#the second Chuuya hears a pan hit the stove he’s UP

[petitesmafia]

domestic skk

[prodicalmenace]

chuuya with the confessing feelings kissing prompt if you wouldn’t mind :)

again a big big thanks for this request because it jumped me back into working on my sleep and weep update and helped me finish planning out the next few chapters. i send you soO much love and “good vibes” as the kids call them

;;

The popping sounds of oil distance themselves from children who yell on the streets at passing cards and neighbors arguing. You feel your nostrils widen when its smell hits you, the sear of meat too close to be floating from the outdoors and preparing your mouth to salivate. It’s breakfast time, hinted by the incoming sunlight that pokes at you through your blanket and the wafting smell of pig in the air. Bacon.

You yawn, and when your mouth is done your lips settle into a smile picturing the wonderful breakfast being prepared and ready to jump out of bed before a heaviness hits you keeping your feet dangling at the edge. It’s all in your head, like a bad sinus infection, but the sickness that makes its way down from your head to your stomach reminds you that it’s no common cold thats keeping you in bed. Though hangovers are just as common they come with more regret and upchuck of bile, which only leads to more regret.

You groan, but you can’t deny yourself the healing power of bacon by scent alone and soon shuffle your way out of your bedroom and to your kitchen bracing yourself against the wall. You hear hums getting closer as you do and witness flashes of colors from windows, photo glares, and soon a figure in your kitchen.

Clad in white the ember haired chef seems to thrive in the silence flipping and whipping all sorts of goods between pans and plates. Chuuya’s kindness had always made your heart flutter, but seeing it now like some sort of angel in your kitchen all and only for you nearly made you melt.

If only you could remember why he was there in the first place.

“You really shouldn’t be standing,” he speaks up from his place by the stove, and it’s the first you realize he’s looking at you if it was for long.

“That’s an understatement,” You fake a cough shuffling to a lone seat at your counter, hands absentmindedly swatting away the mess of loose mail and work folders alike as though you can make up for the fact that you definitely don’t look put together. Drinking with the Black Lizard would set you back by a day but it wasn’t like you couldn’t handle it on your own, so why oh why was Chuuya in your kitchen while you’re still wearing yesterdays clothes?

“Whats the last thing you remember?” he asks on cue, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you begin to fall red in embarrassment at his ability to read you.

You busy your eyes with a water stain on your wall. “Tachihara broke a table, a few of Gin’s men started to fight each other, too many shitty shochu cocktails,” each falls further into a mumble as the memories become disconnected scenes of a movie.

With his back still facing you, Chuuya laughs. “Even if they were shitty they did the job. Check your elbow.”

Your eyes widen at the command and you pull back the sleeves of your shirt to follow. Against your skin lies a disgusting green oval spreading from the crease of your elbow to the middle of your bicep, red blood vessels at the edges like they still haven’t healed.

“So, correction: you and Tachihara broke a table when you were fighting Gin’s men,” you’re sure you look a fully ripe tomato as you drop your head in your hands completely missing the grin on his face when Chuuya turns to drop the finished bacon on the place in front of you. “Lucky for you the barkeep is an informant of mine, he called me the moment you threw the first punch.”

Yes, that sounded like you, the crazy boozed up you you did your best to act like didn’t exist on the clock.

You drop your hands and stare at the perfectly crafted plate in front of you, a hearty all American breakfast made in the shape of a smile. Who knows what crazy things you said or may have tried in the midst of his plight to get you home. All day you work to impress him and to earn his respect and remind him you exist but this is what gets him in your home, taking care of you, smiling at you, giving you heart palpitations before noon? For years you’ve had this childish crush on the executive sticking to you like properly functioning sticky-tack yet you managed to never let it interfere with your personal life. You were adults now and you worked great together, there was no need to say or try anything especially when you both lived and worked at opposite ends of the mafia lifestyle.

Chuuya’s smile drops when too many seconds past and you still don’t pick at your food, eyes instead just staring at the plate like the order was all wrong. “Are you feeling okay?” the concern is in the way his voice loses his bite, and the three creases that appear at his brow with the bite at the inside of his lip.

Your lips quiver before you respond with a loose “No!” and before you know it he’s move to your side of the counter, one glove already off as he attempts to bring a hand to your forehead before you swat it away with a short “stop that!”. At the action his eyebrow raises, and the sickness that was already in your stomach does a backflip.

“It’s just—! I just—! Agh, this is so embarrassing,” you feel like you’re yelling but your words blend between one another just above a whisper.

“Don’t be embarrassed, this happens with subordinates more than you think, it’s our fault for making the bars around here water their drinks down—,”

“No, Chuuya, it’s not embarrassing because I work for you it’s embarrassing because I’m in love with you!”

Your arms are waving in the air when you blurt out this statement, but soon they drop as you suck in a breath.

“No, it’s not that I’m in love with you,” he stares at you blankly, that wasn’t good. “I mean I really really like you and have the capacity to fall in love with you,” this isn’t better.

You’re close to forming a viable excuse mid stutters before it happens and all breath is lost. The hand without a glove rests cooly at your neck as he tilts your head up and gently presses his lips against yours. They’re smooth, like his hand, and warm from standing by the stove so long that it makes your eyes close at the sheer comfort. He smells like breakfast, or maybe thats the plate right in front of you, and when you seem to sign against him you feel the edges of his lips curl into a smile against yours.

And then he pulls away.

“Eat your bacon.” he plants another kiss at your forehead before making his way back into the kitchen putting the pots from the stove into the sink like nothing happened.

What?

“Just eat, it’ll make you feel better,” he muses from the sink, doing your dishes, angelic domesticity glowing in your own home.

You blink again and turn to the smiley face plate in front of you, and like a good little mafioso you comply with your executives orders.