| [Jul. 7th, 2013|10:45 pm] |
There was a mission in the morning. 0800, outside the east gate, leading a three-man team on a two-week trek with an A-rank stamp on the paperwork. He should be looking for nothing more than a quickie in the bathroom, on his knees or braced up against the filthy sink, but there was a light in the dark eyes and an edge to the white grin, and Ryouma couldn’t remember why it was important to get a good night’s sleep.
“My apartment’s two blocks from here,” he said, and tossed the second shot of shouchuu back. The alcoholic burn turned his voice a little husky. “Want a bottle to go?”
There were very faint lines winging the corners of Raidou’s eyes, legacy of years staring into the sun; they crinkled with his grin. His bruised left eye was colorful, but not swollen. “On me, seeing as you’re the guy heading out tomorrow.” He stepped in, settling a broad hand casually on Ryouma’s hip, and signaled the bartender. “Same again, or something better?”
His hand was heavy, warm, even through the tough fabric of Ryouma’s jeans. Ryouma let himself lean against the pressure, just a little, and felt the fingers curl over his hip, the tendons in the wrist tighten. The hand stayed steady.
Those muscles weren’t just for show.
“Better,” Ryouma said, recklessly.
“Bottle of Blue Mountain,” Raidou told the bartender, without hesitating. “And a free drink for the next person who looks like they need it.” He flipped his wallet out one-handed, passed over the payment and tip, and looked back to Ryouma. “Might as well spread my good luck around, right?”
“Gettin’ ahead of yourself, there,” Ryouma said. “Who said it’s good luck?”
The bartender set a squat, green-glass bottle of shouchu on the counter and turned away. Raidou crooked two fingers around the bottle-neck, but didn’t lift it. “Have you seen you?” he inquired. “Made my night just looking at you. But if you want to go play drunken checkers, I think I could swing that.”
Ryouma smirked. “Guess luck’s on your side after all.” He pushed away from the bar, ducked his head to brush his lips near Raidou’s ear. “I was thinking something a little more naked.” He paused. “Strip poker, maybe.”
The back of his jacket and shirt twitched up; calluses scraped warm against his skin. “I’m thinking that sounds like a lot of effort I’d rather put toward other goals,” Raidou said, sounding amused. He swept the shouchu bottle off the bar and turned, flattening his palm over Ryouma’s spine. “But I’m flexible. How about you show me your place, and we see what we feel like?”
Two shots of shouchu, and a beer before that; Ryouma wasn’t drunk yet. But the strong hand pressing against the small of his back was intoxicant enough that he had to concentrate on weaving his way between tables, shouldering the door open and not tripping over the short, plump kunoichi outside. “Watch it,” she said irritably.
Ryouma waved a distracted hand at her and led Raidou up the street, through the thickening evening crowds. His apartment was on the third floor of a shabby block rented mostly to single chuunin and jounin. Hardly anyone used the stairs, which were concrete and crumbling, poorly lit. He paused at the second landing, where a single yellow bulb cast swaying shadows, and then turned.
“Practice round,” he said. “Just so you know what you’re getting into.”
He slid both hands up the strong, clean-shaven angles of Raidou’s jaw, and kissed him. |
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