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normal-person-i-promise · 7 months ago

Text

slurred teases and sweet kisses

arataka reigen/female reader

tw for drinking, bars, intoxication

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

★ ★ ★

...Should he invite you? You're just his employee after all, and the both of you would be alone in the bar...

Arataka glances at you for a moment, looking up from the newspaper he was reading at his desk. He's not actually reading it, of course — he can barely concentrate on breathing when you're in the room with him. You're just so... Distracting, he can't help it.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the motion of your hand as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, the way your eyes would flit between him and the window — Arataka could watch you for hours and not grow bored.

If Arataka invites you to just... Go to that bar he used to be a usual at, then the two of you would be alone. Like a date, which it— it isn't, of course— that would be crazy! There's no way you'd want to date Arataka, of all people, it just doesn't make sense for you to like him!

You think of him as an employer, a friend, maybe a close one, but just that! Nothing more, nothing less!

Arataka exhales sharply through his nose, flipping the page to look like he's reading the paper. He can feel the grain of the grey newspaper between his fingertips as he rubs his finger absentmindedly on the edge, pick up that faint scent of printed paper in the air.

You risk a glance at him, and your eyes shimmer with the evening sun's light as you study his features: his disinterested gaze, his relaxed posture, his incurious expression. He's... Mesmering to look at in this state, this boredom, especially since he's so expressive usually.

He also looks rather attractive, but that doesn't really matter.

You can see him stiffen, trying to ignore how hot he feels with your eyes roaming all over his body, but... Not that he doesn't enjoy it, of course — Arataka adores when you study him, just like how he studies you. You've noticed a lot of things about him by now; the way he'd adjust his grip on the newspaper, the way his eyes skim over the text, the way he leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed; bored.

You quickly avert your gaze, and Arataka feels a pang of sadness at the loss of your attention.

You, yourself, are not doing much. You're just... Sitting quietly at the little couch in the corner of the room, waiting patiently for the customers to come in. You're staring out the window, watching as the pedestrians on the streets walk along back to their homes or to the restaurants and bars, watching the way the trees sway in the light breeze, some of their vibrant green leaves falling off the sharp brown branches.

It's your job, after all — the job Arataka is paying you for — to be whatever customer service is needed when he's too busy exorcising the client's spirits or helping talk through their worries.

You take a slow, deep breath, inhaling that familiar scent of salt and incense, of sweat and cologne.

Arataka doesn't need you, not really. He just wants an excuse to see your face day after day after day, hear your darling little voice call his name when you need help.

He likes it most during that little frame of time when Mob has left to go back home, but you're still in the office — alone — with him, simply coexisting in eachother's presence. This is the time that he'd talk to you, joke with you, spend time with you — but just because he enjoys talking to you for every second of the day you're with him doesn't mean that he isn't content in settling into a comfortable silence with you. He likes... Coexisting with you, whether you're on your phone or looking out the window, whether he's reading the newspaper or watching the little TV in the corner of the room.

It's... Nice, in a way, to have someone care about you just as much as you care about him.

"The sky's pretty nice, isn't it?" You say to Arataka, tapping on the glass with your finger and bringing his attention to it.

It is rather pretty; golds and oranges are strewn across the sky like an artist's first experimental brush strokes on their canvas, the colours shifting with every minute that passes as the sun goes lower and lower on the horizon. The clouds are rimmed gold — a delicate, thin outline to show its form, shimmering and soft as the light bounces off it.

It's not sunset yet, no, but — oh, how that golden light spills into the room, how it makes Arataka's eyes sparkle—

"Yeah, it is pretty."

His words are simple, but it's evident that he's fighting himself to keep his tone disinterested. He doesn't want to show interest in you: he'd look like a fool. He doesn't want to look like a fool in front of the girl he likes.

You clear your throat (you always do that when you need to distract yourself from your thoughts, Arataka's noted), and you settle back in your seat. He grins, an opportunity to tease you coming to his mind, the words already beginning to brew.

"You what looks nicer, though?" He asks, his tone playful as he looks you up and down, feeling pleasant shivers run down your spine. It feels so... Good, to be the object of his attention, to be the subject of his praise.

"What?" You ask, crossing your legs as you lean back in your chair. You're grinning pridefully, knowing that he'll most definitely say you're prettier.

Arataka's thin smile widens noticeably, his eyes narrowing in delight.

"Me, of course."

You roll your eyes, though it's clear you mean nothing malicious by it. "Oh, please, Arataka," you say, your tone teasing, "you're full of yourself. You're a lot uglier than the sky."

A lie. To set off any suspicions that you like him.

He just grins wider, settling into his seat like a proud king.

Even though it's nothing more than light, playful banter, every second Arataka spends with you feels like a moment in heaven — your voice the angel's songs, your hair their shining halos. You never refuse any of his silly little jokes, always laugh at those half-wit puns he makes, and it... It sends waves of butterflies to his stomach, knowing that you enjoy being around him, knowing that you like being his friend.

And vice versa — every second you spend with Arataka is such fun, such enjoyment, that you lose track of time and go back home hours later than intended. He's just so... Fun to talk to, what with his witty replies and clever jokes, his carefully placed puns and playfully sharp remarks. He's such a joker, always able to make you laugh, and he likes it. He likes hearing your laugh. He likes it a lot.

The newspaper crinkles loudly as Arataka folds it, placing it on the desk. Struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice level, he asks you a simple question.

"Wanna go out for drinks later?" Grinning, now, "I'll pay."

Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

You hum in thought as if you don't know your answer already. Your voice is light; playful, and Arataka can hear the grin plastered on your face when you reply.

"I don't know... I don't drink."

You don't, that bit is true: you've tried, and failed, to enjoy alcohol and intoxication. It's just so... Sour, and overwhelming, and it feels so horrible the next day.

Arataka lets out an exasperated groan, but the both of you know it's fake.

"Come on— please?"

He leans on the desk, his whole upper body resting on the wood, trying to get as close to you as he can to you without getting up. His eyes almost seem to sparkle as he smiles wide, trying as hard as he can to convince you, knowing you can't say no to that god forsaken smile. "Pretty please? It's my birthday!"

He's almost pleading as he tilts his head innocently, his cheeks resting comfortably in his hands, his elbows planted on the desk. "You don't wanna upset the birthday boy, do you?"

You sigh, though you aren't annoyed. You can't say no, the both of you know that — especially since it's his birthday. And, unbeknownst to you, it's the first birthday Arataka will be spending with a friend in a long, long time. He's ecstatic, Especially since it's you.

Even if it's just one friend, and even if that friend is a girl he really likes is his employee, it's still counted, right?

You... Are a friend, right?

Because the way your pretty little lips would curl into a grin whenever you'd tease him, the way your words would cause him to erupt into fits of laughter, the way you always enjoyed the little games of banter the two of you often shared certainly made it seem so.

You roll your eyes at his display.

"Fine, fine, okay. I'll go celebrate your birthday with you or whatever."

Arataka has to hide his excitement, struggling to keep himself from smiling ear to ear, struggling to ignore how his heart flutters, struggling to ignore that familiar feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

He always feels this way when he's with you though, so he's gotten pretty good at ignoring it.

"When do you say we should go?"

Arataka tilts his head more heavily to the side as he asks you that question, his eyes roaming around the room as he thinks. You watch as he shifts in his chair, trying in vain to get comfortable in the god awful position he's sitting in.

His grin widens. "Now?"

Flitting your eyes to the clock and reading the time quickly, you answer him, your voice level; though there's a slight undertone — barely even there — of a playful, almost accusational chide. You're just buying time to annoy him, giving him pointless excuses.

"It's still ten minutes to closing."

Arataka sighs in dramatised exasperation, putting such an emphasis on the rolling of his eyes that it makes you scoff in playful annoyance. It makes his heart flutter, knowing that you're entertained by him. God, how he loves that voice of yours... How he loves you...

Spinning his hand so fast that it's a blur, he stops abruptly, pointing to himself as he grins proudly. "I'm the boss, here. I can close this place any time I want."

He gets his elbows off the desk, kicking his feet onto the wood as you hum in response to his words. Nodding as you speak, you agree with him. "Good point, good point."

Arataka and you clean up the office a little, sweeping the corners here and dusting the chair over there. The two of you are in a comfortable silence, content enough with the fact that you're in each other's presence.

As you clean, Arataka can't help but notice — he always notices — all those little things you do: the way you place one foot in front of the other to the beat of the song stuck in your head; the way you hum softly to yourself, quiet enough to think he can't hear; the way your eyes would catch glimpses of his every so often.

More often than not, he'd get lost in all your little habits. It's just... The minor ways you'd entertain yourself as you clean, the manner in which you would tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you'd roll your sleeves up before doing anything, is so... Cute, you're so cute...

It's not long before the place is as good as new, and Arataka is switching the lights off and taking the keys to the door.

"After you, m'lady," he says in an unnecessarily posh voice, bowing slightly as he opens the door for you. You nod, thanking him as you step out, bathed the hot summer night air — it's humid, the air thick with moisture as you breathe in the scent of moist pavement and soaked leaves from the rain that had happened a few hours earlier.

The more you walk, the more you can hear the bustling of the shopkeepers in their kitchens and behind their counters, pick up the buzz of the neon signs just beginning to flicker on, listen to the indistinct chatter of the night life starting to settle into the bars and night clubs. Though it's faint, it's most definitely there, and it's getting louder and louder with each minute that passes.

The walk to the bar isn't quiet; it's never quiet when the two of you walk together. The air is always filled with friendly conversation, laughter and giggles peppered in here and there, occasional glimpses at his soft, pink lips...

Arataka is taking in every little thing about you, from the way your smile would form to the tapping of your shoes on the pavement. You're... Perfect, you.

He tries his best to match your pace, making sure that his footfalls are in tandem with yours, making sure that you both are walking as one.

If someone was looking on at the two of you, they'd think you were a couple.

A few minutes later, Arataka is pushing open the door of the Happy Trails bar, gesturing for you to enter. The floor is sticky, the air thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and sweaty office workers. The lights are dim; warm, inviting, as you take a seat after Arataka pulls one out for you.

"So what'll you have?" He asks, flashing you the most charming grin he can muster. He settles into his seat, getting more comfortable: unbuttoning his suit jacket, loosening that pink tie on his neck, undoing the top buttons of his immaculate white dress shirt. God, he's so hot—

It's hard to keep from staring, but you manage.

You shrug. "Just soda."

Arataka nods, not questioning it as he calls the bartender over and ordering for both you and him: an iced cola for you, and a lemon sour — extra sour — for him. He always orders that, and, based on the few times you've gone out drinking with him, you don't think he drinks anything else.

He settles into his seat, and you struggle to get your voice to pierce through the indistinct conversations of the other patrons.

"So, Arataka," you nearly shout, your tone playful, "how do you feel now that you're 28?"

He hums in thought, bringing a fist to his chin as he thinks about his answer.

He shrugs.

"So-so, but—" he pauses for dramatic effect, the shadow of a grin ghosting on his lips —"I'm feeling a whole lot better since you're here to help me into my old age."

You laugh slightly at his little joke. Arataka's dopey little grin widens with pride, having made you giggle yet again.

Your drinks arrive a little after this, and you can't help but notice the bartender giving you an accusational side eye as he slides the both of you your glasses, seeming to doubt the fact that you and Arataka aren't dating.

"Oh, come now, Arataka—" his heart flutters at the sound of your voice saying his name —"you're not that old." Your grin widens, your tone teasing. "You look a lot older, though."

He lets out an offended half laugh, shoving your shoulder playfully in mock offence. "How mean!" He cries, trying in vain to make his voice sound offended.

It's quiet as you sip your cola slowly, and you're not blind to the way Arataka's eyes follow your tongue as it darts out to get whatever droplets of your drink missed your mouth.

...God, how he wants to taste that sharp, teasing mouth of yours, feel every crevice and crease of your lips as they press into his... How he wants to run his hands through your soft hair as he combs it out of the way of your perfect face, how he wants whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fall asleep in his arms...

"You should... Really watch that tongue of yours," he warns playfully, his words beginning to slur, fighting to ignore his thoughts. He's barely even had a sip of his drink, and he already looks like he's about to pass out.

He wags a wobbly finger in your face like a mother reprimanding her child. "I might get tired of you and fire you."

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

"Oh, Arataka," you tease, leaning in close — close enough to smell the scent of his expensive cologne, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough to feel just how hot he is. He grits his teeth, struggling not to close the distance between the two of you as you speak lowly, quietly: for his ears only.

"We both know you like me too much."

And he— he blushes, oh, and he pushes you away with the tip of his unsteady finger to your forehead. You swallow the slight hurt you feel as Arataka replies, his response clumsy as always — more so now that he's drunk. "And we... Both know you like me too much to let yourself... Get fired."

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

And though the motion is wobbly, unbalanced, now it's his turn to lean in close. He almost falls on you.

His grin is wide, and though it's lopsided from the alcohol, it still manages to be annoyingly smug, and... Wonderfully endearing, too, like he's trying to make you happy regardless of how his vision blurs and his head pounds. "I'm... Doing you a favour for not... Firing you, you know."

You scoff mockingly at his words, drinking your soda as you grin. "Please, Arataka"— another rush of butterflies to his stomach —"I know I'm far too important to you to just... Get rid of."

You're grinning smugly now, leaning in closer to his face. Your noses are almost touching, and you can almost taste his lips now — the sweetness of alcohol mixing with the sharp mint of his mouthwash, his saliva thick as Arataka swallows. You're not blind to how his unfocused eyes fall down to your mouth for a moment, licking his lips like he's looking at a freshly cooked meal, ready for devouring.

"Ah, but you need to... To remember," he says, leaning away from you, gripping the table in tight hands to stop himself from falling off his barstool. He squints as he talks, trying hard to form the words. "I could totally just do it right now. Nothing's... Stopping me."

You sigh, smiling, rolling your eyes but staying quiet.

Arataka downs the remainder of his drink in one swift gulp, slamming the cup down onto the wooden bar table with a loud thud.

He doesn't order another one, thankfully, because at the rate he's getting drunk, he's bound to pass out or vomit anytime soon. His cheeks are an almost bright red, his eyes half-lidded and glossed over, unfocused as he stares at you; when he breathes, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, Arataka."

You sip your soda, licking the glass a little to see how he reacts get the drops that missed your mouth. Arataka watches your tongue, almost hungrily so, his gaze unblinking and his breathing shallow.

You want to try and get as many secrets as you can get out of a drunk Arataka, just to have something to either a) tease him about, or b) blackmail him with.

"What do you think about me?" You ask, grinning.

Arataka shifts in his seat, thinking hard about his answer, and doing it for a suspiciously long time. A plan to avoid your question brews, half-finished in his mind.

He gives you a lopsided grin, leaning in with a shaky, unsteady motion, before abruptly jerking away and pressing his hands to his mouth as if he's trying to prevent himself from vomiting. As he hunches over on himself, your face immediately shifts to one of concern, your brows furrowing and your grin disappearing.

"...Arataka? You okay...?" You ask gently, rubbing his back. You've seen him vomit aggressively after taking so much as a sip of alcohol, and you're definitely preparing to wipe bile from the corners of his mouth.

It's quiet for a moment, save for the clinking of glass and the chatter of overlapping conversation.

"I... Eugh." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as he feels his head pound — and that plan, that drunk one that sober Arataka would definitely not approve of, starts forming more clearly in his mind.

You grow more worried the more you watch, his movements shaky, his words all blending together. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at looking like he's going to vomit — and since you're acting so worried about him, then he'd wager that his plan is working.

"Arataka, are you okay?" You ask again, your voice firmer, though still retaining that soft, quiet worry. You rub what you hope are soothing circles on his back, and you can see him visibly relax, letting out a long sigh.

"'M fine," he mumbles, swatting your hand away, his eyes struggling to open.

It's working, it's working! Keep going, Arataka!

Just as you're about to speak again, Arataka opens his mouth, faking a retch, and you panic. He falls — definitely not accidentally — straight into your lap, and it takes a moment to register that no vomit has come from his mouth before you hit him playfully on his forehead. His heart skips a beat when you don't push him off, merely just hitting him.

"Ow!" He exclaims, his grin crooked as he struggles to fake a grimace of pain, rubbing the spot you hit him.

"Even when you're drunk, you still manage to annoy me," you grumble, though the amused smile on your face gives away what you're feeling.

You ruffle his hair a little, tangling your fingers in between the delicate golden strands — and he lets out a sigh at your touch, closing his eyes in contentment. Your heart beats faster as you look at him: his flushed cheeks and content, closed eyes, his relaxed body resting in your lap — god, you have to fight yourself not to plant a kiss on his low, pointed nose.

Arataka pries open his eyes when you stop combing through his hair with your fingers.

"What... Can I say," he says slowly, looking at you with a gaze that can only be described as one of a lover's: sweet, tender, and affectionate. "I love... Seeing your smile."

Your heart flutters.

The two of you stay in this position for a while, a position a lot like a couples'. Neither of you complain — if anything, the both of you enjoy it — and it's not long before Arataka's eyes slowly shut, his breathing slowing as he starts to fall asleep in your lap.

You feel butterflies in your stomach when you gaze upon his calm expression: his eyes closed firmly shut, his kissable lips curved in a slight smile, his face relaxed.

The bar is almost empty now, save for three or four people having a conversation at one of the tables in the corner. You can pick up their mumbling: they're talking about the two of you, how Arataka didn't vomit yet, how he used to be a usual at this bar, how he never brought any girls with him until today, and what a surprise that he managed to pull such a pretty one.

"Happy birthday, Arataka," you say — and, smiling, you push those golden bangs out of the way with a hand and plant a firm, chaste kiss on his forehead. It's a kiss you've wanted to give him for a long time, but also one you're forced to keep short, just in case you're overstepping boundaries.

Arataka's eyes snap open and widen considerably, his face flushing even more than you thought was possible. He's speechless for a moment as he brings a shaky hand up to feel where your lips touched him, his heart beating a million times a minute, his breathing quick and shallow.

He just... Stares at you, starry eyed, for a minute, his mouth slightly agape.

He snaps back to reality.

"Again," he says impatiently, his tone demanding as he brings his hand down to rest, clasped with the other, in his lap. "As... The birthday boy, this is... Is my birthday gift from you. Kiss... Me, again."

You smile, letting out a slight chuckle at his slurred demand.

"You're sure you won't regret it tomorrow...?" You ask slowly, playfully, as you rake your fingers through his soft, blonde hair. You know he most definitely will.

Arataka shakes his head vigorously in your lap, though stops immediately when he starts to feel his head pound, wincing.

You just watch him for a moment, combing gentle fingers through his hair, smiling in amusement at his impatience. He whines when you don't do what he asked for yet, just staring at him, and he repeats his demand.

"Kiss me. Right... Here," he mumbles, tapping a shaky finger to his forehead.

You oblige, pressing a gentle kiss to his skin, pushing his bangs aside. He sighs, closing his eyes. And when you pull away, "Again," he says almost immediately.

You happily oblige, kissing him there once more.

He stops for a moment, breathing shakily, before getting up from your lap abruptly and wrapping his arms around you tightly. In the process of doing this, his unsteady movements cause the both of you to fall onto the bar stools beside you, so that Arataka is lying down comfortably on top of you; your noses almost touching, your lips just inches away from each other. He's so... Drunk, and so, so cute...

The bartender gives you a stern look, and you flash him an apologetic smile.

Arataka's eyes, half-lidded, fall down to your mouth, and he brings an unsteady hand to cradle your chin as he runs a shaky thumb over your bottom lip.

"...Can I...?" Arataka asks in a low, mumbly slur, his eyes unblinking as he stares at your lips.

You heart races as you nod, and it's barely a moment before he's pressing his lips tightly to yours, shifting and moving them until they're slotted comfortably against each other. His eyes flutter shut as he gets comfortable lying on top of you, getting more accustomed to the soft cloth of your clothes as he runs a hand down your side, getting more used to the soft strands of your hair that he's been itching to run his fingers through.

Arataka tastes... Sour, mostly from the drink he had a few moments ago. There's the faint, sharp tang of the alcohol, too; a sweet, distinct flavour, a rich undertone to the myriad of tastes you manage to sample as his lips shift against yours.

His lips are cracked, chapped, and dry, but you couldn't care less as he tangles a hand in your hair, the other holding your head in place as he tilts his own head to press his lips even more into yours. He grunts, seemingly not satisfied, and pushes his lips onto yours until the kiss is almost bruising.

Your face is flushed when you break the kiss. Though it's short, sweet, and chaste, it's clear that Arataka wants more. You both do.

Just as he's leaning in to kiss you again, the bartender taps your shoulder, glaring at you sharply and jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door. You blurt out a mumbled apology, scrambling to get up, Arataka nearly falling. As promised, he slips the bartender about one and a half times more money than owed.

You both wordlessly exit the bar, and as you walk, Arataka stumbles behind you. He's unsteady; his path is a winding zigzag in comparison to yours, struggling to keep to a straight line and nearly falling onto the road multiple times — and as a way to counter this, you wrap your arm securely around his waist. Arataka responds by leaning his weight onto you, and you both continue on without much issue or argument.

It's much later in the night now; the cars on the road are whizzing past the two of you, the shops all closed with their shutters pulled down over the windows.

The air is heavy with humidity, and you can feel Arataka's sweat from where he presses himself against you. Arataka himself smells of that familiar sharp, sour smell of sweat; the faint scent of salt; and that sweet, sweet cologne he wears. The fabric of the suit is soft as you grip him tightly, every step he takes making him sway more and more until it's clear he's going to either vomit or pass out.

A few moments later, he calls your name in a mumbly, shaky voice, before hurriedly pushing you off him as he staggers to the drain. Before you know what's going on, you're at his side as he vomits a sickly green bile.

You pat his back reassuringly, now only registering that he's vomiting.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Arataka grins at you, though his eyes are struggling to open and his smile is lopsided.

"We're staying... At your house, right?" He mumbles, though he stumbles slightly, and alarm flashes across his face as he swings his hands about to get balanced before he manages to stand straight again. He widens the skewed grin in his face, trying his absolute best to look charming, and failing. It's still adorable, though.

You snicker, nodding in response.

"Let's go, Arataka."

You slide your arm around his waist, and he leans nearly all his bodyweight on you as the two of you walk to your flat.

The walk is quiet as Arataka struggles not to vomit again, barely being able to stay awake to avoid falling unconscious in your arms — it would be a shame if you held him tenderly and he wasn't there to experience it. Nobody's on the streets, so it's just the two of you, save for a car that comes every so often.

The only sound you can hear is the steady tap, tap, tapping of your shoes on the pavement, followed by the much more unsteady beat of Arataka's shiny black dress shoes as he walks beside you.

Neither of you say anything when you walk, neither of you speak when you unlock your front door, neither of you argue when you lead him to your bedroom.

You set him down on the bed slowly, slipping off his grey coat and undoing his necktie. The whole time you're doing this, Arataka's just... Watching you. His eyes, fixed on you, are glassed over, unfocused — but full of so, so much love.

He doesn't say a word as he gets comfortable in your bed, and when he holds you in his arms, falling asleep, it's silent.

★ ★ ★

thanks for reading!!

second chapter !!

#oooooooh hahahaaaa look at that 🫵🫵🫵 look at that pathetic man ooooooooooh hahahahaha 🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵🫵#i dont know what alcohol tastes like im sorry 😔😔😔#i have no idea how this man would act around someone he likes bro im so clueless #is it too fast or too slow #please answer #youd better answer #btw im trying to do a more arataka centered pov rather than the usual more reader inclined pov #trying something new bear with me here #rrrrr the front bit seems so fast..... is it too fast #i love that over the course of the month that ive been editing this you can see my thoughts by reading the tags #DONE IM DONE #SICK AND TIRED OF EDITING I HATE EDITING #reigen arataka #reigen arataka x reader #arataka reigen #arataka reigen x reader #reigen x readee #arataka x reader #tw drinking #drinking tw #drinking #alcohol #tw alcohol #alcohol tw

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ghoulodont · 3 months ago

Text

Sapwood

Mushy May 2024 — (shut up) I'm taking care of you. Dewdrop lets Rain past the surface, if only a little. Set after β-Lactam.

Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 3.3k

Sickfic, Pre-relationship, tour bus lore

Mushy May prompts by @forlorn-crows

Read below or on AO3

Between the bus moving and people moving, getting in and out of their bunks, shuffling past each other in the narrow hallway, it’s never completely quiet at night — the white noise from the engine and the wheels can’t mask everything, and the heavy blackout curtain that separates each individual bunk from the common space only attenuates so much. Currently, someone just past said curtain seems to be wrestling with an inanimate object, a brief but violent crash filtering in through the thick fabric.

Rain rolls over in his bunk, turning away from the sound. He should be sympathetic, of course, as he has no doubt been the source of noise at night too, dropping things or tripping over an errant shoe on the floor, but the longer the tour goes on the more he yearns for his own very private bedroom at the ministry, with its cherished door and coveted lock. The occasional hotel room is a far cry from that luxury. Whoever makes noise is an enemy right now.

But then that same someone swears quietly, and it’s definitely Dewdrop.

Rain hasn’t seen him since he retreated into his bunk soon after the two of them got on the bus, nor has he gotten any messages from him, despite the offer to bring him anything he needed — an interaction that churns endlessly in Rain’s head, urging him to cringe at what now feels like an overbearing intrusion.

The best course of action is surely to curl up into the tightest ball he possibly can so that the memory can no longer worm its way inside. Dew is probably fine. That might not have been him, anyway. It might not have been anyone — a trick of his tired mind, just his imagination. It might have been a coincidence. Things fall over on the bus all the time.

Outside, the distinct clunk of the door between the bunk compartment and the front lounge closing brings his thoughts to a simmer again. Maybe Dew is not fine. Maybe he should be asking for help, and he’s not. It wouldn’t be a surprise, really.

Eventually, the worry sinks its claws deep enough to spur Rain to action. He pulls back his curtain and peeks out. Dew isn’t in the hallway, nor is he in his bunk — its curtain has been left halfway pulled back, the space beyond it in profound disarray.

Rain slips out of his bunk and makes his way to the front lounge door. He stands there in the rocking darkness, listening carefully. Nothing of note emerges from the tangle of overlaid background noises, the hum of the air conditioning unit on the ceiling draping him in waves of cool air, the drone of the engine churning somewhere behind him, the whine of the wheels beneath the floor gripping the pavement.

It could have been nothing, no one. The possibility that it wasn’t keeps him standing there. It pushes him to open the door to the front lounge.

Dew is there on one of the couches, wrapped in the standard-issue blanket from his bunk. His head snaps up to look toward the door as Rain steps through and wordlessly pulls it closed.

When Rain continues toward the couch, Dew pulls the edge of the blanket up over his nose and mouth. “What are you doing?” His voice is a forced whisper muffled by fabric. “Go back to sleep.”

Rain isn’t deterred. When he sits down next to him, the leather of the couch creaking, Dew sinks a little further into his blanket like a turtle. His eyebrows furrow slightly. Below them, his pupils are wide in the dim light.

“I think if you’re going to get me sick it’s probably already happened,” Rain says.

Dew hums, ambivalent, but he lets the blanket fall away from his face, revealing a dejected frown.

“Why are you out here?” Rain keeps his voice low, presses gently.

“Can’t sleep. And I’m cold.”

Rain frowns. He reaches a cautious hand towards Dew’s forehead, slowly enough that it’s a request.

Dew doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all, apart from his eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re really warm,” Rain says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he really has a chance to think about them. The skin under his fingers is as hot as the last time he felt it, a startling, uncomfortable heat, like the stones of the path in the cloister after baking for hours in the summer sun.

“Well, I feel really cold.”

As Rain lets his hand fall to his side, Dew’s eyes slide open like they were never shut.

“My throat hurts. And my —” He shakes his head. “Everything hurts.” He pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself.

“Can I make you some tea? Maybe it would help?”

“Maybe,” he muses, gaze fixed out the window, through the streetlights that endlessly slip past, spires against a sky beginning to brighten at the horizon. Then, more decisively, “I can do it.”

“Let me do it,” Rain offers, one hand firm against Dew’s blanket, stilling the sluggish motion that stirs underneath it, pushing back against his attempt at stubborn self-sufficiency before it can gain any traction.

Dew sinks back against the couch.

A few steps away, Rain pours water into an electric kettle, a cheap plastic thing picked up at some labyrinthian superstore on the first day of the tour. It’s one of several similar appliances in this space that qualifies as their kitchen, barely four feet of counter space and a diminutive stainless steel sink. He settles it onto its base between a weathered coffee maker and a toaster with a penchant for thermal destruction, and sets it to boil.

He turns to Dew, whose eyes are now downcast and unfocused. “I’ll be right back,” Rain assures him. He holds a cautious stay right there on his tongue, a don’t get up, like Dew will jump out the window, will be running down the highway if he turns his back.

All he can do is tell himself that won’t happen, that he hasn’t pushed so hard as to make asphalt and gravel preferable over his ministrations. The door laments a low creak as he pulls it open, then closed behind him.

The front lounge is dimly lit, but the bunk compartment is truly dark, windowless, like a narrow rock passage in the depths of a cave. Rain reaches into the familiar space of his bunk before his eyes have a chance to adjust.

He braces one hand against the bunk above it when the bus hits a bump, the whole hallway tipping gently to one side and back, counterbalancing before returning to upright. He peels a blanket from where it’s still tucked under the far side of the mattress, trying his best to make as little noise as possible.

The fleece fabric is soft under his fingers, the same as when he reached out and touched it absentmindedly when he walked past it at the store — plush but lightweight, not too thick. It was the second day of the tour and they were picking up all the items they had forgotten to buy on the first day, odds and ends, things they only realized they needed after spending time without them. It was the same store too, albeit in a different city; the layout was similar enough that it felt like they had been there before.

Rain gathers the blanket in his arms. The smiling green frogs printed on it appear in the darkness to be indistinct gray blobs. A gentle snore filters through the curtain of one of the bunks behind him.

When he returns to the front lounge, the kettle has begun its characteristic quiet roar, another layer of white noise shrouding the already heavy space. It expands and fills every corner, enveloping them, and, maybe, just barely, pushing them closer together.

The central item of bedding provided for each person on the bus is a fluffy comforter. In the small space of the bunk its volume is satisfying, an ample sort of nest-making material, but it’s not quite as thick as it looks, or as warm. Dew has it wrapped around himself like he’s preparing to endure a harsh winter, pulled tight, his body huddled in the center. Rain drapes his blanket on top.

Dew looks on, his brows furrowed again. “This is your blanket.”

“It is.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“No, it’s okay, I have another one.” This is true, technically, if you include the comforter still in his bunk.

Behind him, the kettle clicks as it reaches a boil, and the accompanying sound of bubbles leaping forth from the heat quickly drops off. The void left in the atmosphere is a nudge toward the task he’s deviated from; he took advantage of the idle time it offered and now it’s outpaced him, left him behind.

He returns to the kitchen with intent, an objective in mind. He picks through one disorganized cabinet until he finds what he’s looking for. As he extricates the cardboard box from the surrounding mess, he doesn’t expect to hear Dew’s hushed voice again, commenting on it.

“Are you stealing stuff from Cumulus?”

Rain glances down at the box in his hand, and at the big fluffy cloud doodled on it in black marker. He is, indeed, stealing from Cumulus, and is perfectly aware he is doing so.

“She won’t mind.” It’s half an assertion and half a prayer. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, at least in this situation.

Dew’s face remains painted in worry at the prospect. He’s digging his heels in against this situation, this offer of support, and providing endless excuses and detours, whether he realizes it or not.

“Really, let me take care of you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it.”

Somehow, that’s enough for Dew, who doesn’t push any further. He tucks his chin into the mass of blankets around him.

Rain plucks a teabag from the box and unwraps it from its paper packet. He places it in a cup from the stack of them in the cabinet, then pours hot water into the cup. The teabag blooms gold against the white of the waxy laminated paper inside.

He finds himself opening the cabinet again without a clear reason, occupying himself while the tea steeps. Does it need something else? There’s a bottle of honey next to the cups — it feels like an appropriate addition. It all but vanishes as it streams into the deepening tea, the two substances the same color.

He holds one hand loosely around the cup as he works, wary of the precariousness of an open container on a moving vehicle. The liquid inside billows with steam. It smells medicinal, maybe a bit spicy, like gingerbread and something else he can’t place. The teabag jostles around awkwardly as he stirs it, caught in the vortex created by a plastic spoon from a box in a nearby drawer.

When he turns around, cup in hand, Dew has his eyes closed again. Rain pauses — it would be counterproductive to wake him, after all — but his eyes snap open in the pressing stillness, like he can somehow feel Rain’s gaze linger on him, brush over his face like a gentle hand.

Rain offers him the cup. He has to unravel his blanket cocoon just a bit to free a single hand with which to accept it. Rain stands there in front of him, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. The bus rattles; his knees absorb the movement.

Dew raises the cup to his mouth and takes a tiny sip. Rain doesn’t miss the brief grimace, quickly masked away, as he swallows.

“How is it?”

“It’s really sweet.”

“I put honey in it.” Suddenly that feels like it might actually have been the wrong decision — like maybe all of this was a mistake.

Dew doesn’t say anything. He takes another tiny sip.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s good,” Dew says. And, not as an afterthought, but as a cautious confession, “thanks.”

There’s only a moment of relative silence between them, of stillness, before Rain succumbs to the anxious call of the kitchen again, a ward against helplessness. He pulls open the drawer where they keep their hodgepodge of medicines and first aid supplies. He selects a bottle of garishly red liquid and holds it up for Dew’s regard.

“Do you want this?”

Dew stares at him vacantly.

“To help you sleep,” Rain clarifies. He turns the bottle around and looks at the label on the front, where the ingredients are listed. Then, carefully feigning ignorance, like he hadn’t recently spent his evening scrolling through search engine results on this very topic, “I think it might help with your throat too.”

Dew wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know, isn’t it late? When is soundcheck tomorrow?” His phone lays discarded on the couch next to him; its screen glows when he turns it on, a pale torch illuminating his hovering fingers.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rain soothes, another half-prayer, something else to figure out later. “It’s going to get taken care of.”

Dew’s phone screen dims. He tucks his free hand back under his blanket.

Rain turns the bottle around and lifts it closer to his face. He blinks at the small text on the back of it. The measuring cup mentioned in the dosing instructions must have been misplaced at some point, or maybe just discarded — an image of Cirrus taking a gulp straight from the bottle drifts through his mind.

He turns back towards the kitchen and begins to browse through drawers and shelves, pulling less familiar cabinet doors open slowly in case their contents are poised spill out, having shifted in transit. There’s a shot glass above the sink, sturdy and emblazoned with the cheerful logo of the gas station chain it was purchased at — places that all seem to blur together at this point, but this one was memorable enough to warrant a souvenir. It’s close enough to the right size, considering the other options available.

He pours an honest approximation of the listed dosage into the shot glass, maybe a two-thirds of its volume or so — it’s hard to tell given the tapered shape. The liquid inside sloshes gently with the movement of the bus, leaving a stained-glass ring around the inner perimeter, tinting wherever it touches with its cloying hue. He holds it out to Dew, who untangles his other hand.

Solemnly and without ceremony, Dew leans his head back and tips the contents of the glass into his mouth. When he returns upright, a particular kind of panic washes over his face that has Rain scrambling to find something for him to throw up into, but it quickly passes. He sips from the cup in his other hand, grimaces, and takes a deliberate breath. He passes the empty shot glass back to Rain.

Rain places it in the sink — washing dishes feels like the least important thing in the world right now. Instead, he returns to the couch. He sits down again, but doesn’t say anything.

“You can go back to sleep,” Dew says. “If you want.”

Rain pauses with words on his tongue again, words that might come from somewhere too deep, too close to his heart, and reveal a little too much, too directly. “It’s okay,” he assures, sufficiently vague.

Dew shifts under his blankets. He’s staring into the cup of tea, which he’s holding up to his face, near his mouth — for warmth, maybe, but it almost looks like he’s trying to hide behind it. “This is all so fucking stupid. And embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry.” Rain looks away, down at his own hands folded in his lap. “I’m not judging you.”

“I know.”

His heart lifts at the tiny spark of validation that response ignites, once he processes it.

Dew sets the half-full cup on the table next to him. Carefully, he lifts one edge of the blanket and places it over Rain’s lap, or at least as far as it will reach — it’s not quite big enough for both of them. Then, he leans back and closes his eyes.

Rain’s mind spins in place, rotating around a single thought. It’s a question answered, at least — neither of them found the words to admit it, but Dew’s actions said all they needed to say.

It’s a decision made, as well. He can’t get up now, so he closes his eyes too and lets the bus carry them forward.

—

Rain jolts awake to something flopping onto his lap and a startled rush of adrenaline.

The something is Dew’s limp, sleep-heavy arm. The events that brought the two of them here, into this situation, rush back into his mind, a turbulent wash of fragmented memories that settle into a still pool of reality. He blinks hard. Mid-morning sun filters through the bus windows.

Dew’s head lolls to one side, lips parted and brows pinched together. Sweat beads on his brow, darkens his hairline. His cheeks are red, the flush oozing down toward his neck. He groans quietly.

Rain’s heart thumps — this situation is in stark contrast with the calm he fell asleep to. He grabs Dew’s haphazard tangle of blankets and lifts them away, gathering them into a big ball in his arms. He tosses them aside on the couch.

Dew huffs. He retracts his arm from Rain’s lap and tucks it tight against his own body. He rolls his shoulders forward, tips his chin down, like he’s trying to curl in on himself.

Rain separates his extra blanket from Dew’s comforter with a few gentle shakes. As the ball of bedding unravels, the comforter flops onto the floor. He drapes the thinner blanket over Dew’s body, pulling it up over his shoulders and down across his legs.

After a few anxious moments, Dew seems to relax a bit. His head sinks back, wrapped arms loosen from his torso. Still, tension remains in his forehead and jaw. The length of his nose glistens with sweat.

The best Rain can provide is a paper towel wet with the lukewarm water at the kitchen sink. Next to him on the couch, the sides of their thighs pressed together through fuzzy frog-print fabric, he sponges Dew’s forehead with delicate touches. It feels inadequate, rough, but it’s what he has available here in this wasteland of single-use disposable products.

Dew sighs, and Rain can feel his hot breath against his wrist.

When the paper towel starts to become too warm he tosses it onto the nearby table, where it lands with a sad, soggy sound. He can throw it away later.

Dew shifts again. His arm rolls — gently, this time — out from under the blanket and comes to a stop resting against Rain’s thigh.

Absentmindedly, Rain traces one finger over a raised vein on the back of Dew’s hand. When he moves, a little twitch of his index finger, Rain freezes in place. An anticipatory wave of shame rolls over him, of panic, his mind completely blank as he searches for an excuse for this behavior, but Dew doesn’t stir any further. His eyes dart back and forth behind his eyelids, some dream holding him in the realm of sleep.

Rain continues following the lines and contours of his hand, a prominent bone at his wrist, a tendon cresting the knuckle of his index finger. He lets his shame abate, but not completely, keeping himself on alert. Based on the light outside, the others will be awake soon — maybe already are. The calm here feels crystalline, liable to shatter at any moment.

As if in response to his wariness, the door to the bunk compartment opens. Rain pulls his hand away, composes himself, prepares to justify why he’s here and what he’s doing. He sweeps away thoughts he doesn’t want to explain, as if someone might peer into his head and see them. Nevertheless, in a corner of his mind, the same thought keeps spinning over and over, impossible to ignore.

#ghost band fanfic #raindrop ghost #sorry that im posting this in october. i was just really slow #i only proofread this once instead of my usual 3-5 times so also sorry if theres any issues. ill try again tomorrow #fic i wrote

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