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Light filters in through the blinds, waking Hitoya up what feels to be all too early. He fists the duvet, a weak attempt to stave off the growing headache he's feeling. His bed feels unusually comfortable, warmer than usual. Blinking his eyes open, he sees why.
Laying beside him, intimately close, is none other than Dotsuitare Honpo's Amayado Rei. Shirtless. Snoring. In his bed.
He closes his eyes tight, shutting out the view and all light. Maybe when he opens them again, Amayado won't be there. Yeah. This all has to be a bad dream. Maybe he's hungover. He does have a tendency to go overboard when he gets tipsy. And that would explain the headache.
He's drunk.
He's drunk and hallucinating Amayado Rei. Shirtless. In his bed.
Does this mean something? Surely it has to say something about him. A drunk man's actions are a sober man's thoughts, or however the saying goes.
God, what would Kuko say right now?
Probably scream something about decency. Decorum. Or something like that.
Just when Hitoya has finished bargaining and reached depression on this mini journey of grief— something shifts in the bed beside him.
He screws his eyes shut impossibly tighter, as if that could save him from what comes next.
“Mornin’, gorgeous.”
He groans. “Don't call me that.”
Amayado shifts again, presumably sitting up in bed. Hitoya's bed. God.
“No? You seemed to like it last night.”
Hitoya’s going to throw up. He can feel it, his head swimming and heart dropping into his stomach. This is bad. Amayado shifts again, and he feels the man’s heavy arm draping across his shoulders. Forgetting himself, he leans into the warm touch, settling against Amayado’s broad chest. He may not be hallucinating, but he’s certainly hungover. That’s the only possible explanation for the fuzzy feeling that drowns out the headache as he cuddles with Amayado Rei.
“What…”
“Ya got anything to eat here?” Amayado cuts him off. “Let me make you breakfast. I don’t look it, but I’m quite the chef.”
With that, Amayado lays him down and climbs out of bed, taking all that warmth with him. Almost reluctantly, Hitoya scrambles out after him. Amayado doesn’t bother putting his shirt— which is draped over Hitoya’s desk chair— back on, and in a moment of absolutely unprecedented weakness, Hitoya snatches it up and tugs it on before following Amayado into his kitchen.
He’s only around half a foot shorter, but he’s certainly much skinnier than Amayado and swimming in his shirt. It smells like booze and smoke, but also something else. Cedarwood, maybe. Does Amayado wear cologne? He’d have to— no. No he does not. He refuses to think about where that train of thought was heading, instead focusing back on the source of all his despair.
He wishes he hadn’t.
Amayado is, to put it frankly, covered in hickies. On his neck. On his shoulders, his jawline, even his chest.
Hitoya’s face burns. Was that— did he do that?
“Where do you keep your pans?”
Hitoya points him to the cabinet. Amayado hums and pulls one out, busying himself with preparing breakfast. Hitoya doesn’t bother asking what he’s making, instead sitting down at the island and contemplating drinking again. Even though it's only…
“Fuck, did we really sleep ‘till noon?” He says, hardly even surprised at this point.
Amayado glances at the clock. “Guess that makes this lunch, then.”
“It's the first meal of the day. It's breakfast.”
“Not if we're eating it at noon,” Amayado says. “It's lunch.”
“That's not how it works,” Hitoya grumbles.
Amayado repeats his words under his breath, mocking. How childish, Hitoya thinks, before he remembers how he woke up this morning. It’s like college all over again.
While Amayado cooks, Hitoya is finally piecing together what happened the night before.
He'd had a long day, between work and practice with Bad Ass Temple and subsequently corralling his kids when they (well, specifically Kuko) picked a fight with some local street gang. He'd figured he deserved a break, and had headed down to a local bar to have a drink and unwind. Maybe he’d called Jakurai at some point— he couldn’t really remember the smaller details yet.
While at the bar, he’d been approached by a man he didn't recognize at first.
“Honestly, I'm hurt.” Amayado said.
“I'm sorry,” Hitoya had genuinely apologized. “It's been a long day.”
Amayad hummed, sitting down across from Hitoya. “In that case, let me buy you a drink. Maybe that'll jog your memory.”
Stupidly, he had let Amayado buy him a drink. And another. And another. And, judging by the pounding in his head and hickies on both their necks, another.
So he had taken Amayado home. Maybe they had just made out, maybe they'd gone all the way. He didn't know and frankly he didn't want to know.
Slowly, the apartment fills with the scent of miso and grilled mackerel. Amayado Rei may be a scoundrel and a conman, but he evidently hadn't been lying when he said he's a good cook.
“Coffee or tea?”
“Huh?”
“Don't act dumb, Amaguni. Do you drink coffee or tea in the mornings?”
“Right now, all I want is a glass of whiskey.”
Amayado laughs. “Coffee it is, then.”
Hitoya grunts in response as Amayado sets about brewing some coffee. Has he noticed Hitoya wearing his shirt yet? He hasn't really looked at him.
For whatever reason, his stomach twists with this realization. He stands, approaching Amayado at the counter. He ends up standing beside him, peering over his shoulder to watch the fish grill. He points at the pan.
“Fish is almost done.”
Amayado hums, turning his attention from the coffee pot to the stove. It's almost… domestic, Hitoya thinks, the two of them in the kitchen together like this. He’s missed the companionship of having a roommate. Maybe having Amayado around isn't so bad…
“You're gettin’ kinda close, Amaguni.”
Hitoya jumps. Unconsciously, he'd been leaning towards Amayado, nearly resting on his shoulder again. “Sorry— Sorry, I didn't realize.”
A beat.
“Did you hate it?”
Amayado doesn't deign to respond, rather rolling his eyes and pulling Hitoya even closer than he had been before. Hitoya blushes, which is honestly embarrassing considering he's a grown man and so is Amayado—
A hand settles on his waist, and he's pressed flush to Amayado's side. He sighs, the last of the tension draining from his tense shoulders as he fully leans into Amayado. This is nice, he admits to himself. Of course, he’s still slightly upset that his drunken self chose Amayado Rei for company, his sober self would much prefer Jakurai— but still. Nice.
He takes a deep breath. Yep. Amayado was definitely wearing cologne.
Breakfast cooks slowly, letting Hitoya bask selfishly in Amayado’s warmth for another ten minutes before he’s lightly manoeuvred to lean against the counter as the older man transfers everything into dishes and sets the table. Hitoya feels a vague sense of guilt for not helping— it’s his house, after all— but Amayado seems perfectly content to set the table by himself.
Amayado sits down, and Hitoya takes that as his cue to follow suit. After a brief internal debate, he takes the seat right beside Amayado.
The food is good. Eating it with Amayado makes it better, in some cruel twist of fate.
They finish breakfast without any conversation, and clean up afterwards the same way. They linger in the kitchen, facing each other at last. Hitoya hadn’t really noticed before, but Amayado doesn't have his glasses. His eyes aren't particularly alluring, but the heterochromia is interesting and Hitoya finds himself lost in his gaze all the same.
Amayado reaches out, hands brushing Hitoya's collarbones where they peek out where Amayado's shirt falls.
“This is mine, isn't it?”
“Obviously.”
Amayado hums. “Well, I can't exactly leave without it.”
“Then I guess you'll just have to stay a while longer, hm?”