If the sake is mediocre, then the girls had better be stunning; that’s the kind of thing that Ango tries to live by, but today he’s got the worst of both worlds: cheap sake and not a single girl in sight. Instead, he’s drinking with leftover hot pot and one of the runner ups for world’s most belligerent drunk, safely in second place behind Ango himself -- most days, anyway.
“Hey,” Ango says, reaching out to push up the brim of Chuuya’s hat with a knuckle, watching the way Chuuya immediately wrinkles his nose in displeasure.
“Hey, what,” Chuuya shoots back, reaching up to pull his hat back down. The motion sets him off balance, and he compensates by slamming his hand back down on the table hard enough that all the chopsticks rattle like there’s an earthquake happening. Chuuya has the graces to at least look faintly embarrassed at the commotion, even if all that happens is the faint pink dusting of a blush across sharp cheekbones.
“I’ve got a riddle for you,” Ango says, and Chuuya looks supremely unimpressed for at least the third time in the past hour.
“If it’s how you can make food taste so bad, I don’t know the answer,” Chuuya replies.
Yeah, hot pot with whatever was leftover in the fridge was pretty hit or miss; Ango can’t exactly blame him for that one.
“It’s not that kind of a riddle,” Ango says. “The riddle is, ‘If there’s two guys drinking bad sake without a single cute waitress around, what do they do for fun?’”
“Haa?” Chuuya looks at Ango like he’s lost his mind -- which, to be fair, Ango probably did, but it was years and years ago, so its relevance is currently a bit questionable.
“You’ve got one guess,” Ango says, offering Chuuya a smile that Ango’s pretty sure will get him even more riled up.
“What the hell,” Chuuya says, proving that Ango’s tactics are working perfectly. “Aren’t you supposed to give me three guesses?”
“I’m impatient,” Ango says, shrugging a shoulder up with casual nonchalance.
“You’re an asshole,” Chuuya retorts, and then falls silent. Ango waits. Chuuya considers bowl of hot pot -- largely untouched after the first bite -- and then his empty sake glass. He flicks a finger against the side of the equally empty bottle, then looks at the ceiling, and then finally back at Ango. “I don’t know. Get more alcohol?”
“Bzzt,” Ango says, wagging a finger.
Chuuya frowns, opening his mouth to give a retort, or maybe a second guess, but before he can manage to get very far into either option Ango is pressing their lips together, reaching out to snag that stupid trademark hat straight off of Chuuya’s head.
“Mmph,” Chuuya protests, making an admirable effort to get his hat back without wiggling straight off his seat. He fails impressively at both, sliding half off the seat and missing Ango’s hand entirely. Ango pulls back from the kiss, which was pretty shitty to begin with, but even he can’t hold onto Chuuya’s hat, keep Chuuya from falling onto the floor, and laugh at Chuuya if he’s still trying to kiss at him.
“Shut the hell up!” Chuuya roars, face properly red this time with the heady mix of inebriation and embarrassment. Ango hopes there’s some arousal in there, too, because Ango can manage to get them both from here to the bed, but he’s less confident in his ability to stagger off and find someone else with an open bed at this hour.
Besides, Chuuya’s already riled up, and that’s half the fun.
“The hell do you think you are,” Chuuya says, slamming his foot down until he manages to disengage himself from Ango’s grip. “The hell do you think you’re doing, the hell-- the hell!”
“Man,” Ango says, cheerfully, dropping Chuuya’s hat onto the empty liquor bottle like an ornament topping a Christmas tree, “you’re really bad at guessing games, huh?”
“Only because you’re a dick,” Chuuya says, which doesn’t make any sense, really, in the overall context of the discussion, but Ango can forgive him for that.
“Speaking of dicks,” Ango says, with deliberate casualness, and leans forward to put his hand on Chuuya’s thigh.
“I wasn’t talking about your dick!”
“Yeah, but I was,” Ango shoots back, and when Chuuya makes an inarticulate noise of annoyed rage, Ango kisses him again. Chuuya smacks him, fist meeting Ango’s shoulder with all the energy of a newborn kitten, but his eyes are closed and his attention is clearly on body parts that aren’t the flesh of Ango’s arm.
“Fine,” Chuuya huffs, when Ango pulls away this time, and his cheeks are significantly more flushed, all the differences in his skin that much more apparent now that his hat isn’t shading him from the light.
“Fine, what?” Ango says, even though he knows the answer perfectly well. He’s good at riddles.
“Fine, I’ll be the answer to your stupid riddle!” Chuuya’s exclamation is gratifying, because he springs up to his feet like he wants to be a human punctuation mark. If he was a punctuation mark, it would be the mark used for inarticulate anger, which is the best description for the glare he gives Ango when Ango also stands up and practically looms over him.
Ango flips a wrist out in a casual gesture towards the door, flashing Chuuya a smile that’s more smug than anything. Some people have a limit for how riled up they can get, but Ango’s not so sure that Chuuya does.
“Think you can walk yourself?” Ango asks, needling Chuuya more and more.
“I can walk!” Chuuya takes three steps, quick and confident, and that’s as far as his anger gets him before he sways ominously on his feet. Ango is there to catch him, for a certain definition of the word catch; he plasters himself to Chuuya’s back and presses in on Chuuya’s chest. Strictly speaking, he doesn’t need to grind his hips against Chuuya, but Ango has never been one for doing what’s expected or predictable.
“You -- you stupid -- I’m fine!” Chuuya says, but his face is bright and he’s refusing to make eye contact, staring purposefully at the door like if he looks at it long enough he might be able to teleport himself over there without walking.
“Don’t throw up on me,” Ango says, casually, as he reaches down and picks Chuuya up into a bridal carry. “Or I’m not getting you off.”
“No one asked you to!” Chuuya screeches, after a brief second of his mouth moving without anything actually Japanese coming out of it. Ango laughs, and so Chuuya, having apparently decided that actually trying to hit Ango is too precarious when Ango is pushing the door open with his knee and carrying Chuuya off to his room, bites him, instead.
“You want me to drop you?” Ango says, because it doesn’t really hurt when Chuuya’s teeth are losing the battle against Ango’s leather jacket.
“Fnnngh,” Chuuya responds, which was probably some sort of angry expletive, originally, before it was muffled by leather and Chuuya’s digilent refusal to unclench his teeth.
Luckily, the bedroom isn’t far enough for Chuuya to manage to do much more than put some dents in the leather. Ango’ll wear it with pride and let everyone know it’s the worst the great poet could do to him whenever anyone asks, but that’s a victory for the Ango of tomorrow and not the Ango of the present. The Ango of the present takes his victory by rolling Chuuya onto the bed in a swift and surprisingly elegant movement that removes Chuuya and his jacket both, leaving Chuuya to splutter indignantly.
“Fuck you,” Chuuya says, throwing the jacket at Ango.
Ango, being considerably less drunk (really, how Chuuya can get so plastered off such cheap sake is one of the world’s great mysteries), dodges easily. Chuuya opens his mouth, but Ango swallows whatever expletive was on the tip of his tongue, pressing them both down onto Ango’s bed with little care to what else is there. A quick swipe with his leg gets rid of all of the extra papers and books, and they hit the floor with a series of thumps and clatters.
“Clean your room,” Chuuya says, when they finally part, critical and scathing except for the part where he’s flushed and panting.
Ango hums, noncommittally, and adds their clothing to the mess on the floor, telling himself that he’ll be able to find everything in the morning and knowing that’s a lie.
“Clean it for me,” Ango replies, and his voice is dark and sultry despite the fact that cleaning isn’t exactly the best dirty talk subject he’s ever had.
“I’m not your maid,” Chuuya says.
“You could be,” Ango replies, dragging his fingers down Chuuya’s hips and letting his thumbs drag into the dips there. “You’d look cute in the dress.”
Chuuya doesn’t bite, this time; he punches, ineffectively, against Ango’s shoulder, so Ango is the one who bites, leans down and presses his teeth hard against Chuuya’s collarbone until Chuuya makes a noise that’s half a yelp of pain and half a moan of submission.
“You wear a dress,” Chuuya says, but there isn’t as much anger in it, this time, his voice colored with an entirely different kind of heat. The alcohol means he’s a little slower to start than usual, only half-hard where Ango presses a knee between his thighs, but the interest is still obvious.
“You think I won’t wear a dress for you?” Ango’s voice is lilting, playful and half-muffled against Chuuya’s skin as he mouths a line down Chuuya’s skin, leaving blossoming pink flowers falling like sakura down his chest.
“Fuck,” Chuuya says, and rolls over, away from Ango’s mouth. He presses his face into Ango’s pillows, and Ango recognizes the way his eyes shut as what happens when the world won’t quite stop spinning.
“Put your hands on the wall,” Ango offers, pulling up Chuuya’s hips. “It’ll help.”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya says, “I know what’ll help.” But he does it anyway, hands flat on the dry wall and knees pressing hard into the mattress as Ango rummages in the various items on the floor until he finds the lube.
“You know what else’ll help?” Ango asks, popping open the bottle.
“You fucking o--” Chuuya starts, then trails off into a groan when Ango presses two fingers inside of him. It isn’t like Chuuya needs that much, not when this isn’t the first time and not when he has enough alcohol in his system that he’s easy and relaxed, back automatically bending to arch further into Ango’s touch.
“Yeah, sure,” Ango says, cheerfully, spreading Chuuya open as efficiently as he can when he has alcohol pulling at his patience. “Me fucking you is the right answer.”
Chuuya mumbles something that Ango is pretty sure is both very vulgar and very French, but it’s said into the pillow, muffled and obscured, so all he really gets is a bunch of jumbled consonant sounds.
“Guess you aren’t so bad at riddles after all,” Ango says, and lines himself up to press in before Chuuya can get a chance to respond. This is the part that he likes the best, if he’s honest about it -- which he generally tries not to be. The part where Chuuya makes a noise better than the best AV has to offer, one hand dropping down until his fingertips bite into Ango’s sheets, back arching enough that Ango wonders if it isn’t painful. Chuuya knows multiple languages and none of them seem to quite be enough; he manages little half-words, sounds that don’t make sense in any kind of context, pressing himself back against Ango with a sense of needy desperation already.
“Man,” Ango says, dragging his fingers up Chuuya’s spine while he gives Chuuya a second to get used to him. “This definitely makes up for the bad sake.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya says, voice shaking as much as his thighs, “and move--”
“I was just being polite,” Ango says, and they both know it’s a lie, but he moves anyway, pulling back to push back in and make Chuuya lift up off the bed. The dizziness seems to fall away, to be secondary in the face of the pleasure, and Chuuya’s hands both go to the wall to try to steady himself, to give himself the leverage he needs to press back against Ango and meet every thrust halfway.
Ango doesn’t exactly lose coherency; he isn’t drunk enough for it and he’s used to being on at least three separate mind-bending substances at any given time, so even the heady mix of arousal and alcohol isn’t enough to deter him -- but he still falls quiet, letting the room fill with the sound of breathing and choked off moans and skin on skin instead of his own words. He has enough words to fill a library -- ha -- but he doesn’t care about them at all, not when he could be listening to this track, Chuuya making little noises underneath him.
Chuuya’s hand comes off the wall for a moment, flutters, and then goes back up. “I can’t--”
“I’ve got you,” Ango says, reaching down to wrap his hand around Chuuya’s cock. This is the part where patience stops mattering entirely, and Ango’s glad for that, because as good as it feels he’s chasing the high of that orgasm, and he doesn’t want to delay any longer than he has to.
This time, it’s definitely French when Chuuya comes, breaking the rhythm he’d had as a counterpoint to Ango and stuttering out a mess of expletives before he shoves his head down, hair falling across the pillows like some sort of extremely lewd Renaissance painting.
Ango takes a second to admire it -- and the fact that Chuuya was so quickly unraveled by none other than him, which is a gratifying ego boost -- before he lets himself go, falls into the blinding sensation and tries to hold onto it for as long as he can.
When Ango opens his eyes again, they’re both lying on the bed in something akin to afterglow, breathing slowly evening out.
“Ugh,” Chuuya says, after a minute, letting his hand fall over his eye to shield them from… everything, probably. “Give me something to clean up with.”
“You want your shirt or mine?” Ango asks, letting his arm fall off the bed and grabbing the first piece of fabric it hits.
“I hate you,” Chuuya says, but there’s no bite in it.