, not far, just until he feels a tug in his gut, and opens his eyes as he rounds the corner to find Kyojurou.
He’s in an alley just beside the building neighboring the club. It’s a common spot for quick hookups, and Akaza’s no stranger to pressing someone against the wall, or being pressed against it himself.
He… doesn’t look great. He leans against the brick wall, head tilted to the sky, face flushed, eyes wide and glassy, and his hands bunched tight at his side, gently knocking his head against the wall behind him.
“Stop that.” Akaza sighs, pulling a cigarette from the box and placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter.
Kyojurou freezes, watching Akaza as he moves, eyes’ tracking every movement without moving his head much.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
Akaza smirks, huffing a laugh as his fingers fail to wrap around the familiar weight that always sits in his pocket.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Kyojurou.” He smiles, baring his teeth and letting the cigarette dangle precariously between them.
When his third time searching his pockets yields no results, he sucks his teeth. He must’ve left it inside.
He’s about to put the cigarette away when a lighter pops into his view. And a nice one too, all engraved and silver metal glinting in the streetlight.
Akaza’s brows shoot to his hairline at this revelation, at this… vice that he never would’ve imagined perfect Kyojurou could have. Oh, if this is one dirty little secret the man's kept from him, what else could there be beneath it all? Akaza’s heart starts to beat faster at the possibilities.
Wordlessly he leans forward, offering the end of his cigarette to the proffered lighter, eyes glued to Kyojurou’s face as the distinctive clicking of its mechanism tries twice before the spark catches. In the dim light of the alley, the gentle flame illuminates Kyojurou’s face for the briefest of moments, and Akaza wants it seared into his eyes forever.
“Do you smoke?” Akaza asks, leaning back against the wall as he takes the first drag.
“I used to. Tengen didn’t like it so I stopped.”
“Hm.” Akaza responds, letting the dull burn fill his lungs as the rush of nicotine starts to fog his brain. “But you kept the lighter?”
Kyojurou looks down at it cradled in his palm, idly turning over. “Yes. I suppose it’s just… comfortable to have.”
Silence falls over the two for a moment, standing side by side, as the weight of the night both settles around them and yet feels worlds away, left behind with the dulled thumping of music through the walls.
“Ya know,” Akaza starts, eyes pointed skywards. “If I was your boyfriend—”
Kyojurou sighs. “Akaza, I’m not in the mood—”
“No, listen to me, Kyojurou,” Akaza turns to face him, smoke swirling between them in the stale air of the alley. “I could be a better boyfriend than him, I’ll do everything you wanted him to do that he never did, all the things you deserve, that he’s too much of a coward to do.”
Kyojurou rolls his head back against the wall, pushing off and starting to leave. And Akaza, because he just can’t help himself, reaches out again.
He’ll never get over how well his hand fits around Kyojurou’s wrist.
“Please, just hear me out,” he pleads, letting just an ounce of the desperation he feels bleed into his words. He… he doesn’t like to let this part of him show, to let this ugly, unsexy, unsure part of his personality into the light of day. It doesn’t get him laid, and it rarely gets him what he wants, but… for Kyojurou, he thinks it’s just what he needs to see.
Kyojurou, thankfully, stops in his tracks, but refuses to face him. Even when Akaza pulls him closer, when he steps up to the man so that Akaza is practically at his side, hands dangling between them and Akaza can look at his profile. He notes the gentle arch of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw, the tense angle of his brows.
And he knows that this is his last chance.
“You already know I’ll never give up on you. I can’t stand the thought of leaving you alone, of looking anywhere but at you, of going out for a night with you, and then abandoning you to just look at your phone the whole time! Please, Kyojurou, please see that you deserve better. You deserve someone who treats you the way you should be treated, who makes you feel good, and not forgotten.”
As he speaks, the tension bleeds from Kyojurou’s brows, the angle softening as his shoulders start to drop, as his eyes drift downward and he lets the words wash over him.
Okay. Akaza just… he just has to say exactly the right thing, just the thing that’ll convince Kyojurou that he’s right and he should leave his cheating, bastard, worthless, brain-dead, no good, too large boyfriend.
“Plus all my clothes would fit you.”
Fuck! That was not what he meant to say!
He blew it. He almost certainly blew it, fuck.
He winces hard when the words leave his mouth, and he expects for Kyojurou to leave, to pull his hand out of his grip and walk off into the city, alone.
But it doesn’t happen.
Instead, Kyojurou turns to look at him, and before Akaza can even start to process the flurry of emotions swirling on his face, Kyojurou closes the distance between them.
Akaza has spent a lot of time wondering how Kyojurou kisses. Does he kiss gently, like the smile he turns to so many people? Does he kiss with intensity, like the sometimes unnerving energy in his eyes?
He’s thrilled to find out that Kyojurou kisses like he wants to consume you. He kisses Akaza like he wants to taste the cigarette on his lips, like he wants their bodies to mold into one another, like it’s a competition and he intends to not just win, but absolutely obliterate Akaza.
And fuck, is it working.
Akaza feels a hand rise into the short scruff at the back of his neck, feels another raise to cradle his jaw, feels Kyojurou’s tongue glide into his mouth and Akaza hardly thinks before he starts to press back in turn. His brain fills until all he can think is ‘Kyojurou, Kyojurou, Kyojurou.’
When the two finally separate—Akaza curses his lungs for needing air—he blearily realizes that Kyojuro has backed him up against the wall. Akaza raises a hand to his own face, pausing before he touches his lips, hardly believing what just happened.
The lit cigarette still hangs in his hand, and Akaza can do little more than watch as Kyojurou reaches forward, plucking it out of Akaza’s hand, and taking a long drag. The ember crackles in the dark space between them, and when Kyojurou exhales, the smoke curls around them, filling their tiny little space with its acrid smell.
“I think you should take me home now,” Kyojurou mumbles, leaning forward to sigh out the last dregs of smoke against Akaza’s lips.
Akaza feels lightheaded, and the cigarette’s only half to blame.