It's before eight on a Sunday morning and Ookurikara is the most confused he has ever been in his life.
The bed he's in is obscenely comfortable. The pillows feel like they're stuffed with feathers, the expensive sort, and the sheets are softer than he remembers cotton is supposed to be. In comparison the memory of his own bed is disappointing. The same goes for his room which is usually messy, filled with empty water glasses and completely lacking in decoration. This bedroom is elegant, neat, downright stylish. There's a chair at the end of the bed. His clothes are folded neatly into the velvet upholstery and he thinks it's a shame that he hadn't ironed them before wearing them the day before because the careful folds are going to waste.
This is not how he folds clothes. This is not his room. This is not his bed.
This is, in fact, the bedroom of one Mitsutada, chef and self-proclaimed style enthusiast. The man himself has his eyes closed but is definitely not asleep. Ookurikara knows this because Mitsutada is idly brushing his toes back and forth over Ookurikara's ankle. He's lying on his back with his right arm around Ookurikara's shoulders and his left arm over his own chest so that he can hold Ookurikara's right hand. Ookurikara's cheek is resting against his shoulder.
Mitsutada is shockingly naked.
Ookurikara is very confused.
/
He had only wanted a bacon sandwich. Some things were important and bacon was at the very top of that list. Usually he would make one at home but he had been working late at his shitty store job and had forgotten to buy bread the night before. Going out in public and spending time among the Saturday crowds was one of his least favourite things but bacon it was worth it.
The little cafe-restaurant-bar-whatever was only a few blocks away. Ookurikara made a point of never visiting the same place twice so that people wouldn't ask why he was always eating alone. Seeing as eating out was a rare occurrence he had yet to run out of neighbourhood eateries. This place looked quiet and so it was time to scratch it off the list. He would be fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Easy.
The place had looked quiet. And it was empty of other customers. It should have been perfect.
"This is going to be the greatest bacon sandwich you have ever tasted."
"It is?"
"A Mitsutada special. Sit tight."
The place was quiet. The waiter, chef, owner, whatever, was not. He was downright weird. He had the suit of an expensive restaurant, the gloves of a chauffeur and the eyepatch of a pirate. His hair was dark, slightly blue in the light, iridescent like the sheen on spilt oil. His voice was smooth as honey and his legs went on for days. He had a gleam in his one visible eye, the iris golden and bright with enthusiasm.
If he hadn't insisted in chattering, Ookurikara wouldn't have minded looking at all. As it was...
"After you've eaten this, I can guarantee that you will never enjoy a regular bacon sandwich again."
...he was annoying.
"...right."
Mitsutada stayed standing by the table. Ookurikara stared at him, willing him to go away.
"You have gorgeous eyes," Mitsutada said into the silence.
"They're the same as yours."
"Thank you!"
"I didn't say I liked them."
Mitsutada had a musical laugh. Ookurikara did not join in.
"I like your tattoo."
"Right."
"Very cool."
"Uh-huh. Can I eat this sandwich or...?"
"Sure! Want to get coffee when you're done?"
"With you?"
"That's what I said."
"No."
"Great! I know just the place..."
\\\
Birds are singing the morning in outside the window. Ookurikara can't remember if he finished that bacon sandwich or not. Beside him, Mitsutada is smiling as if he knows what's going on in Ookurikara's head. Maybe he does. He seems the sort.
He doesn't speak, even if he can hear Ookurikara's thoughts, but he does tap his fingers against the others shoulder in a question. Ookurikara doesn't know what the question is but he answers by bending his arm upwards to lace their fingers together, now holding both hands at once.
Mitsutada gives the smallest of nods and settles down again.
Outside, cars are beginning to purr into life. The world is waking up. Ookurikara feels himself drifting back to sleep, lulled the the rise and fall of Mitsutada's chest.
/
"Why are we in a museum?"
"Because history is amazing and the coffee in the cafe here is top notch."
"Right."
Ookurikara had been saying that a lot. It was easier than trying to get answers or, worse, trying to understand those answers. He was starting to think that agreeing to this - what, date? - just to make Mitsutada leave him and his sandwich alone had been a bad idea.
He talked a lot. He was difficult to keep up with.
"Do you like swords?"
He was weird.
"I guess."
"You're going to love this."
Forty minutes later they were sitting either side of two empty mugs of coffee and debating the inaccuracies on the information plaques around the museum.
"I know Date Masamune wasn't like that," Mitsutada insisted, slapping one gloved hand onto the table.
"I know."
"Because... because of..."
"Because he wasn't."
"Exactly!"
"You're right."
"It's so great to finally have someone that will talk about this with me!"
Ookurikara felt the same. He felt his lips try to smile and forced them back into submission.
"Right," he said.
"You look happy right now. It's cute."
Ookurikara blinked.
"Do I?"
"Adorable."
"Shut up. I don't want to be friends with you."
"Let's go get a drink next. I know just the place..."
\\\
"I really like Date Masamune."
His own voice wakes him from a reverie. Mitsutada laughs softly and gives his hand a squeeze.
"I know. Me too."
"I didn't mean to say that."
Instead of replying, Mitsutada turns to look at Ookurikara with a smile.
"You don't talk a lot on Sundays," Ookurikara says.
"Hush."
Mitsutada's golden eyes are soft, like caramel.
"Don't ruin this," he says. "Not yet."
Ookurikara thinks he understands. It's been easier since the words stopped.
/
The bar was as small and strange as Mitsutada's cafe-restaurant-whatever. Drinks were placed at their table as soon as they sat down and Ookurikara was already halfway through the glass before he thought to question what it was.
"Mitsutada special."
Ookurikara could tell that this statement was followed by a wink because Mitsutada moved his whole face to follow the action. Feeling slightly violated, Ookurikara raised an eyebrow.
"Why the eyepatch?"
"Do you think it looks dashing?"
"Not what I said."
"Thanks, Kara-chan!"
"Don't call me that."
Mitsutada continued to call him that while he explained how he had lost the use of his eye through some freak illness when he had been small and how he didn't need the eyepatch but it was one of his charm points. They talked about his questionable fashion choices, Ookurikara's own lack of style coming under scrutiny, and about how much time it took Mitsutada to fix his hair in the morning.
The drinks kept being placed before him. He decided the Mitsutada special wasn't too bad and so they talked about that for a while. After another few glasses he lost track of the course of their conversations but they just seemed to keep going, no matter how short or surly his answers. He found himself talking about things he had never spoken of before, saying more in a few hours than he had to anyone over the last several months at least.
At some point, he realised that it was getting dark outside and he hadn't eaten since the bacon sandwich. He said as much.
"I wondered why the drinks were stronger than normal," Mitsutada said, not sounding drunk at all.
"Right." Ookurikara hesitated. "I should go," he suggested.
"We should definitely eat, you're right."
"That's not-"
"Follow me, Kara-chan. I know this place..."
This 'place' was a stall on a street corner. Ookurikara paid for a box of something deep fried - under protest from Mitsutada whose generosity was offensive - and they stood eating on a street corner.
"What even is this?" he asked, through a mouthful.
"Mitsu-"
"Forget it."
It tasted good, though. Actually good, not just because he was drunk. He felt fuzzy at best. Was it possible to talk alcohol out of your system? He had never talked so much before so he had no idea.
"You don't talk much, do you Kara-chan?"
The timing of this comment was suspicious. Wondering if Mitsutada could read minds, he frowned.
"I've been talking all afternoon."
"Yes, but usually."
"I guess."
Mitsutada's smile was fascinating. It was wide and warm and comforting, even though he was easily the most annoying person Ookurikara had ever spent time with. He had the strangest urge to smile back.
"You should talk more," Mitsutada said, taking Ookurikara's empty food tray and tossing it into a nearby trash can.
"Why?"
"Your voice is beautiful."
Mitsutada was definitely the weirdest person he had ever met. Ookurikara checked his watch and had to double take.
"We only met ten hours ago," he said, trying to sound as if he spent that much time with people every day, and that this made the compliment meaningless.
Unperturbed, Mitsutada stepped closer. He looked good under the street lights, jacket hung over one arm and top shirt button undone. Ookurikara can't remember when this happened.
"Only that long, huh?"
His voice was low. Ookurikara's stomach lurched.
"You don't even know me," he protested, failing to react as Mitsutada reached out for him.
"I'd like to."
\\\
Hours have passed and the road outside is now busy with traffic. They haven't spoken for what feels like hours and Ookurikara is starting to worry. More accurately, he's trying to worry. Thinking back over the day before isn't clearing this up for him at all. There's no reason for him to be having a lie in with someone he'd known just under twenty-four hours, no reason why he should be more comfortable than he can ever remember being before.
It makes no sense. He wants to stress about it. Instead, he finds himself wishing that the early morning had lasted just a little longer.
Mitsutada had let go of one of his hands and is now rubbing gentle circles into the back of it.
"I suppose I should say 'good morning', Kara-chan."
"Don't call me that."
His words are half-hearted, through both acceptance and the hoarseness of his voice. He had spoken so much the night before that he's almost lost his voice. Mitsutada notices and gives him a sympathetic smile, leans forwards to press his lips to Ookurikara's cheek.
"What are we-"
"Hush. Just a few more minutes."
/
Making it out of the elevator was difficult but making out in the elevator was surprisingly easy.
Ookurikara had never kissed in public before, or in the back of a taxi cab, or in an elevator. Any past experience he had – and he did have some, despite Mitsutada's breathless jokes – had been pleasant enough but awkward, polite, had felt scripted.
Mitsutada was like nothing Ookurikara had ever known.
His kisses burned, a fire that tasted sweet even as it scorched his tongue. His hands were everywhere, soft gloves brushing skin just enough to promise more. He pulled at Ookurikara's hair, tugged at his belt, laughed in between each kiss and left him reeling. Somewhere between the street and the front door, Ookurikara lost his jacket, Mitsutada one glove.
Ookurikara didn't do this sort of thing. It took him time to warm up to anyone enough to act rashly, a few practice runs before he was ready to go the whole marathon. Mitsutada was different. Mitsutada, it seemed, was just the right sort of weird.
Mitsutada had pushed him down onto a couch, those long legs tangling with his own and teeth sinking into his neck keeping him there. While Ookurikara's mind tried to catch up, his hands were busy pulling Mitsutada's shirt open, dragging his nails over soft skin, pushing at the waistband of his pants to grab at his hips. He was pulled up by his shoulders, helped Mitsutada to pull his own shirt up and over his head, caught his breath as they fell back together, skin on skin, hungry kisses making his head spin. He watched as Mitsutada lowered his head to trace the shape of his tattoo with his tongue and laughed against the skin.
"I really like your tattoo."
His voice was husky. Ookurikara snorted with laughter.
"N-no, really?"
"Very cool."
"Shut up and-"
The next time he was capable of thought they had made it to the bedroom. Mitsutada was naked, covered in sweat, and meeting Ookurikara's eyes while undoing his belt with infinite slowness.
"You look happy again," Mitsutada said with a smirk, glancing pointedly downwards and then up again. Ookurikara groaned, out of patience with thinking, and pushed his hips upwards without any trace of the embarrassment he usually felt. It was as if he had done this before, as if they had known each other for years and not just one stupid day. Mitsutada laughed aloud and rid him of the rest of his clothes, moving down the bed on his knees.
"Oi, what are you..."
"Heh."
Mitsutada's smile was the most infuriating, obscene, attractive thing he had ever seen.
"It's called a Mitsutada spe-"
"Please."
The jokes stopped as Mitstutada proceeded to completely eradicate all of Ookurikara's thoughts. He knew just the place after all. It was a blur; a mess of heat and sweat and gasping, hands on his hips holding him against the bed, his fingers clutching at the headboard, murmured nonsense and curses, his lips against Mitsutada's spine, a body pushing back against him, his name moaned in a desperate prayer against sheets. It was everything, there was no room for anything other than each frantic moment, each experience new but familiar, his heart singing, his mind blank. Everything he had ever done, and anything he had ever wanted to do, all in one person who knew just where to touch and how to kiss to keep him on the verge of collapsing. They reached release moments apart, eyes open, as if they could see past all of this distracting flesh and into something more important, something deeper, something true.
Ookurikara almost fell asleep in the shower. It wasn't far from there to the bed and from bed into a confused dreaming.
Mitsutada held him through the night. He surprised himself by not moving away.
\\\
It's before eleven on a Sunday morning and Ookurikara is the most comfortable he has ever been in his life.
He doesn't want to ruin it, this tender feeling that has lasted through the night, but he can't help it. It is not as easy to keep the questions at bay now that it's bright and his mind is telling him that this is nothing, a one-night stand at best, that fucking a waiter isn't a life-changing experience no matter how much he feels it.
He wants to ask what Mitsutada thinks of this whole mess, why he initiated the string of events that led them to this place, this morning, this embrace.
"Are we cuddling?" he asks instead.
"Kara-chan," Mitsutada says slowly as if savouring the sound. "Your powers of observation are, quite frankly, a little on the slow side."
"Right." He frowned. "Is that a yes, then?"
"Yes. We've been cuddling for hours, actually. You're good at it."
"My spine aches."
"Mine too. I don't think that's from the cuddling, though."
"Shut up."
"Can you ask nicely?"
They postpone the inevitable a little longer, sharing a few lazy kisses before dragging themselves out of bed. Ookurikara eyes his dishevelled clothing and sighs. He's going to have to do the walk of shame. Without clean underwear. On a sunny Sunday afternoon.
"This may surprise you," Mitsutada says, "but I happen to be an excellent cook."
"Uh-huh. Do you have a shirt I can-"
"Stay."
A single world stops Ookurikara in his tracks. He turns slowly, confused.
"Stay here," Mitsutada repeats. "I'll make you an even better sandwich than yesterday."
"Do you have bacon?"
"Of course."
Ookurikara hesitates. Bacon is important. He's starting to think that Mitsutada might be as well.
"I don't want to impose or-"
"Just stay, Kara-chan."
"For breakfast?"
Mitsutada's arms are around him again and he isn't entirely surprised as there is a laugh against his ear.
"I was thinking forever, actually."
"You're really weird."
"Thanks."
"I didn't say I like it."
The sandwich, despite his misgivings, is the best he's ever tasted.