#but my brain is muddled cos we went back to the hotel and did a fuck ton of mdma and i started tripping real bad cos i took too much

[camillia-station]

Was to propose the idea that the Hatman is just Bill Burroughs and actually that's prolly worse

[krisseycrystal]

For fluff bingo maybe bed sharing with ryushima from p5?

TBH i already did “bed sharing” from my Fluff Bingo! card, BUT just for you, anon, i’ll make an exception

in return, please consider lending whatever aid you can to some places that haven’t received as much attention but still have been hurt and need support:

EMW Women's Surgical Center, the only licensed abortion provider in the state of KY; took damage but they are STILL OPEN and need support

Central Camera Co., the oldest camera store in Chicago, IL; has been around since 1899 and now everything’s burned & destroyed

SacDelux Consignment Store, a black female-owned luxury consignment store also completely destroyed and needs to rebuild

& many more!!

with that said, enjoy the “bed sharing” + ryushima <3

- o - o - o -

It was, perhaps, a younger and more naive version of Ryuji who had been under the impression that sleepovers were cool. His experiences with sleepovers as a kid as taught him they were cool, anyway, but those had clearly been under better, rose-colored-glasses years. Sleepovers had always been much better when he wasn’t warded away from his own hotel room because of too much PDA between his roommate and said roommate’s girlfriend, anyway.

Now he’s in Akira and Mishima’s room—which is, admittedly, what he wanted in the first place—and even Ann’s here, too, but Mishima is still groaning and miserable and it’s 2:11 in the morning and Akira already nodded off on the couch ages ago, glasses still on his dumb face, while Ann is spread-eagled on the other bed, shamelessly sawing logs. 

How the hell did he get stuck being the one to play nurse to Mishima, again?

Ryuji sighs and sits on the edge of Mishima’s bed. He’s curled on his side, as close to the opposite edge as he can get to the small paper-towel-bottomed plastic trash sitting on the floor as a just in case. It’s kind of a pathetic sight, but Ryuji knows he’s been plenty pathetic like this before, himself.

Awkwardly, he pats Mishima’s shoulder. “Hey, bud, uh…how’re you feelin’?”

Mishima groans. Again.

“That bad, huh?”

Mishima sniffs. “Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

“You can go ahead and sleep if you want.”

“I—” Ryuji scratches at the back of his head with his free hand. “—yeah, uh, no offense, but if you need to run to the bathroom again, I’m not gonna get all settled on the floor only to end up tripping you on your way.”

Mishima sniffs again and rolls onto his back. He frowns up at Ryuji in muddled, nausea-befuddled confusion, until he remembers the arrangements they had decided the previous night. “Oh. Right. You drew the spade.” After a moment of thought, he shrugs. “Then why don’t you just sleep here?”

“Dude, no. I’m not making you sleep on the floor—”

“—no, I mean…”

But Mishima doesn’t finish and in that expectant silence, pieces click into Ryuji’s head.

His face blooms red. “Uh—”

“—I wouldn’t—it doesn’t have to be weird. We don’t have to make it weird. We can just sleep with our backs facing each other. It’s just…y’know. So you can get some rest, too.”

Ryuji doesn’t know what to do here. Is there a precedent for this? Surely he used to share futons with his friends growing up. That was fine, right? Cool? Chill? Normal? Uh, some other synonym for something that doesn’t make his body itch and burn and buzz in the weirdest of ways? 

Why does Mishima’s offer…do that?  

“Ryuji, please,” Mishima murmurs, voice small and miserable and sorry, “I’d hate to be the reason you stayed up all night and didn’t get to enjoy the island tomorrow because you were still jet-lagged.”

“Y-yeah,” Ryuji’s traitorous mouth says before his brain can tune in to stop it. “All right.” 

Then Mishima smiles like he’s actually relieved and any opportunity Ryuji had to take those words back went right out the window.

Awkwardly, slowly, and maybe a little stiffly, Ryuji lays on his side, putting his back to Mishima. 

“Ryuji, you know you can—”

“—it’s fine,” Ryuji lies and doesn’t budge to try to slip under the covers Mishima’s huddled under. “I’m too hot, anyway.”

Mercifully, Mishima doesn’t press. Ryuji keeps his gaze pinpointed on a vague spot on the off-white of the opposite wall he can see above Ann’s head. He listens to the rustle of cloth, feels the dip in the mattress and the slight tug on the bedsheets he’s pinned under himself and tries not to imagine what Mishima must be doing or what he must be thinking or the way his short, dark hair must splay across the pillow. It doesn’t matter. Mishima said not to make this weird, so he’s not going to make it weird. The tempting warmth at his back, so close and yet so inconveniently untouchable, is fine.

It’s all fine.

It’s better than sleeping on the floor, anyway.

“Good night, Ryuji.”

Ryuji clears his throat, He forces his eyes shut before he breaks his brain by thinking too hard. “G’night.”

Sleep, when it comes, is actually just as easy as it was for a younger and much more naive Ryuji after all.