Archive of Our Own

Choso had two rules that kept his tattoo studio running smoothly and his blood pressure at a manageable level.

He did not tattoo drunk people. Alcohol thinned the blood, ruined clean lines, and, most importantly, made clients impossible to keep still.

And then, there was a deeply personal second rule: Zenin Naoya was, under absolutely no circumstances, allowed inside the shop.

This was necessary for Choso’s mental well-being. He had the misfortune of knowing the spoiled Zenin heir through his younger brother, Yuji. Specifically, through Yuji’s best friend, Fushiguro Megumi. The teenagers were practically attached at the hip, which guaranteed endless weekend sleepovers at Choso’s apartment.

That meant someone from Megumi’s family eventually had to collect him. Sometimes it was Megumi’s father, an intimidating man who barely spoke. That suited Choso just fine. But whenever the chore fell to Naoya, it was a nightmare. Megumi, however, looked equally miserable to see either of them. 

The false blonde would arrive in a rotating fleet of expensive cars, step out and stand on Choso’s front porch in shoes that clearly had no business touching the pavement of what he called “poor-neighbourhood” and actively look for ways to ruin Choso’s morning.

For the first two months, their dynamic consisted of pure hostility.

There was the morning Choso had nearly hurled him into the street. Naoya had taken a single sip of the coffee Choso politely offered, gagged dramatically, and asked if the mug had been filled with puddle water. It was only Yuji’s panicked face that kept Naoya's perfectly styled head attached to his shoulders.

The absolute breaking point happened weeks later over Megumi's luggage. Naoya had pulled up to the curb, popped the trunk from the driver's seat, and actually snapped his fingers at Choso, lazily ordering him to load Megumi’s bags into the back. He had even added a warning not to let the metal zippers scratch the bespoke suede. Choso’s patience officially shattered there. He flat-out refused to act as Naoya's personal bellhop, dropped the bags on the grass, and told the Zenin heir to use his own damn legs.

In retaliation, Choso found a 1-star review on his tattoo website the next day.

The review didn't even mention tattoos. It just read: "Owner is very rude, wears tragic, uninspired plain black t-shirts, and has a distracting black line across his face. Zero stars if I could."

Choso spent an entire hour trying to report the comment to the website for harassment before officially instituting Rule Number Two.

But around month four, Naoya must have realized that glaring and complaining wasn't actually getting under Choso's skin anymore. So, he changed tactics.

Choso didn't know the intricacies of Zenin corporate politics, nor did he care to know the  details of Naoya’s personal life. But between unavoidable tabloid headlines and Megumi’s muttered complaints over Sunday breakfasts, he got the gist. He knew Naoya dated high-profile models and shallow celebrities, parading them around like expensive accessories before cutting them off the second he got bored. Flirting, for Naoya, was as casual as breathing.

So the first time Naoya dropped a line, Choso was caught off guard.

They had been standing on the grass by the front porch. Megumi was already in the car, airpods in to block out whatever argument was about to break out.

Choso had the words ready—was a second away from telling the Zenin heir exactly where he could shove his sunglasses if he didn’t shut up.

But before Choso could deliver it, Naoya paused. He tilted his head, letting his sharp eyes drag up Choso’s inked arms, lingering on the muscles of his chest before finally meeting his gaze.

"Are you going to hit me, Choso?" Naoya murmured, resting his arm casually on the roof of the car with an infuriating smirk. 

"Such a shame. You have gorgeous hands, but absolutely zero imagination on how to use them on me."

And then, before Choso could even process the words, Naoya simply turned on his heel, slid gracefully into the driver's seat, and drove away.

Choso had stood on the grass for a full minute, his brain completely rebooting, feeling the tips of his ears burning red.

He knew it was just a new weapon. He knew Naoya was just poking him. But it kept happening. Every few weeks,out of nowhere, Naoya would drop a casual comment about how Choso was "unfortunately very nice to look at when he scowled," or complain that Choso’s jeans "unfairly highlighted his thighs,” and then immediately go back to treating him like an irritating valet.

It left Choso off-balance. And to his horror, the tactic worked.

Because the most unfair part of it all was that Naoya was just… ridiculously pretty.

There was no arguing with it. Sharp, clean features—high cheekbones, pale lashes, that dyed blond hair that somehow worked. A jawline that caught the light just enough to be distracting. Even the glint of silver from ear piercings just added to that young rebel edge.

And when he actually shut up, he looked almost unreal. Like something carved out of marble and put on display. It was a face designed specifically to ruin people's lives.

Choso was a grounded, logical man. He knew Naoya was a nightmare. He knew all that. And yet, thanks to those unprompted moments, Choso’s big heart was swayed and he had spent the last two months nursing a crush on a man he actively wanted to strangle.

So, naturally, keeping Naoya out of his tattoo shop was less of a preference and more of a survival tactic. If Naoya ever crossed that threshold, Choso wasn't sure if he would punch him or kiss him.

The verdict came at 1 a.m on a rainy Friday night. It was when both rules were violated in the form of a completely drenched Zenin Naoya.

Choso was in the middle of his closing routine. The quiet hum of the studio’s purple neon sign in the window was the only sound competing with the rain lashing against the glass storefront. He was exhausted. His lower back ached from hunching over a massive back piece for six hours, and he was mindlessly wiping down his stainless-steel workstation with a bottle of green soap, already halfway asleep on his feet and still pondering whether to get back home or sleep in the shop because it was raining too much.

The front glass door opened to Naoya, wearing a dark three-piece suit which would look a lot more fancy if it was not dripping wet. His tie hung loose around his neck. His dyed blond hair, usually styled to perfection, was a wet mess with dark tips plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck.

And Choso could see the flush on Naoya’s cheeks.

“No,” Choso said, staring at the puddle of water already forming at Naoya’s feet.

Naoya blinked, his brow furrowing in genuine offense. He kicked the door shut behind him with a thud. 

"What? I haven't even said anything yet!"

"I don't need you to," Choso retorted, tossing his cleaning rag onto his metal workstation. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. You're tracking water all over a floor I just mopped. Get out."

Naoya ignored him. He swayed slightly on his feet, taking a few unsteady steps into the shop, bringing the overwhelming scent of rain, damp clothes, and whiskey with him.

"I want a tattoo."

Choso actually huffed in disbelief.

"Absolutely not. First of all, you’re drunk. Second, you’re you. Go home."

Naoya scowled and dug clumsily into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a thick soaked stack of yen notes. 

“I’ll pay double,” he demanded, waving the sad, dripping clump of cash at Choso and his words were slightly slurred. “Triple or whatever your hourly rate is. I will pay it.”

Choso looked from the dripping bills to the pooling puddle on the floor to Naoya’s flushed, indignant face, and for a split second, the frustration in his chest wavered.

It was pathetic and arrogant. It was exactly why Naoya was a nightmare.

And yet, Choso felt a tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Choso shot back, crossing his heavily tattooed arms over his chest to ignore the fact that his heart had suddenly started hammering against his ribs. "I'm not putting a needle on you. Why would you even want a tattoo from me anyway? I thought the owner here was impossibly rude."

Naoya stopped, blinking and his fist full of soggy money hovering awkwardly in the air.

"You said so yourself," Choso continued, unable to stop the petty satisfaction from bleeding into his voice. "Tragic t-shirts. Distracting face ink. Zero stars if you could, remember?"

Naoya snapped, his voice tight with petulant, drunken anger. He took a shaky step forward which Choso almost stepped in to steady him but restrained when Naoya caught himself on the counter and slapped the wet pile of bills onto it.

“I drove all the way down here just to find out your pathetic shop is shoved down a narrow alleyway! My car couldn't even fit!"

He pointed a shaking finger back toward the rain-lashed front window.

“I had to walk half a block through a literal hurricane because of your terrible location!”

“Then you should have stayed in your car,” Choso’s voice was flat but the thought that Naoya, the pampered brat had actually walked in the rain to see him— well technically to get a tattoo but that little hope was doing fluttery things to his chest.

“I’m not tattooing you. Alcohol thins your blood. If I put a needle in you right now, you’ll just bleed the ink right back out. It’ll look like shit.”

Naoya stared at him, and Choso could see his face contorting into something more stubborn.

“No,” he shot back, voice tipping into a whine. He kicked his ruined, squeaky shoe against the floor. “No. Noo. You’re seriously going to make me go back out there? After I walked all this way?”

Then Naoya stepped forward like he meant to argue it up close, but his knees gave out halfway. Choso moved before Naoya could actually smash his face into the metal counter or worse the floor and caught him by the waist and shoulder.

And that was a mistake.

Naoya didn’t try to steady himself. Instead, he latched onto Choso’s arm and leaned in fully, nails biting into Choso’s forearm as he pressed his face into the front of his shirt.

That made Choso go completely still.  Shit 

He could feel coldness seeping through his shirt but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

They didn’t do this. They barely even stood close to each other without it turning into a fight. And now Naoya was right there.

Choso exhaled mentally and he had to lock his jaw to keep himself from doing something stupid—like pulling him closer.

“I’m not leaving,” Naoya muttered against his chest. There was a sound of teeth chattering. He gave Choso’s arm a weak shake, completely unaware of the effects he had on him. 

“It’s freezing. You’re the worst.”

That did it. Choso looked down at the mess of damp blond hair tucked under his chin and let out a long, tired breath.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“We’ll see,” Naoya said, tipping his chin up just enough to flash him a lopsided smile.

It was 5 seconds before Choso finally said.

“Fine.” 

He shifted his grip, sliding a hand down to Naoya’s wrist and easing him back just enough to breathe. “Sit. Before I change my mind.”

Naoya didn’t argue this time. He let himself be steered backward until the backs of his knees hit the chair, then dropped into it with a thud. His head tipped back, eyes half-lidded as he stared up at the ceiling.

Choso stayed standing over him for a second, already feeling a headache forming.

“If we’re actually doing this,” he said, dragging a tired hand over his head, “what do you want?”

Naoya lifted one hand, drawing a lazy shape in the air. “A frog.”

Choso blinked. “A frog.”

“Just like Megumi’s ugly pet,” Naoya added, words slurring together. “But mine should not be ugly. It should be majestic. Put a crown on it.”

“…A crowned frog.”

“Yeah.” Naoya’s mouth twitched. “Because I’m a king.”

Choso stared at him for a long second. 

Then he turned away before he could actually let out a laugh, heading to the back. He grabbed a thick towel from the warmer, turned on the room heater on the way and came back, tossing it straight onto Naoya’s head.

“Dry off.”

Naoya made a noise of protest, hands coming up to push it off, but his fingers were shaking too badly to get any real grip. He just ended up fumbling with it, dragging it uselessly over his hair.

Choso watched that for a second before stepping back in.

“Give me that.”

He caught the edges of the towel and started rubbing, rough but quick.

Naoya went still.

Then he leaned into it.

Not subtle about it either. He just tipped forward until his cheek pressed straight into Choso’s palm through the towel chasing the heat. He looked like a wet fox.

Choso froze at that. His hand stayed there, fingers curled slightly against Naoya’s face.

Then he pulled back like he’d been burned.

“You gotta take the shirt off,” he said, a little too abrupt. “You will get pneumonia.”

Naoya hummed, already moving. The jacket went first—hitting the floor with a wet slap. Then the shirt peeled off slower, sticking in places. Choso tried not to look.

And failed.

Pale skin under harsh light, all sharp lines and muscle pulled tight from the cold. 

He looked away a second too late.

Then Naoya’s hands dropped to his belt.

“Woah—no. What are you doing?” He caught Naoya’s wrists before the buckle came loose.

Naoya frowned at him, like this was somehow unreasonable. 

“They’re wet,” he said, tugging weakly. “And itchy.”

“You’re not taking them off.”

Naoya just stared at him, unimpressed.

Choso exhaled hard.

Think.

If he was doing a tattoo on Naoya, it sure would take at least two hours. Staying in wet pants would sure be uncomfortable. But Naoya could barely stay upright. No way he was making it to the restroom to change without wiping out again—and Choso wasn’t hauling him back there. And there was absolutely no chance he was helping him change.

“…Okay,” Choso muttered.

He let go and stepped back, moving to close blinds of the glassfront and lock the deadbolt. Quick, practiced.

And then went back to the back room to dig a pair of sweatpants from his bag.

He came back and tossed them at Naoya.

“Change here,” he said, turning around immediately, arms crossing tight over his chest. 

“Tell me when you’re done.”

There was a pause.

Then the sound of wet fabric peeling off skin.

Slow. Awkward.

A quiet curse.

Choso stared straight ahead at the shop front, jaw tight, suddenly becoming aware that the third slat from the bottom of his plastic blinds was bent at a weird angle. 

Another rustle. A dull thump like Naoya lost balance for a second.

“You can watch,” Naoya muttered.

“Just change”

More movement behind him. The sound of fabric dragging, then a sharper exhale.

Choso shut his eyes briefly.

This was a bad idea. Tonight was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have opened the shop today at all.

“…Done,” Naoya said after a minute.

Choso turned.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

Naoya was slouched in the chair, slightly shivering, hair a mess. The sweatpants barely stayed up on his hips. A strip of dark fabric of his underwear showed at the waistband.

Choso looked away. Then back. Then forced himself to move. He stepped in, grabbed the drawstrings, and yanked them tight.

Naoya let out a gasp, his stomach tightening under the sudden pull.

“Hold still,” Choso muttered, tying the knot quick.

Naoya huffed something under his breath, but didn’t fight it.

“Alright,” he said, voice a little hoarse as he turned back to his station and reached for the iPad. “Show me where the king goes.”

Naoya leaned back into the heavy leather chair and lifted a hand and tapped over his heart.

“Here,” he said.

“A cartoon toad. Over your heart.”

“He’s royalty,” Naoya corrected, like that settled it.

“Right,” Choso muttered. “Give me 15 minutes or twenty. Don't pass out.”

Choso sat down, tapping his stylus against the screen. He tried to focus on drawing a fat, judgmental frog sitting stubbornly on its haunches, wearing an oversized, crooked crown. It shouldn't have taken long, but his focus was completely shot.

Naoya managed exactly three minutes of silence before he opened his mouth again.

“Your lighting is atrocious,” Naoya announced to the ceiling. “It’s like a hospital in here. It makes me look washed out.”

“You look washed out because you are fucking drunk,” Choso didn't look up from his screen. 

“The lighting is for seeing the ink.”

Naoya let out a loud sigh. He shifted in the leather chair.

“Do you have any music? The sound of the rain is making me depressed.”

“No.”

“Do you have sparkling water?”

“Tap or nothing.”

“Barbaric”

He fell silent for another minute. Choso aggressively shaded the frog's crown, praying for peace.

“Who gets a flaming skull?” Naoya asked.

Choso’s stylus paused and glanced up to Naoya was leaning sideways squinting at a framed sheet of flash art on the wall.

“That is incredibly tacky,” Naoya continued, waving vaguely at the frame. 

“And the panther next to it looks like it has a spinal injury. Why is it twisted like that?”

“It’s a classic style,” Choso gritted out. “And you are currently begging me for a cartoon toad, so I don't think you have the high ground on taste.”

Naoya huffed, unbothered by the insult. He finally stopped looking at the wall and turned his droopy stare at Choso.

Choso tried to ignore it.

“You frown when you concentrate. You look like you're trying to murder the iPad.”

“I’m trying to finish this so you can go home”

“You hold the pen too tight, too,” Naoya continued. He rested his chin on his hand.

“All the tendons in your forearm are popping out.”

“Shut up, Naoya.”

Naoya just smirked, looking too pleased with himself for getting a reaction. He finally settled back against the leather, his eyes never leaving Choso's face for the remaining minutes.

By the time Choso let out a breath and stood up, his shoulders were painfully tense. He walked back over to Naoya and held the iPad out.

“Look at it,” Choso ordered. “Before I print anything. Is this what you want?”

Naoya leaned forward, squinting slightly at the glowing screen. The cartoon toad stared back at him, looking unimpressed with the world.

A slow smile broke through Naoya’s drunken haze. Okay, that looked close to a soft smile if the fucker was capable of one.

“He’s perfect,” Naoya looked up from the screen to meet Choso's eyes. 

“He looks exactly how I feel he would look like.”

Choso swallowed hard, quickly pulling the iPad back. 

“Great.”

He sent the design to the thermal printer and walked over to take the sticker as it spat out the purple transfer paper.

When he turned back around, Naoya was still watching him, looking a little more awake now that the needle was imminent.

Choso grabbed a disposable razor and a squeeze bottle of green soap. He snapped on a new pair of black gloves with a sharp crack. Stepping directly between Naoya’s spread knees to get the right angle, the proximity was immediate.

And suffocating.

He sprayed a quick mist of green soap over Naoya’s chest.

Naoya flinched at the cold liquid, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth. Instantly, his free hand shot out and clamped hard onto Choso’s hip for balance.

Choso stopped.

“Let go,” Choso warned, voice tight. “And don't move. I have a razor.”

Naoya didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb dragged lazily over Choso's belt loop.

“You're warm.”

Choso locked his jaw. He rested his left hand firmly on Naoya’s sternum, pulling the skin taut, and dragged the razor in short, careful strokes. He wiped the soap away, his heart hammering, and applied the transfer fluid.

He pressed the purple paper firmly against Naoya’s chest, then peeled it away. The dark outline of the crowned frog sat perfectly over Naoya's left pec. But looking at the exact placement, Choso frowned.

“Look in the mirror,” Choso instructed as he pointed at the tall mirror on the side. “Make sure you like it. Most of the chest is easy, but the bottom line drops dangerously close to your nipple. There are sensitive nerve endings. You're going to feel the pain.”

Naoya didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed locked on Choso's mouth. 

“You know where else is sensitive, Choso?”

“No,” Choso cut him off instantly. “I don't want to know.”

It was a lie. His brain immediately flooded with a series of highly specific and inappropriate thoughts, but he kept his expression perfectly blank.

“Spoilsport,” Naoya muttered, unbothered by the rejection. “I have excellent pain tolerance. You can start.”

Choso turned to his workstation. He unwrapped a sterilized needle cartridge and clicked it into the rotary pen. The buzz shattered the silence in the room as he tested it, then eased his foot off the pedal so it went quiet again.

Choso pulled his rolling stool up high against the edge of the chair, positioning himself over Naoya’s left breast.

“Tuck your left arm behind your head,” Choso instructed.

Naoya complied, the movement stretching the pale skin and the purple stencil on his chest.

“Take a deep breath,” Choso said, resting his gloved hand flat against Naoya’s collarbone to anchor the skin.

He pressed the foot pedal and brought the needle down.

But he didn't start the main outline immediately. Given that Naoya was still drunk, Choso had to do a test run first. Alcohol thinned the blood, and if Naoya bled too heavily, it would push the ink right back out of the skin.

Choso pulled one experimental line at the edge of the crown. He immediately lifted the machine, wiped the sting with a damp paper towel, and watched the area closely. The skin beaded with a bit more blood and plasma than a sober client’s would, but it wasn’t uncontrollable. It was manageable.

"You're lucky you're not bleeding out the ink," Choso muttered, mostly to himself.

He pressed the pedal again, bringing the needle back down to pull the real, continuous line.

But the second the needle steadily pierced the pale skin again, Naoya's boast about his pain tolerance seemed to have evaporated. He didn't make a sound, but his entire body went tense. His left arm dropped from behind his head and shot out to wrap around Choso’s waist.

Choso immediately lifted the needle, easing off the pedal so the machine stopped.

“Naoya, put your arm back,” Choso ordered, trying to gently pry the fingers off his waist. “You’re ruining the stretch on your chest.”

“No,” Naoya ground out, his eyes squeezed shut. “Structural support.”

“I can't tattoo your chest if you're curled into me like a pillbug,” Choso tried to push Naoya back against the chair.

“The skin is folding. If I have to stretch the canvas while contorting to reach you, my hand is going to cramp and I’ll blow out my back.”

Naoya glared at him.

“I thought you had excellent pain tolerance,” Choso reminded him dryly.

Naoya looked ready to argue, but he eventually let out a huff. He loosened his grip on Choso's waist just enough to roll his head back and stare at the ceiling, though he refused to lift his arm.

"Fine."

"Thank you," Choso muttered.

Choso pressed the heel of his hand against Naoya's sternum, pulling the skin taut. He adjusted his stance and brought the needle back down.

Naoya managed a minute or two of good behavior. But as Choso began pulling the bottom outline, his hand slid from Choso’s hip, fingers finding the hem of Choso’s t-shirt and bunching the fabric. 

Choso noticed, but didn't comment. A while later, Naoya shifted, turning his head an inch closer.

By the time the needle hit the lowest point of the design, dipping into that sensitive skin, Naoya abandoned his pride. He let out a quiet hiss and wrapped his arm right back around Choso’s waist. He turned his head inward, sliding his forehead against Choso's torso and pressing his face firmly against the side of Choso's abdomen to hide from the needle without completely blocking the canvas.

“Let me,” Naoya mumbled into the shirt, his voice tight. “I’m paying you enough to cover your physical damage.”

Choso stared down at the blond head and gave one last, half-hearted tug to free himself, but Naoya let out a groan and pressed closer.

This, Choso thought grimly, is exactly why I do not tattoo drunk people. They don’t listen to you at all.

And his spine was going to hurt for a while, but he was giving up and doing it anyway.

“If you’re going to lean on me, you need to change how you breathe,” Choso instructed, accepting his fate as a human support beam. “Breathe with your stomach. Push your belly out when you inhale. If you breathe with your chest, my canvas moves every three seconds, and I will blow out a line.”

Naoya let out a muffled sound against Choso’s shirt, but a moment later, Choso felt the shift. Naoya forced his breathing lower, his stomach expanding against the waistband of the sweatpants while his chest remained still.

“Good,” Choso murmured. He adjusted his stance, leaning awkwardly over Naoya's torso to maintain the stretch, and pressed the pedal to bring the needle back down.

With the angle Naoya was facing, he was sure to have some minor neck pain after a few minutes. Choso knew he could be dramatic, but he was even more so when he was drunk. That thought made a bit of unwanted adoration crawl into his chest.

“You know,” Naoya started. “Everyone at the gala tonight was ugly.”

“Stay still,” Choso murmured, keeping his eyes fixed on the tip of the needle.

“Terrible bone structure,” Naoya continued with complete seriousness, ignoring the command. “And the suits.Tragic. I spent three hours staring at a sea of unfortunate genetics. It was exhausting.”

Choso lifted the needle and took his foot off the pedal to wipe away the excess ink with a damp paper towel. He heard Naoya hiss at the sting. So, his gloved fingers lingered for a fraction of a second on the inflamed skin of Naoya's chest in an attempt at a soothing gesture.

Naoya breathed out and tilted his head slightly, his hazy eyes dragging slowly up from Choso's waist, up his tattooed arm, over his shoulders, and finally to his face.

“You, on the other hand,” Naoya said, his voice dipping into a register that definitely was flirtatious, “are very nice to look at.”

Choso almost derailed from the pattern so badly that he had to lift the machine away instantly, the sharp buzz dying as he took his foot off the pedal.

He stared down at Naoya. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb, Choso. It doesn’t suit you. I said you’re pretty. Honestly, it’s annoying. You just wear plain black t-shirts and scowl at everyone, and you still look better than half the models my father tries to set me up with.”

Choso’s brain flatlined.

The compliment, delivered with the casual confidence of a man who was half-naked, bleeding slightly, and clinging to his waist at two in the morning, was staggering.

“You are out of your mind,” Choso managed, his voice rough. He wiped the tattoo again, as if he could scrub the heat out of his own face by doing so.

“Stop talking. You’re going to mess up your stomach breathing.”

“I can multitask,” Naoya insisted smoothly. To prove his point, his hand slid up, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of a thick black band tattooed on Choso’s exposed forearm.

“Did this one hurt? Because this frog is currently chewing through my chest, and I feel like I deserve some sympathy.”

The feel of Naoya’s warm fingertips ghosting over his skin sent a jolt straight down Choso’s spine.

“Don't talk right now, I need a clean line. Hands to yourself,” Choso ordered, though he didn’t physically swat him away. It was a weak command, and they both knew it.

“You’re very bossy in your own studio,” Naoya teased, his thumb idly hooking into the front belt loop of Choso's jeans again.

“I kind of like it. Usually people just do whatever I tell them to.”

“That’s because they want your money. I just want you out of my shop,” Choso lied smoothly, stepping on the pedal and going back in with the needle.

And when Choso pulled a line near his collarbone, Naoya let out another sharp hiss of pain as he turned his face fully inward again, pressing his cheek and nose firmly against the side of Choso’s abdomen.

Every single muscle in Choso's stomach instinctively locked. But that was one thing. Now Naoya’s head is blocking the canvas.

Choso let out a heavy sigh and lifted the needle away. "I literally cannot see your collarbone if you are trying to merge with my ribcage,". He pushed Naoya back with his free hand.

“Make it stop,” Naoya whined towards Choso’s hip.“But also don’t. It looks cool so far. But it hurts.”

“You asked for this.”

It had been an hour since Naoya got into the shop, drunk and wet, and Choso was getting impressed with how he was able to keep himself awake, though Choso would just prefer him to fall asleep now.

“You smell nice,” Naoya noted, shifting his head slightly, and sneakily trying to rest on Choso’s side again. He took a deliberate sniff. 

“Like green soap. And coffee. It’s very grounding.”

“Are you sniffing me?”

“I’m observing,” Naoya corrected. “You’re very tense, Choso. Relax. I’m not going to bite you. Unless you’re into that, which, you know, we can discuss after you finish stabbing me.”

Choso closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He had survived twenty-seven years of his life without bursting into flames, but Zenin Naoya was testing the absolute limits of his cardiovascular system.

“You are hallucinating from the blood loss. Go to sleep”

Naoya just laughed. “I’m wide awake, darling. Just extremely comfortable. Keep going.”

As the clock dragged past three and Choso moved on to the shading, the alcohol finally began to pull Naoya under. He wasn't entirely asleep, but he was definitely losing the battle to stay awake.

Each time Choso paused to wipe away ink, the sting pulled Naoya back. He would sigh, eyes fluttering open for a second before he blindly leaned into the touch.

The tattoo was almost finished. It looked surprisingly good considering the situation he had to work under—the dark, crisp lines sitting perfectly over the curve of Naoya’s pectoral.

Choso took his foot off the pedal and let out a long breath. He looked down at the pale, ace resting against him, watching the flutter of Naoya’s lashes against his cheeks.

He grabbed a fresh paper towel and bent down for a closer look at the shading on the crown which meant leaning even further down over Naoya's torso, bringing his face inches from Naoya’s.

“Almost done,” Choso murmured. “Just need to hit these last few spots.”

Naoya shifted and hummed, a lazy, vibrating sound Choso felt straight through his shirt. “Mhm. Good.”

Choso kept his eyes on the tattoo. His cheek hovered right beside Naoya’s face. He could feel the warmth of Naoya’s breath against his jaw. It was a stupid angle, but he only needed ten more seconds.

Then Naoya tilted his head up. With the casual ease of a man with absolutely no functioning inhibitions left, Naoya turned his face upward and pressed a soft, deliberate, lingering kiss directly to the center of Choso’s cheek.

The tattoo machine slipped in Choso’s hand.

Thankfully his foot was completely off the pedal, so the dormant needle didn’t drag across Naoya’s chest. The studio went dead silent except for the heavy rain against the windows.

For one full second, Choso forgot what he was supposed to do with his hands.

He froze in that awkward bent position, his gloved hand hovering uselessly in the air, his eyes fixed on the blank wall behind the chair.

The warmth of it stayed on his cheek like a fresh burn.

Several seconds passed.

Very slowly, Choso turned his head to look down at him.

Naoya was looking right back up. His eyes were half-closed, glassy from alcohol and exhaustion, and a slow, smug smile was spreading across his face as if he was pleased with himself.

“What? You were right there.”

Choso opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

His heart was beating so violently against his ribs that he was genuinely concerned he might be having a medical emergency. His face and neck felt hot. 

“You...” Choso managed at last, voice cracking like a teenager’s. He cleared his throat aggressively, trying to gather whatever dignity he had left. “Did you just kiss me?”

“I think I did, yes,” Naoya confirmed lazily. “You have nice cheekbones. It seemed like a waste not to.”

Choso’s internal monologue was just a continuous loop of screaming.

He abruptly sat up straight, nearly knocking over his rolling tray of ink caps. He rolled his stool away so fast he almost tangled himself in the pedal cord.

“We are done,” Choso announced. He stripped off his black gloves with enough force that one snapped against his wrist.

“The tattoo is done. It’s finished. We are finished.”

Naoya made a small, disappointed sound.

“It’s done?”

“Yes,”Choso said. He aggressively pumped hand sanitizer into his bare palms, rubbed them together, and snapped on a new pair of black gloves. He moved like a panicked robot.

He pumped a glob of antibacterial foam onto a fresh paper towel and marched back over to the chair, keeping his eyes fixed on Naoya’s chest so he wouldn’t have to look at that infuriating mouth. 

He wiped down the angry red skin with the foam, ignoring Naoya’s sharp hiss of pain, and patted the area completely dry.

“You’re being rough,” Naoya complained, the words beginning to slur more now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

“I am being efficient,” Choso corrected, his voice tight. He grabbed a sheet of Saniderm, peeled off the backing, and slapped it securely over the fresh ink. He smoothed the edges down flat with practiced precision. 

“There. Keep that on for three to four days. It’s going to look disgusting. It's normal. Don’t panic, don’t pop it, and don’t take it off early. When you do take it off, do it in a hot shower and wash it with unscented soap.”

“Okay,” Naoya mumbled. His eyelids were drooping.There was no way Naoya’s alcohol-soaked brain had processed all of that. Choso didn't care. He just needed him out of his shop and his life. 

Snatching his phone off the counter, he aggressively jabbed his thumb against the screen. He kissed me. He just kissed me. 

The rubber dragged against the glass, completely ignoring his frantic tapping. He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But I let him hold onto me for two hours. 

Swearing under his breath, Choso ripped the gloves off, snapped them into the bin, and tried again with bare hands.

"I'm calling a taxi," Choso announced."Give me your address."

No answer.

Choso frowned, his thumb hovering impatiently over the keyboard and turned around.

“Hey–”

Naoya was fast asleep curled slightly in the chair.

Choso let out a ragged exhale and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. The universe was playing a very elaborate, very cruel joke on him.

“Naoya,” Choso said, poking his shoulder.

Naoya didn’t even twitch.

“Naoya, get up. I’m not letting you sleep in my client chair.”

Still nothing.

Choso groaned, dragging a hand up his forehead, resigning himself to his fate. He stepped over, bent down, and carefully slid his arms under Naoya, one behind his back, the other under his knees.

With a grunt, Choso lifted him up.

Naoya was surprisingly light, though he immediately turned into liquid dead weight, his head rolling sideways to rest against Choso’s collarbone, letting out a soft sigh.

Choso’s heart did that stupid flip again.

He carried Naoya out of the workstation and over to the couch in the waiting area. He set him down as gently as possible, making sure he rested on his right side so he wouldn’t crush the fresh ink on his left.

Choso went into the back room and came back with the heavy black fleece blanket he kept for clients who got cold during long sessions. He draped it carefully over Naoya, pulling it all the way up to his shoulders.

Then Choso stood there in the shop, staring down at the sleeping heir of the Zenin family. He reached up and lightly brushed his fingers against his own cheek exactly where Naoya had kissed him. The skin still felt warm.

Fuck.

_____

Choso hadn’t slept.

He had already aggressively wiped down his spotless workstation. He had color-coded his reserve ink bottles by gradient. He had reorganized his sterilized needles by gauge size. He was currently halfway through sweeping a floor that didn't have a single speck of dust on it, just to give his hands something to do.

It was 7 a.m. The sun is already up and the lights are seeping in the shop but every time Choso stopped moving, his brain supplied him with the phantom sensation of soft lips pressing deliberately against his cheek. It made him feel like his heart was in his throat.

From the couch in the waiting area came a pathetic, gravelly groan.

Choso paused, his broom frozen mid-sweep. He turned just in time to watch the lump beneath the blanket shift and a pale hand emerged first, grasping blindly at the air before finding the edge of the blanket and dragging it down enough to expose a messy mop of blond hair.

Naoya blinked at the sunlight. Then he looked down at his own bare chest, noticing the layer of Saniderm and the angry red skin beneath it.

Choso stood perfectly still, heart hammering, as he watched the memories of last night crash into Naoya in real time.

Naoya’s eyes flew wide. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale as a ghost, before a bright flush climbed up his neck and swallowed his cheeks whole. He made a strangled, high-pitched noise and immediately yanked the blanket over his head again, curling into a miserable ball of regret.

Choso crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his broom against the wall as he fought an internal war. Half of him wanted to stay cold, to act like the kiss meant nothing to protect what was left of his own heart. The other half was already melting into a pathetic puddle because Naoya was currently hiding under a blanket like a humiliated tortoise.

Choso grabbed a glass of water and finally walked over.

“You can’t live under there,” he said, forcing his voice into its usual steady rumble. “My first appointment is at noon, and I need my couch back.”

The lump under the blanket went still.

“Tell them to reschedule,” came the muffled reply. “Tell them the shop burned down.”

“Naoya,” Choso said, nudging his shoulder through the fleece.

Slowly,the blanket lowered. Naoya looked up at him. With his hair sticking up in three directions and he must have wore makeup for wherever he went last night because he saw a little bit of eyeliner at the corner of his eyes, he looked devastatingly beautiful. It physically hurt Choso to look at him.

Naoya’s eyes darted wildly around the room before snapping back to Choso. “Did I pay you?” he blurted out, his voice a raspy croak.

“You threw a pile of wet bills on my counter last night. I took what I need and the rest is in your jacket pocket. Now drink this,” Choso said.

Naoya snatched the pills from Choso’s palm, careful not to let their fingers touch, and downed the water in one go. He set the glass down and tried to stand up. 

But as soon as he was upright, all the blood rushed from his head. He swayed violently, letting out a pained groan as he clapped a hand over his eyes. His free hand blindly grabbed the edge of the leather couch for support. 

"Don't throw up on my floor," Choso warned, though he took a half-step forward, hands twitching like he was ready to catch him. 

"Bathroom is in the back. First door on the left." 

Naoya just gave a weak nod and shuffled toward the hallway. Without the blanket, the visual was absurd: the heir to the Zenin clan, bare-chested and covered in a fresh layer of bloody Saniderm, practically drowning in Choso’s faded sweatpants as he dragged his bare feet across the room.

The bathroom door clicked shut. 

Choso heard the sink turn on. It ran for a long time. He pictured Naoya leaning over the worn porcelain, splashing cold water on his face, and aggressively trying to piece together the absolute disaster of his dignity. 

Choso let out a heavy sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and walked into the small breakroom. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Naoya emerged looking marginally more alive, though his posture was stiff as he carefully favored his tattooed chest. His blond hair was pushed back, damp at the roots, and his eyes were bloodshot. 

When he walked back into the main studio, Choso was sitting on a rolling stool, holding two mismatched mugs and a paper plate.

"Sit," Choso said, kicking an empty stool toward him. 

Naoya eyed the stool suspiciously, but his legs looked like they were about to give out anyway, so he sat. 

Choso shoved a mug into his hands and set the paper plate on the tray table next to him. It held two pieces of plain, slightly over-toasted bread. 

Naoya stared at the plate as if it had personally offended him. "What is this?" 

"Breakfast," Choso said, taking a sip from his own mug. "Eat it so you don't pass out on my sidewalk. I’m not carrying you again." 

Naoya picked up a piece of toast, his nose scrunching up.

"It's burnt. And the bread looks like it came from a gas station." 

"It came from the convenience store across the street," Choso corrected.

"Eat it or starve." 

Naoya brought the mug to his lips, took a cautious sip of the coffee and immediately gagged like he did months ago at Choso’s home.

"This is instant. You are making me drink instant coffee." 

"I am giving you free painkillers and hydration after you broke into my shop," Choso shot back, resting his elbows on his knees. "Stop complaining."

Usually, this was the exact moment Naoya would sneer, drop the mug in the trash, and say something completely uncalled for about Choso’s income bracket. Choso braced himself for it.

But Naoya just stared at it for a second. His shoulders dropped, the tension bleeding out of him. 

He tentatively took another sip of the terrible coffee, swallowed the pills and took a bite of the burnt toast.

"Thank you," Naoya muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't look up. He just chewed the dry bread, hiding his face behind the rim of the mug.

Choso’s heart did a strange, painful little ache. God, he's a menace, Choso thought.

They sat in relatively peaceful silence while Naoya slowly worked his way through the food. When he finished, he was moving a little steadier this time.

He turned toward the floor-length mirror across the room. He carefully turned his body, taking in the sight of the dark, ridiculous little frog sitting proudly on his chest beneath the clear medical wrap.

Choso watched him closely, bracing himself for the inevitable complaint.

But Naoya just stared.

His breath hitched.

“It’s...” Naoya trailed off, fingertips hovering an inch over the fresh ink. He looked back at Choso, his eyes wide and smiling.

 “It’s beautiful.”

Again it made Choso’s stomach flip.

“It’ll need a touch-up in three weeks. And keep the wrap on for three days and wash it only with unscented soap,” He added, in case Naoya didn’t hear it all that the first time.

Naoya nodded quietly. He turned toward the small chair where Choso had draped his ruined clothes the night before.

He picked up the white dress shirt between two fingers. It was wrinkled and still visibly damp from the rain. Naoya’s face scrunched up in profound disgust.

Choso let out a heavy sigh. He walked into the back room, rummaged in his duffel bag, and walked back out, tossing a bundle of black cotton directly at Naoya’s head.

Naoya caught it blindly. He looked down at the faded, plain black t-shirt.

"Put it on," Choso ordered, leaning against the doorframe. "Your shirt is wet, and your pants are probably still soaked. Just bring them back whenever."

“I will bring them back tomorrow.”

Choso almost groaned. Right. Tomorrow was Sunday—Megumi’s pickup day. He wouldn't even get twenty-four hours to avoid him.

Naoya didn't argue. He carefully pulled the worn cotton over his head, making sure not to scrape the Saniderm on his chest. The shirt was a bit broad in the shoulders for him, hanging loose on his frame.

He stubbornly gathered his trousers, jacket and the ruined white dress shirt, balling them up into a pitiful, damp bundle against his side. Without his expensive jacket to hide behind, he looked entirely swallowed up by Choso's clothes. 

Choso took a step back, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing at the visual, before a sudden, sharp wave of disappointment washed over him.

This is it, he thought. He’s embarrassed. He’s going to walk out, pretend this never happened, and I’m going to spend the next six months trying to get over him all over again.

Naoya walked to the heavy glass door. He put a hand on the brass handle.

Then he stopped.

He stood there for a long time. His knuckles turned white against the brass. He dropped his hand, shifting his weight, and aggressively readjusted the damp laundry in his arms. 

He was stalling.

Slowly, Naoya turned around. His gaze dropped to the floor.

“Choso,” Naoya started, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?” Choso asked, far softer than he meant to.

“I was...” He swallowed hard. “I was wondering if, perhaps, you might want to get food with me. Sometimes. When I am not... like this.” He gestured vaguely to his disheveled, hungover state.

Choso thought he misheard him but he knew he didn’t.

The silence that followed was deafening. Every alarm in his head went off at once.

It’s a trap, his brain screamed. He’s bored. He realizes he slipped last night and now he wants to regain control. If you say yes, he will break your heart into pieces.

Choso opened his mouth to say no. He had the refusal ready. He was going to politely decline, push Naoya out the door, and lock it behind him for the sake of his own sanity.

Then he looked at him.

Naoya wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t leaning against the frame waiting for Choso to fall at his feet. He was shrinking into the oversized shirt, eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route in case Choso rejected him. He was trembling, just slightly, and he looked so hopeful.

It wasn’t a game.

Choso realized it with a sudden, breathless clarity.

Naoya wasn’t playing.

The wall Choso had spent months building around his heart instantly vaporized. 

“You want to take me out,” Choso said stepping away from his workstation and slowly crossing the room. “On a date.”

Naoya’s eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “I didn’t say the word date. I said food. Because I technically owe you for not throwing me into the street. It’s an obligation.”

“An obligation,” Choso repeated, stopping inches away from him.

“Yes,” Naoya insisted, though his voice squeaked slightly.

“And I only go to very nice places, so you’d have to wear something other than a plain black t-shirt for once in your life.”

Choso chuckled, a deep, rich sound that made Naoya’s breath hitch.

“Alright,” Choso said softly.

Naoya blinked, his defensive posture dissolving into shock.

“Alright? You... you’ll come?”

“I’ll come,” Choso confirmed.

Unable to stop himself, he reached out. The borrowed t-shirt had slipped dangerously far down Naoya’s left shoulder. Choso hooked a single finger under the faded cotton collar and gently pulled it back up. He let his knuckles rest against the bare collarbone for one second longer than necessary.

Naoya swallowed hard, his eyes wide and glued to Choso’s face.

Choso looked at those wide eyes, then at the messy blond hair falling directly into them. Giving in to a very stupid, very dangerous urge, Choso lifted his hand higher. He gently brushed the damp bangs out of Naoya’s face, tucking a stray blond lock behind his ear.

Naoya’s breath hitched. He looked completely unnerved, completely out of his depth.

“But I’m picking the place,” Choso added quietly, letting his hand drop. “And if you try to order for me, or insult the waiter, I’m walking out.”

A slow, brilliant smile broke across Naoya’s face. “You couldn’t afford the places I eat anyway,” he teased, the haughty words completely betrayed by the look in his eyes.

“Get out of my shop, Naoya,” Choso let out a soft, exasperated laugh.

Naoya’s expression shifted, suddenly fiercely determined.

“I’ll text you,” Naoya whispered.

Then, he dropped his damp laundry onto the floorboards. He grabbed the front of Choso’s faded black t-shirt with trembling hands and pulled him down.

It was supposed to be a confident, dramatic kiss. But Naoya was clearly nervous, and Choso had shifted a fraction of an inch in surprise. The result was a rushed collision that landed awkwardly—half on Choso’s mouth, half on his cheek.

It was messy, uncoordinated, and tasted like instant coffee.

Naoya let go instantly, letting out a sharp, mortified gasp. He snatched his wet laundry back off the floor, spun on his heel, and practically fled out the door.

Choso was left, completely stunned. He lifted a hand, brushing his fingertips against his lips in disbelief for a long second before he let out a breathless laugh and a ridiculous smile slowly took over his face.

He stepped out of the store onto the damp pavement, leaning out just to catch a glimpse of Naoya's retreating back. It had been the clumsiest kiss of his life.

A good few seconds passed before Choso saw Naoya turned around and walked towards the shop. 

Because the main road—and his million-dollar car—was in the other direction.

His face was now glowing like a traffic light. His jaw was locked so tight it looked painful. He was staring straight ahead, walking stiffly. He refused to make eye contact. He didn't even turn his head, aggressively marching past an amused Choso.

"Wrong way?" Choso called out mildly.

"Shut up, I'm navigating," Naoya hissed back.

Choso watched him disappear toward the main street, his chest incredibly light.

He’s a disaster.  he thought. I am in so much trouble, ain't I? 

And he didn’t mind at all.