Am I really writing an AU for a manga that has been over since 2006 and has a miniscule fanbase as it is?
The answer is yes. Yes I am.
Summary: Modern AU. Fubuki wasn't looking for anything serious. Hishigi wasn't looking for anything at all – and with everything that had happened in the past year, he didn't think anyone would be interested. They weren't counting on each other. Modern AU, HishigixFubuki. Rating may increase in the future. Currently rated for language and implications of prescription drug dependency.
The Worst of Me
For a moment, the first time Fubuki sees him, all he can register is that the young man working the bar looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his gray eyes, and while he's making an effort to be friendly, it's obvious he's been here way too long. His black hair is slightly messy, the one white streak hanging almost into his eyes.
"Can I help you?" the bartender asks, and Fubuki can hear the fatigue in his voice, but he doesn't mention the fact that the guy looks likely to pass out.
"Scotch on the rocks. Thanks," he says. The bartender returns with the drink quickly, and he moves on to the next patron. Fubuki sees the edge of a tattoo where one sleeve rides up, and he has a wholly inappropriate desire to know what the rest of it looks like.
Fubuki thinks he hangs around longer than he should, and he definitely drinks more than he should. The more he watches the boy at the bar, the more he likes him. Slowly, the bar empties, and Fubuki notices that he's out a hell of a lot later than he'd intended to be.
"Sir?" a low, quiet voice asks. Fubuki snaps out of a daze, sees the boy he's been watching all night looking at him, and his brain short-circuits for a moment.
"I should go," he says after a couple of owlish blinks, and he thinks he sees a hint of relief in gray eyes. Guilt hits him when he realizes that the bartender probably could have gone home already if he hadn't hung around so long. Fubuki digs around in his pocket and overtips before dragging himself out the door.
It isn't like no one else looks. Hishigi knows that people look, and plenty of them don't stop there. He's turned down more than a few propositions from people who have had too much to drink and think he looks like fun. They're wrong, but that doesn't stop them.
This one, though. He doesn't speak, doesn't leer. Hishigi is aware of that gaze on him, but never worried by it. Until the man overstays his welcome and Hishigi's eyes are burning with exhaustion and the bastard won't just pay for his drinks and leave. It's a relief when those light brown – almost golden – eyes start drifting off and Hishigi can ask if he's done. The tip is nice, at least.
His entire body aches from standing for so long. Once the stranger is out the door, Hishigi collapses into a chair and stays there until he can force himself to his feet again. Sleeping is going to be tough tonight.
Fubuki kicks himself when he remembers that he didn't even ask for a name. Not that Fubuki is delusional enough to believe that there's going to be anything there – the bartender barely looked at him, and spoke even less – but it would have been nice to know.
His roommate is a morning person – damn him – and Fubuki swears he takes a fiendish delight in waking Fubuki up and lecturing him about the dangers of alcoholism.
"Muramasa, leave me alone," Fubuki finally groans, rolling over and pulling his comforter over his head. Muramasa is twenty-three, only a year younger than Fubuki is, but sometimes Fubuki is convinced that he'd living with a child
For once, his friend is merciful, and Fubuki manages another hour before he finally has to get up. He wonders what exactly possessed him last night – he never drinks that much, and his head is punishing him now. Then he recalls cool gray eyes and sharp features, the hint of a tattoo and a deep, reserved voice.
Fubuki considers drinking again – elsewhere – because clearly he's delusional. Not a chance in hell of that going anywhere. But maybe he'll drop by again. Ask for a name this time, maybe see if he can learn a little more.
He groans as his head pounds, and takes a huge gulp of coffee that he immediately regrets as it scalds his tongue and throat. Muramasa stifles a snicker, and Fubuki glares at him. Sometimes he really doesn't know why this guy is his best friend.
Shihodo keeps pestering him to go outside, see the world, do something so he doesn't get stiff and fuck up his leg worse. Hishigi just wants to sleep for once, but he knows she has a point. It's been a year since the wreck, but the pain in his left side is constant, impossible to ignore, impossible to endure some days. Physical therapy has put him back on his feet, but it's only managed to dull the knife's edge as far as the pain goes.
She drags him out of his apartment, and her enthusiasm for almost literally everything would be infectious if he weren't so tired. Shihodo calls him a stick in the mud, but the way she looks at him, it's obvious that she's concerned.
Hishigi finds his mind drifting to the man at the bar last night, the one who couldn't keep his eyes off of him. He remembers tawny eyes and shaggy white hair, and Hishigi thinks he might be a little ridiculous for hoping he comes back.
"Earth to Hishigi?" Shihodo's voice cuts through his memory, and Hishigi meets her gaze and cocks an eyebrow. "Something to eat?" she asks.
"Not hungry," he replies almost automatically, and Shihodo just looks at him.
"You're never hungry. Come on, Hishigi, you're turning into a skeleton."
It isn't that he's never hungry, exactly. His painkillers make him sick sometimes, and his appetite is shot. He used to be athletic, but he's deteriorated in the past year. Shihodo knows that. She's been trying to keep him from wasting away ever since.
He lets her pull him into a quiet little place, and he manages to keep some miso soup down as she stuffs herself. How she maintains that figure is a mystery to everyone who has ever met her.
"Walk with me for a bit?" she asks after they depart.
Hishigi hesitates. He does have to work tonight, and he doesn't want to push himself too far. But his therapist did tell him to keep moving, not to let himself stiffen up. So he nods, and follows Shihodo for a while, listening to her talk about whatever crosses her mind. Today it's mostly Kyoichiro and the fact that she really should just cut his dumb ass loose, but what would the stupid fuck do without her? A small half-smile curves the edge of Hishigi's mouth, and he shakes his head.
"And what about you? Have you been on a single date in the past six months?"
Hishigi looks at Shihodo with a disbelief that's nearly palpable. Of course he hasn't. She knows he hasn't, and she knows why. No one wants to deal with the level of baggage that Hishigi comes with, and he knows it, too. His last boyfriend couldn't handle it after the wreck, couldn't deal with the way Hishigi fell apart. Hishigi hasn't even really wanted anyone since.
Shihodo tries, every once in a while, to introduce him to a friend. Hishigi never makes a good impression – too distant, too cold – and he's never interested, anyway. Again, though, his thoughts go to the man at the bar, and he realizes that he actually did find that one attractive. No use thinking about it, though. Hishigi knows that even if the guy shows up again, there's not a chance of anything happening between them.
He doesn't mention it to Shihodo. She'd jump on it and then refuse to leave him alone.
His shift starts at four. He slips a couple of Percocet into his pocket before he goes in.
End Chapter
Okay so I'm a really bad person. And it seems likely that no one is going to read this, considering the tiny fanbase, but it got in my head and I needed to write it. Not sure when the next chapter will exist.