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sententiaTitle: End Of The World, Chapter 4
Author(s): Sententia
Artist(s): dragon_gypsy
Fandom(s): Switch
Type: (Gen, Het, Femmeslash or Slash) Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 34,000.
Characters/Pairings: Takei and Shiba.
Warnings/Spoilers: For the entire series and the official '5 years later' doujinshi done by Naked Ape.
Summary: It was the end of the world as Takei knew it, and he was feeling ... wait, how did the rest of the song go again? Takei returns to work after Shingo's betrayal, only to be hit be a far greater one. Both Shiba and Takei struggle with the consequences.
Author’s Notes: This is the longest thing I've written, and it really shows. When I planned it out it was only supposed to be 10,000 words (which is still huge for me), but it blossomed into something much longer. It's been a great growing process, and if I were to redo the story again with everything I'd learnt, it would probably be a completely different fic.
Chapter 4: Drinkies. What doesn’t kill you just punishes you in other ways.
Shiba’s new apartment building was tucked between an all night dairy and a non-descript business block. Takei waited uneasily down at the front gate, his hands buried low in his jacket pockets. The cold air was thin and brittle, making breathing just a little unnatural.
Takei couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous. It was all he could do to root himself next to the imitation stone pillar that Shiba’s gate was attached to. Right now his own, private apartment looked a hell of a lot more inviting than an evening out with his best friend.
Takei groaned, banging his head back against the pillar as a smirk flickered briefly across his mouth. He lifted his gaze up to Shiba’s apartment, waiting. Takei was cold, he was frustrated. The tension running through him felt peculiar and uncalled for, but said tension failed to bend to Takei’s intellectual arguments against its existence.
The lights up in Shiba’s apartment flicked off.
Takei flinched.
It had been a long couple of weeks, and Takei was maybe in a bit of a funk. Sure, the transfer had been a brilliant kind of psychological intervention, smothering Takei with old friends and new memories and not an inch of Shingo or Shiba. Takei’s own, two week stand down had really only occurred on paper, what with all the time it took to relocate his stuff, set up his new desk, and pin the sky back up so that it was at least temporarily in its rightful place. He had done a fair bit of spring cleaning as well, and not in the ‘it only matters if you can see it’ sort of way he normally employed. Takei was not the world’s most dedicated cleaner, however there was something obsessively soothing about scrubbing floors and slamming shut boxes.
Takei felt as though he was losing contact with the world. It was like everyone else was locked behind a glass window and Takei was just idly passing by. It was not necessarily a bad feeling, although that thought brought a smirk back temporarily to Takei’s lips.
The front door swung open, and Shiba stepped out.
“You’re late!” Takei said lightly, not saying a word about how Shiba’s light had switched on and off three times in the last half an hour. He said nothing at all about how each time Takei’s blood pressure had spiked up through his throat. Shiba’s release date had only been a week ago, and aside from a handful of stilted, embarrassing phone calls, this was really the first time they’d managed to catch up.
Shiba looked grey and washed out, although his hair was at least clean and his shirt ironed. Takei’s instincts kicked in – all the wrong ones, and on reflection Takei thought that said instincts felt a whole lot more like Shiba’s than his own – and with an agitated huff of cold air he rocked up onto his toes and messed up Shiba’s overly groomed hair.
“What the hell?” Takei protested, roughly tussling the strands through his fingers. “Since when can’t you do your own hair? If you think I’m going anywhere with you looking like a salary man, you’ve got another thing coming.” His movements were maybe a little tense, but it was a start. Humour was always a good starting point, and if he could just-
Shiba caught his hand, gently bringing it downwards. The quiet panic in Shiba’s gaze was difficult to meet, and Takei dropped his eyes cowardly to avoid it. He squeezed Shiba’s fingers briefly before letting go.
“The world goes on, Shiba,” Takei said sympathetically, forgetting the tension and the unfamiliarity and somehow stumbling back into the casual warmth that had always defined their friendship. He smiled encouragingly; needing to drive away some of the pain and fear that was present in the tension down Shiba’s back, the way his expression was frozen in panic. They’d always been good at tough love, because who wanted to hide behind fancy words and passively snide comebacks, really?
You either dealt with things, or you moved on. These two things didn’t need to be mutually beneficial to work individually, and Takei was a firm believer that this was an either/or type situation. Right now? Shiba needed to be pulled kicking and screaming back into a world that didn’t exist solely inside his head and the four walls of his tiny new apartment. It was easy to switch over into concerned friend mode when Shiba looked at him with those eyes, so desperate and lost and begging Takei to still care. Takei thought that Shiba would collapse in on himself if only he could.
It was a feeling which, late at night when the demons slipped out of their tightly locked cages, Takei was rather intimate with himself.
Demons were clearly the sluts of the nightmare world.
“Besides,” Takei added with a bounce in his step and dangerously friendly eyes. He brushed a hand across Shiba’s shoulder before smoothing it down Shiba’s tie, hooking his fingers around the tag at the back and pulling Shiba down close in a rush of movement. “You’re buying the first round, remember?” His grin was a little manic, but it did the job.
“I’m not sure I’m up to getting drunk,” Shiba replied, with what came this close to falling into pout territory.
Takei’s eyebrow shoots up into his bangs.
Oh, really?
“And then! And then do you know what he did?” Takei leaned forward, his voice enthused with laughter and alcohol and happy/horrified memories of earlier-that-day.
“Do I really want to know?”
Takei snorted in response, because of course Shiba did. There was a hint of anticipation in his eyes and glee was already curling at the corner of his mouth. Hell, Shiba was probably starved for anything of interest. There was only so much ironic pleasure you could get out of watching soaps all day before you started wondering if your own evil twin brother was hiding down inside the toilet bowl.
Takei, it must be pointed out, had never really watched soaps.
They were ... they were making it work. Sort of. It had been awkward at first, what with Takei having nothing to say and Shiba expecting him to never stop yelling (quite difficult when your partner refused to even start), but they’d agreed on a plan pretty quickly, and a damn good one at that.
Get drunk. Really, embarrassingly, hitting-on-your-own-sister drunk.
And what did you know?
“He said that as the ace of the team, his ability to read the butt prints of our suspects was clearly superior.” Takei pauses thoughtfully. “You know, I think he might have been a little drunk.”
“What sort of case are you investigating again?!” Shiba demanded, slapping his hand down on the counter in acute disbelief. Takei couldn’t tell if his horror was overriding his delight. But Shiba’s question stole away the lovely façade of alcohol-infused companionship, and Takei couldn’t keep his fists from clenching uncomfortably on the bar top. His mind raced at a thousand paces as he sought some way to redirect the conversation back to something silly and light.
“Wait, I definitely don’t want to know,” Shiba easily added, saving them both from that first, brutal acknowledgement that they were no longer able to share things like this. “Because then I’ll start wondering if Ibu practises his butt analysis on people he knows, and I do NOT need that image.” Shiba sneered over at Takei, smearing up against him and batting his eyelashes. “May I feel up your butt cheeks, Takei? It’s totally for scientific reasons.”
“Scientific reasons, my arse!”
“Exactly!”
It was maaaybe time to call this a night.
“And now,” Takei said formally, with a presidential dip of his head. “You are going to carry me home.”
“Oh, no, no!” Shiba protested, waving his hands defensively in the air. The beer in his glass didn’t remain there for long, cresting up over the rim and dribbling down Shiba’s shirt. “Not a chance.”
Takei gave him The Look. It was not That Look (the one that said surrender or die), nor was it the Look (capital letters were particularly important when you were this sloshed).
No. The Look was three parts puppy dog and one part wretchedness. The Look said: “if you don’t carry me home I’m going to have to stay here aaall night, because there is no way I’m able to walk anywhere.”
Shiba resisted. For 10 seconds.
“Aaarg, you bastard! You’ve added another part puppy dog eyes. I’m sure that counts as cheating.”
Takei grinned.
There were people who gave good piggyback rides and there were people who gave good piggyback rides. Shiba was neither. This might, Takei allowed as they lurched down the street awkwardly and without any hint of a consistent gait, be because Shiba was a little bit drunk himself. Still, as far as rides home went, this was way cheaper than the train.
(Besides, he deliberately hadn’t brought his wallet because he was making Shiba pay.)
“Do I at least get a tip afterwards?” Shiba asked churlishly as they stumbled around a corner. Takei wasn’t entirely sure there was a corner, which made the act even more impressive.
“Install butt cushions,” Takei bestowed regally. He really was a good friend.
“Man, when did you put on so much weight?” Shiba gruffed, while Takei rewarded a staring passer-by with his biggest smile and most Queen-y wave. “And you do know that kicking actually won’t make me go any faster?”
Takei laughed, and was light as air and high on alcohol and Shiba felt so, so warm. He relaxed in against Shiba’s back, dropping his forehead into that comfortable arc where shoulder and neck met.
This ... this was familiar.
Warm.
Safe.
He gave Shiba another kick, just for good measure.
The bar was much closer to Shiba’s new apartment than Takei’s. Because of that, Takei didn’t complain when Shiba failed to fulfil his purpose and take Takei home like a proper piggybacker would. Sneakily revealing that he was maybe not quite as drunk as Takei thought, Shiba managed to expertly open his front door while balancing Takei behind him. Sure, Takei almost slid off Shiba’s back and maybe ended up half cradled between Shiba’s legs for a moment before Shiba was able to whoosh him back up, but what was a little slippy-slidy between friends?
Shiba didn’t even bother with the complexities of the light switch when they stumbled inside, barely making it across the door step. It was not something Takei felt he could hold against him. Flick up? Flick down? There were way too many choices that didn’t even take into account whether or not Shiba had paid the power bill. When Shiba simply dumped Takei on the couch like an attractive sack of potatoes, Takei thought it only fair. The bedroom was at least another five steps away, and that was surely too far for even a sober driver.
Takei stretched out on the hard, yucky plastic of the coach with a groan, burying the side of his head into a cushion. He recoiled back in horror when his alcohol-heavy breath bounced back up at him, clinging to him with such unscrupulousness that Takei felt under siege. Down, breath! Down!
Oh, man. He was so paying for this in the morning.
“You are so paying for this in the morning,” Shiba said gleefully, the couch dipping beneath the weight of his sick pleasure as he sat down beside Takei. “Light weight.”
“I hate you,” Takei mumbled into his pillow, wrapping one arm around it childishly and smothering himself with it. He ignored Shiba when he draped something heavy across his shoulders; for all Takei knew it could be something, something –
Ok. So Takei was a little too drunk to come up with something creative. He was normally the dry, mostly sober component of this relationship. Takei was gaining an appreciation for Shiba’s ability to make witty quips when he was so sloshed that he couldn’t even tell his feet from his other feet.
Not-coat.
Shiba had dropped his not-coat over Takei.
There.
It was witty in its own sense.
Really.
“That was fun,” Shiba murmured, leaning down and brushing the hair away from Takei’s face. His fingers lingered briefly over Takei’s forehead before drawing back reluctantly.
Takei wanted to snatch them back, to drag Shiba down beside him on the couch and to latch onto him, to never let the bastard ever think of leaving him again. He wanted to pin Shiba down and make him promise.
He did none of those things, because this wasn’t about Takei and his pathetic little insecurities. It was about the quiet tremors that had run through Shiba’s fingertips, and the shake in his voice.
It had nothing, nothing to do with how apprehensive Takei felt when Shiba moved away, leaving behind nothing but an imprint.
“I expect breakfast in the morning!” Takei hollered, his words half swallowed by the pillow.
Shiba’s laughter (desperate and relieved) floated back into the room.
“Now you’re pushing it.”
The door to the bedroom closed, shutting away the last of the light. Takei rolled onto his back, his gaze blankly lifting to the ceiling. Shiba’s not-jacket smelled of him. Musk and smoke and despair.
Shiba made breakfast the next morning, which was fine and dandy except for the fact that Takei’s head had shattered into a thousand pieces and he was trying to mesh them back together with bacon fat. Shiba still had a couple of Takei’s shirts and a spare pair of pants (they’d done this crashing at each other’s place way too often in the past to not have backup plans built into the infrastructure), and there was definitely an advantage to working somewhere without a dress code. Takei didn’t normally feel properly dressed unless he was wearing at least three layers of clothing (two of which went unbuttoned) but he thought now was not the best time to show up to work wearing one of Shiba’s shirts as a jacket.
Whose bright idea had it been to go out on a Sunday evening, again? Takei was placing bets on the idiot who didn’t have to go to work in the morning.
Still, he had coffee, bacon, and a best friend who hadn’t mysteriously evaporated during the night – possibly because Takei kept guard for most of it before passing out. All that was to come now was that awkward, morning after goodbye...
“Is this when you hand me my lunch and give me a farewell kiss?” Takei gave Shiba a cheeky wink from the corridor; however Shiba didn’t want to play like a good boy. Instead, Shiba was toying with a whole mess of unspoken words, ones that lingered in the air just waiting to be spoken.
Takei didn’t want to hear them, and Shiba knew him well enough to see all the tell-tale signs. But some words didn’t know how to remain just thoughts, and Takei tensed as Shiba threatened to break their nice, fragile peace.
“I don’t like the thought of someone else having your back.”
Takei knew that was what Shiba wanted to say, because Shiba was oddly protective like that. Shiba’s mouth was drawn in a thin line and Takei noticed how tightly drawn in Shiba’s arms were against his sides. It always felt a little odd when Shiba went out into the field with someone else, but this was different. This was permanent.
And, really. What possible response did Takei have to such a bold declaration? ‘You mean, like you did last time when you were leading us into a trap before your end-game change of heart?’ didn’t have a cheery ring to it.
Shiba wanted to have that conversation, Takei knew that as well. But Takei didn’t. Not yet. Not ever.
What good could it possibly do them?
What more could Takei possibly give? Wasn’t ... wasn’t this enough?
“Enjoy your soaps,” Takei interjected sweetly instead, and Shiba grumbled and growled as he shut the door, giving Takei at least this.
It was a short lived victory.
“Garraggh,” Takei said (or an approximation there of) when he arrived at work. “Why did I drink so much? Why? I knew I was going to be down here in intelligence this morning.” Stakeouts were fantastic for recovering from any kind of “night before”, especially if you had a sympathetic partner who was willing to cover for you while you snuck in a couple of hours sleep. Not, naturally, that Takei had ever done this himself – he was the good partner. But being locked down in intelligence with nowhere to go, phones that rung endlessly, and staff who themselves hadn’t slept in three days ...
Eh. At least there was an unlimited supply of coffee and energy drinks. Takei was pretty sure the team lived on a twisted concoction of the two. Certainly, the drink that Miyoshi placed in front of him (with a perky pat on the shoulder and delivered with an impossibly perky smile) didn’t resemble any drink Takei had ever seen.
“It’s great for hangovers,” Miyoshi said perkily, giving Takei a wide grin as he sat down beside him. Miyoshi rested his head on his elbows, anticipation shining in his eyes as he patiently watched Takei eye up the drink dubiously. When Takei paused for a moment too long (the alcohol had only killed his brain cells, not his sanity), Miyoshi pushed the glass closer with his fingertips. The other man bit down on his bottom lip in expectation, eyes wide and trusting.
Takei had never felt quite so much like a test subject as he did in that moment.
“Uh ...” Takei shot Ibu a look of desperation, hoping that he could at least clarify the likely fatality rate of the drink. Ibu acknowledged the cry of help with a disinterested snort, never looking up from his computer screen. Takei would remember this betrayal, oh yes. “The headache isn’t that bad, really,” Takei tried hopefully, unleashing his own set of wobbly eyes on Miyoshi. “If we could maybe just turn the music off?”
Miyoshi and Ibu exchanged glances, and oops. Takei was getting the distinct impression that he was only hearing the music in his head, beating against his skull in a mutilated salsa.
“Drink it,” Ibu said coolly, levelling Takei with a glare. “It couldn’t do any more damage than what you’ve already done yourself.”
Ouch, and ouch, because the drink burned as it went down, scouring his throat like a metal scrubbing brush that had first been set alight. Takei’s eyes began to water, and Miyoshi’s anticipation slowly turned to horror.
“Uh ...” Takei tried to muster a positive smile, but it didn’t help that even Ibu had stopped typing to stare. “I, I think I might be-“
“I’m so, so sorry,” Miyoshi chanted endlessly when Takei glumly returned from the bathroom half an hour later, still green around the collar and not entirely convinced that his feet were where he had last left them.
“On the plus side, my headache is gone,” Takei offered with a wobbly smile. Miyoshi’s good intentions were incredibly difficult to stay mad at, especially when he looked so devastated.
Ibu snorted. “And so is your stomach lining.”
Yeah, the less said about that, the better.
“How did last night go?” Miyoshi squeezed in between a couple of apologies, happy to change the subject to anything else. Anything else. “Your night out with Shiba, I mean?”
There were three boxes on Shiba’s living room floor. Each was wrapped in far too much protective tape and stacked carefully in the corner. None of his photos had survived the trip – or at least, none of them were up on the walls or sitting on the mantelpiece. The couch was a rushed purchase, and nothing like the style Shiba usually preferred. Other than the food that Shiba had brought in anticipation of Takei crashing over, there had maybe been a bag of rice and a packet of stale crackers in the cupboard. Oh, and alcohol. Lots of that.
“He’s doing well,” Takei said, and meant it. You measured things differently after the end of the world. Old measurements need not apply. Shiba still wore the world’s tackiest, shiniest shirt out to the bar.
“That’s good!” Miyoshi said, and meant it. That took Takei a little bit by surprise, because while no-one had talked to him about Shiba – He was just another space they all existed around – Takei wasn’t stupid. He might not be able to read his own partners but he could read a room, especially ones filled with people whose opinions were written in bold, size 76 print. Miyoshi didn’t look at him with the same mixture of pity and disgust that some of Takei’s own department had done when he’d collected the few possessions the police hadn’t confiscated.
“And you?” Miyoshi added cautiously, concern hidden behind his smile. “You seem to be dealing with, ah, everything really well.”
“Too well,” Ibu muttered beneath his breath, earning a glare from Miyoshi.
Takei blinked first at Miyoshi, then Ibu, and then Miyoshi again.
How was he?
Ghostsandtensionandonetwothreeanddon’tyoudareleavepleaseandthereisagreatbigfuckingscarwheremychestusedtobeand-
He was fine, of course.
“You mean aside from the recent bout of poisoning?” Takei softened the comment with a grin, although he dramatically crunched over the desk with a moan.
“Arg!” Miyoshi buried his head in his arms. “I promise, I will make this up to you.” His eyes lit up. “I know, I’ll go and make you a coffee!”
Takei blanched as Miyoshi bounced off to the kitchen. Anything but that. It at least gave him a moment to drag his thoughts back from the traitorous dark hole they’d crashed down into while Takei was otherwise being good and useful and totally normal. The problem with his rescue attempt was that it blinded him momentarily from other things, like the fact that Ibu was no longer sitting in his chair but looming demonically above him.
“This isn’t healthy, you know,” Ibu stated, calm eyes staring down at him. The jerk didn’t even bother to acknowledge that he’d just given Takei a minor heart-attack.
“What? Taking suspicious drinks from co-workers?” Takei asked with what would have to pass for a smile. “I think I’m picking that up pretty quickly.”
Those eyes lingered a moment longer, before Ibu soundlessly returned to his desk.
Ah, friends. Couldn’t work without them, couldn’t make terrible life choices without them having to have some sort of input. It was almost touching, in a way.
The phone rang, and work thankfully impeded.
Author(s): Sententia
Artist(s): dragon_gypsy
Fandom(s): Switch
Type: (Gen, Het, Femmeslash or Slash) Gen
Rating: PG
Word Count: 34,000.
Characters/Pairings: Takei and Shiba.
Warnings/Spoilers: For the entire series and the official '5 years later' doujinshi done by Naked Ape.
Summary: It was the end of the world as Takei knew it, and he was feeling ... wait, how did the rest of the song go again? Takei returns to work after Shingo's betrayal, only to be hit be a far greater one. Both Shiba and Takei struggle with the consequences.
Author’s Notes: This is the longest thing I've written, and it really shows. When I planned it out it was only supposed to be 10,000 words (which is still huge for me), but it blossomed into something much longer. It's been a great growing process, and if I were to redo the story again with everything I'd learnt, it would probably be a completely different fic.
Shiba’s new apartment building was tucked between an all night dairy and a non-descript business block. Takei waited uneasily down at the front gate, his hands buried low in his jacket pockets. The cold air was thin and brittle, making breathing just a little unnatural.
Takei couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous. It was all he could do to root himself next to the imitation stone pillar that Shiba’s gate was attached to. Right now his own, private apartment looked a hell of a lot more inviting than an evening out with his best friend.
Takei groaned, banging his head back against the pillar as a smirk flickered briefly across his mouth. He lifted his gaze up to Shiba’s apartment, waiting. Takei was cold, he was frustrated. The tension running through him felt peculiar and uncalled for, but said tension failed to bend to Takei’s intellectual arguments against its existence.
The lights up in Shiba’s apartment flicked off.
Takei flinched.
It had been a long couple of weeks, and Takei was maybe in a bit of a funk. Sure, the transfer had been a brilliant kind of psychological intervention, smothering Takei with old friends and new memories and not an inch of Shingo or Shiba. Takei’s own, two week stand down had really only occurred on paper, what with all the time it took to relocate his stuff, set up his new desk, and pin the sky back up so that it was at least temporarily in its rightful place. He had done a fair bit of spring cleaning as well, and not in the ‘it only matters if you can see it’ sort of way he normally employed. Takei was not the world’s most dedicated cleaner, however there was something obsessively soothing about scrubbing floors and slamming shut boxes.
Takei felt as though he was losing contact with the world. It was like everyone else was locked behind a glass window and Takei was just idly passing by. It was not necessarily a bad feeling, although that thought brought a smirk back temporarily to Takei’s lips.
The front door swung open, and Shiba stepped out.
“You’re late!” Takei said lightly, not saying a word about how Shiba’s light had switched on and off three times in the last half an hour. He said nothing at all about how each time Takei’s blood pressure had spiked up through his throat. Shiba’s release date had only been a week ago, and aside from a handful of stilted, embarrassing phone calls, this was really the first time they’d managed to catch up.
Shiba looked grey and washed out, although his hair was at least clean and his shirt ironed. Takei’s instincts kicked in – all the wrong ones, and on reflection Takei thought that said instincts felt a whole lot more like Shiba’s than his own – and with an agitated huff of cold air he rocked up onto his toes and messed up Shiba’s overly groomed hair.
“What the hell?” Takei protested, roughly tussling the strands through his fingers. “Since when can’t you do your own hair? If you think I’m going anywhere with you looking like a salary man, you’ve got another thing coming.” His movements were maybe a little tense, but it was a start. Humour was always a good starting point, and if he could just-
Shiba caught his hand, gently bringing it downwards. The quiet panic in Shiba’s gaze was difficult to meet, and Takei dropped his eyes cowardly to avoid it. He squeezed Shiba’s fingers briefly before letting go.
“The world goes on, Shiba,” Takei said sympathetically, forgetting the tension and the unfamiliarity and somehow stumbling back into the casual warmth that had always defined their friendship. He smiled encouragingly; needing to drive away some of the pain and fear that was present in the tension down Shiba’s back, the way his expression was frozen in panic. They’d always been good at tough love, because who wanted to hide behind fancy words and passively snide comebacks, really?
You either dealt with things, or you moved on. These two things didn’t need to be mutually beneficial to work individually, and Takei was a firm believer that this was an either/or type situation. Right now? Shiba needed to be pulled kicking and screaming back into a world that didn’t exist solely inside his head and the four walls of his tiny new apartment. It was easy to switch over into concerned friend mode when Shiba looked at him with those eyes, so desperate and lost and begging Takei to still care. Takei thought that Shiba would collapse in on himself if only he could.
It was a feeling which, late at night when the demons slipped out of their tightly locked cages, Takei was rather intimate with himself.
Demons were clearly the sluts of the nightmare world.
“Besides,” Takei added with a bounce in his step and dangerously friendly eyes. He brushed a hand across Shiba’s shoulder before smoothing it down Shiba’s tie, hooking his fingers around the tag at the back and pulling Shiba down close in a rush of movement. “You’re buying the first round, remember?” His grin was a little manic, but it did the job.
“I’m not sure I’m up to getting drunk,” Shiba replied, with what came this close to falling into pout territory.
Takei’s eyebrow shoots up into his bangs.
Oh, really?
“And then! And then do you know what he did?” Takei leaned forward, his voice enthused with laughter and alcohol and happy/horrified memories of earlier-that-day.
“Do I really want to know?”
Takei snorted in response, because of course Shiba did. There was a hint of anticipation in his eyes and glee was already curling at the corner of his mouth. Hell, Shiba was probably starved for anything of interest. There was only so much ironic pleasure you could get out of watching soaps all day before you started wondering if your own evil twin brother was hiding down inside the toilet bowl.
Takei, it must be pointed out, had never really watched soaps.
They were ... they were making it work. Sort of. It had been awkward at first, what with Takei having nothing to say and Shiba expecting him to never stop yelling (quite difficult when your partner refused to even start), but they’d agreed on a plan pretty quickly, and a damn good one at that.
Get drunk. Really, embarrassingly, hitting-on-your-own-sister drunk.
And what did you know?
“He said that as the ace of the team, his ability to read the butt prints of our suspects was clearly superior.” Takei pauses thoughtfully. “You know, I think he might have been a little drunk.”
“What sort of case are you investigating again?!” Shiba demanded, slapping his hand down on the counter in acute disbelief. Takei couldn’t tell if his horror was overriding his delight. But Shiba’s question stole away the lovely façade of alcohol-infused companionship, and Takei couldn’t keep his fists from clenching uncomfortably on the bar top. His mind raced at a thousand paces as he sought some way to redirect the conversation back to something silly and light.
“Wait, I definitely don’t want to know,” Shiba easily added, saving them both from that first, brutal acknowledgement that they were no longer able to share things like this. “Because then I’ll start wondering if Ibu practises his butt analysis on people he knows, and I do NOT need that image.” Shiba sneered over at Takei, smearing up against him and batting his eyelashes. “May I feel up your butt cheeks, Takei? It’s totally for scientific reasons.”
“Scientific reasons, my arse!”
“Exactly!”
It was maaaybe time to call this a night.
“And now,” Takei said formally, with a presidential dip of his head. “You are going to carry me home.”
“Oh, no, no!” Shiba protested, waving his hands defensively in the air. The beer in his glass didn’t remain there for long, cresting up over the rim and dribbling down Shiba’s shirt. “Not a chance.”
Takei gave him The Look. It was not That Look (the one that said surrender or die), nor was it the Look (capital letters were particularly important when you were this sloshed).
No. The Look was three parts puppy dog and one part wretchedness. The Look said: “if you don’t carry me home I’m going to have to stay here aaall night, because there is no way I’m able to walk anywhere.”
Shiba resisted. For 10 seconds.
“Aaarg, you bastard! You’ve added another part puppy dog eyes. I’m sure that counts as cheating.”
Takei grinned.
There were people who gave good piggyback rides and there were people who gave good piggyback rides. Shiba was neither. This might, Takei allowed as they lurched down the street awkwardly and without any hint of a consistent gait, be because Shiba was a little bit drunk himself. Still, as far as rides home went, this was way cheaper than the train.
(Besides, he deliberately hadn’t brought his wallet because he was making Shiba pay.)
“Do I at least get a tip afterwards?” Shiba asked churlishly as they stumbled around a corner. Takei wasn’t entirely sure there was a corner, which made the act even more impressive.
“Install butt cushions,” Takei bestowed regally. He really was a good friend.
“Man, when did you put on so much weight?” Shiba gruffed, while Takei rewarded a staring passer-by with his biggest smile and most Queen-y wave. “And you do know that kicking actually won’t make me go any faster?”
Takei laughed, and was light as air and high on alcohol and Shiba felt so, so warm. He relaxed in against Shiba’s back, dropping his forehead into that comfortable arc where shoulder and neck met.
This ... this was familiar.
Warm.
Safe.
He gave Shiba another kick, just for good measure.
The bar was much closer to Shiba’s new apartment than Takei’s. Because of that, Takei didn’t complain when Shiba failed to fulfil his purpose and take Takei home like a proper piggybacker would. Sneakily revealing that he was maybe not quite as drunk as Takei thought, Shiba managed to expertly open his front door while balancing Takei behind him. Sure, Takei almost slid off Shiba’s back and maybe ended up half cradled between Shiba’s legs for a moment before Shiba was able to whoosh him back up, but what was a little slippy-slidy between friends?
Shiba didn’t even bother with the complexities of the light switch when they stumbled inside, barely making it across the door step. It was not something Takei felt he could hold against him. Flick up? Flick down? There were way too many choices that didn’t even take into account whether or not Shiba had paid the power bill. When Shiba simply dumped Takei on the couch like an attractive sack of potatoes, Takei thought it only fair. The bedroom was at least another five steps away, and that was surely too far for even a sober driver.
Takei stretched out on the hard, yucky plastic of the coach with a groan, burying the side of his head into a cushion. He recoiled back in horror when his alcohol-heavy breath bounced back up at him, clinging to him with such unscrupulousness that Takei felt under siege. Down, breath! Down!
Oh, man. He was so paying for this in the morning.
“You are so paying for this in the morning,” Shiba said gleefully, the couch dipping beneath the weight of his sick pleasure as he sat down beside Takei. “Light weight.”
“I hate you,” Takei mumbled into his pillow, wrapping one arm around it childishly and smothering himself with it. He ignored Shiba when he draped something heavy across his shoulders; for all Takei knew it could be something, something –
Ok. So Takei was a little too drunk to come up with something creative. He was normally the dry, mostly sober component of this relationship. Takei was gaining an appreciation for Shiba’s ability to make witty quips when he was so sloshed that he couldn’t even tell his feet from his other feet.
Not-coat.
Shiba had dropped his not-coat over Takei.
There.
It was witty in its own sense.
Really.
“That was fun,” Shiba murmured, leaning down and brushing the hair away from Takei’s face. His fingers lingered briefly over Takei’s forehead before drawing back reluctantly.
Takei wanted to snatch them back, to drag Shiba down beside him on the couch and to latch onto him, to never let the bastard ever think of leaving him again. He wanted to pin Shiba down and make him promise.
He did none of those things, because this wasn’t about Takei and his pathetic little insecurities. It was about the quiet tremors that had run through Shiba’s fingertips, and the shake in his voice.
It had nothing, nothing to do with how apprehensive Takei felt when Shiba moved away, leaving behind nothing but an imprint.
“I expect breakfast in the morning!” Takei hollered, his words half swallowed by the pillow.
Shiba’s laughter (desperate and relieved) floated back into the room.
“Now you’re pushing it.”
The door to the bedroom closed, shutting away the last of the light. Takei rolled onto his back, his gaze blankly lifting to the ceiling. Shiba’s not-jacket smelled of him. Musk and smoke and despair.
Shiba made breakfast the next morning, which was fine and dandy except for the fact that Takei’s head had shattered into a thousand pieces and he was trying to mesh them back together with bacon fat. Shiba still had a couple of Takei’s shirts and a spare pair of pants (they’d done this crashing at each other’s place way too often in the past to not have backup plans built into the infrastructure), and there was definitely an advantage to working somewhere without a dress code. Takei didn’t normally feel properly dressed unless he was wearing at least three layers of clothing (two of which went unbuttoned) but he thought now was not the best time to show up to work wearing one of Shiba’s shirts as a jacket.
Whose bright idea had it been to go out on a Sunday evening, again? Takei was placing bets on the idiot who didn’t have to go to work in the morning.
Still, he had coffee, bacon, and a best friend who hadn’t mysteriously evaporated during the night – possibly because Takei kept guard for most of it before passing out. All that was to come now was that awkward, morning after goodbye...
“Is this when you hand me my lunch and give me a farewell kiss?” Takei gave Shiba a cheeky wink from the corridor; however Shiba didn’t want to play like a good boy. Instead, Shiba was toying with a whole mess of unspoken words, ones that lingered in the air just waiting to be spoken.
Takei didn’t want to hear them, and Shiba knew him well enough to see all the tell-tale signs. But some words didn’t know how to remain just thoughts, and Takei tensed as Shiba threatened to break their nice, fragile peace.
“I don’t like the thought of someone else having your back.”
Takei knew that was what Shiba wanted to say, because Shiba was oddly protective like that. Shiba’s mouth was drawn in a thin line and Takei noticed how tightly drawn in Shiba’s arms were against his sides. It always felt a little odd when Shiba went out into the field with someone else, but this was different. This was permanent.
And, really. What possible response did Takei have to such a bold declaration? ‘You mean, like you did last time when you were leading us into a trap before your end-game change of heart?’ didn’t have a cheery ring to it.
Shiba wanted to have that conversation, Takei knew that as well. But Takei didn’t. Not yet. Not ever.
What good could it possibly do them?
What more could Takei possibly give? Wasn’t ... wasn’t this enough?
“Enjoy your soaps,” Takei interjected sweetly instead, and Shiba grumbled and growled as he shut the door, giving Takei at least this.
It was a short lived victory.
“Garraggh,” Takei said (or an approximation there of) when he arrived at work. “Why did I drink so much? Why? I knew I was going to be down here in intelligence this morning.” Stakeouts were fantastic for recovering from any kind of “night before”, especially if you had a sympathetic partner who was willing to cover for you while you snuck in a couple of hours sleep. Not, naturally, that Takei had ever done this himself – he was the good partner. But being locked down in intelligence with nowhere to go, phones that rung endlessly, and staff who themselves hadn’t slept in three days ...
Eh. At least there was an unlimited supply of coffee and energy drinks. Takei was pretty sure the team lived on a twisted concoction of the two. Certainly, the drink that Miyoshi placed in front of him (with a perky pat on the shoulder and delivered with an impossibly perky smile) didn’t resemble any drink Takei had ever seen.
“It’s great for hangovers,” Miyoshi said perkily, giving Takei a wide grin as he sat down beside him. Miyoshi rested his head on his elbows, anticipation shining in his eyes as he patiently watched Takei eye up the drink dubiously. When Takei paused for a moment too long (the alcohol had only killed his brain cells, not his sanity), Miyoshi pushed the glass closer with his fingertips. The other man bit down on his bottom lip in expectation, eyes wide and trusting.
Takei had never felt quite so much like a test subject as he did in that moment.
“Uh ...” Takei shot Ibu a look of desperation, hoping that he could at least clarify the likely fatality rate of the drink. Ibu acknowledged the cry of help with a disinterested snort, never looking up from his computer screen. Takei would remember this betrayal, oh yes. “The headache isn’t that bad, really,” Takei tried hopefully, unleashing his own set of wobbly eyes on Miyoshi. “If we could maybe just turn the music off?”
Miyoshi and Ibu exchanged glances, and oops. Takei was getting the distinct impression that he was only hearing the music in his head, beating against his skull in a mutilated salsa.
“Drink it,” Ibu said coolly, levelling Takei with a glare. “It couldn’t do any more damage than what you’ve already done yourself.”
Ouch, and ouch, because the drink burned as it went down, scouring his throat like a metal scrubbing brush that had first been set alight. Takei’s eyes began to water, and Miyoshi’s anticipation slowly turned to horror.
“Uh ...” Takei tried to muster a positive smile, but it didn’t help that even Ibu had stopped typing to stare. “I, I think I might be-“
“I’m so, so sorry,” Miyoshi chanted endlessly when Takei glumly returned from the bathroom half an hour later, still green around the collar and not entirely convinced that his feet were where he had last left them.
“On the plus side, my headache is gone,” Takei offered with a wobbly smile. Miyoshi’s good intentions were incredibly difficult to stay mad at, especially when he looked so devastated.
Ibu snorted. “And so is your stomach lining.”
Yeah, the less said about that, the better.
“How did last night go?” Miyoshi squeezed in between a couple of apologies, happy to change the subject to anything else. Anything else. “Your night out with Shiba, I mean?”
There were three boxes on Shiba’s living room floor. Each was wrapped in far too much protective tape and stacked carefully in the corner. None of his photos had survived the trip – or at least, none of them were up on the walls or sitting on the mantelpiece. The couch was a rushed purchase, and nothing like the style Shiba usually preferred. Other than the food that Shiba had brought in anticipation of Takei crashing over, there had maybe been a bag of rice and a packet of stale crackers in the cupboard. Oh, and alcohol. Lots of that.
“He’s doing well,” Takei said, and meant it. You measured things differently after the end of the world. Old measurements need not apply. Shiba still wore the world’s tackiest, shiniest shirt out to the bar.
“That’s good!” Miyoshi said, and meant it. That took Takei a little bit by surprise, because while no-one had talked to him about Shiba – He was just another space they all existed around – Takei wasn’t stupid. He might not be able to read his own partners but he could read a room, especially ones filled with people whose opinions were written in bold, size 76 print. Miyoshi didn’t look at him with the same mixture of pity and disgust that some of Takei’s own department had done when he’d collected the few possessions the police hadn’t confiscated.
“And you?” Miyoshi added cautiously, concern hidden behind his smile. “You seem to be dealing with, ah, everything really well.”
“Too well,” Ibu muttered beneath his breath, earning a glare from Miyoshi.
Takei blinked first at Miyoshi, then Ibu, and then Miyoshi again.
How was he?
Ghostsandtensionandonetwothreeanddon’tyoudareleavepleaseandthereisagreatbigfuckingscarwheremychestusedtobeand-
He was fine, of course.
“You mean aside from the recent bout of poisoning?” Takei softened the comment with a grin, although he dramatically crunched over the desk with a moan.
“Arg!” Miyoshi buried his head in his arms. “I promise, I will make this up to you.” His eyes lit up. “I know, I’ll go and make you a coffee!”
Takei blanched as Miyoshi bounced off to the kitchen. Anything but that. It at least gave him a moment to drag his thoughts back from the traitorous dark hole they’d crashed down into while Takei was otherwise being good and useful and totally normal. The problem with his rescue attempt was that it blinded him momentarily from other things, like the fact that Ibu was no longer sitting in his chair but looming demonically above him.
“This isn’t healthy, you know,” Ibu stated, calm eyes staring down at him. The jerk didn’t even bother to acknowledge that he’d just given Takei a minor heart-attack.
“What? Taking suspicious drinks from co-workers?” Takei asked with what would have to pass for a smile. “I think I’m picking that up pretty quickly.”
Those eyes lingered a moment longer, before Ibu soundlessly returned to his desk.
Ah, friends. Couldn’t work without them, couldn’t make terrible life choices without them having to have some sort of input. It was almost touching, in a way.
The phone rang, and work thankfully impeded.
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Date: 2013-01-16 01:44 pm (UTC)- they probably can't hang out for a whole night without bringing up work at least once.
- this is adorable. ADORABLE. and yet sort of bittersweet, because they're both drunk and because they're not talking about things, or fixing things; they're just ... trying really hard to be who they used to be, before?
- Takei, honey, Shiba is not 'oddly protective'. Shiba is fiercely protective - of you, because he knows you pretty well?
- and there's the pink elephant, and Takei is the one ignoring it.
- even more familiar faces showing up, yay! and of course they all want to take care of Takei, just a little ...
- ... before interrogating him about Shiba. (somehow, I don't picture this happened with Shingo. people liked Shiba, though.)
- Ibu! <3 (laconic and to the point)