Creeeeaaaak.
The sound of an old wooden door echoed throughout the rooms of a lifeless apartment, giving way to its sole resident. Rather unceremoniously, in stepped Kamijou Hiroki, who looked as disheveled and ornery as the day he was brought into this world: hair matted and soaking wet from walking home in torrential downpour, eye bags the color of coal, face coiled into its signature scowl, and the default temperament of an ovulating woman.
After nearly ripping off his dress shoes while struggling to remove them, Hiroki was more than relieved to slip into the softest, warmest pair of slippers he owned. He propped his satchel against the adjacent wall and draped his overcoat along the couch's leftmost arm.
All articles of professionalism now stripped from his person, Hiroki was at last of the liberty to binge-drink in the dark and privacy of his own home.
Maybe watch a little baseball, he decided leisurely to himself.
Suffice to say, Associate Professor Kamijou of Mistuhashi University had been waiting for this moment all day long.
His students, while their irresponsible and boisterous selves, were even rowdier than usual today with their eager anticipation of the extended weekend so graciously (Hiroki's inner monologue upon receiving the news) given to them by the University's planning committee.
His colleagues, and even Hiroki himself (although he would never show it), also treated the Friday before break with the giddy professionalism of an honors student receiving full marks on exam he studied all night for. Miyagi-kyouju, of course, was, and always had been, the exception to this "giddy professionalism." Instead of the reserved, albeit proud, honors student, Miyagi was more so the unabashedly pompous and gifted egghead who earned a scholarship to Yale. Without trying. Yeah, that summed Miyagi up reaaaal well...
For Hiroki's part, he was most accurately represented by the uptight and nihilistic tryhard who not-so-secretly and very routinely expressed his frustration with the current education system, not to mention the disdain he harbored for his barbarian peers. Sadly, the only difference that this analogy held to reality was that his barbarian peers were actually his barbarian pupils. By God's left hand did he daily and nightly wish that he perused editing instead of teaching...
These unfavorable circumstances of his, however, were of no current or pressing matter to him. His present mind entertained such thoughts as what exactly he would do over the break, how late he could sleep in while still being productive, which channel to watch tonight, how wasted he could get without having a head-splitting hangover the next morning, and the irrepressible need for his idiotic lover's embrace. Indeed, these, especially the last, would always and forever remain thoughts, never to be given life using Hiroki's impressive vocabulary.
And, without further ado, he gave immediate satisfaction to a majority of his cravings the moment he slumped down on the couch and flicked on the TV, beer can in one hand and remote control in the other. A few clicks took him to the only network that aired men's professional baseball.
He never really played baseball seriously, save for the sparse outings that he, Akihiko, and his father made to the park to play catch. Given that Otou-san very rarely had the opportunity to see his son, Hiroki felt that watching the pros would somehow assist in making up for lost time. He also felt pretty manly while watching it.
Tonight's game featured two teams that he didn't really care about, but he decided that it would be a welcome prevention of boredom or silence. Or, worse yet, a combination of the two. He had a feeling that it wouldn't matter after the third or fourth can, though.
Hiroki's inclination couldn't have been any more accurate, because three beers in, his cheeks were tinted the exact color and shade of a tomato, and any attempted use of his mental faculties proved futile. With the glare of the TV flickering in a dark room, the associate professor made a move to turn it off so as not to permanently damage his retinas. If not through sober navigation, it was through sheer muscle memory that he was successful in this endeavor.
Upon resuming his position on the couch, it was in Hiroki's unfiltered interest to satisfy another one of his cravings: Nowaki's embrace.
Hiroki knew very well that he had just seen Nowaki the other night at Panda-san, but his day at the University possessed the seeming length of 100 years or so, drunkenly and thereby justifying this urgent need to see him again. Hell, now! And so, what else could any fed-up, white-collared, and drunker-than-a-skunk twenty something do than to call up their annoying boyfriend at two in the morning?
Hiroki reached for the coffee table, on which sat dozens of piles of unfinished books, dirtied mugs, carelessly strewn about beer cans, and, most importantly, his phone. Unsure of its exact location in the dark, he felt around until what felt like hard rectangular plastic came under his sweaty palm. Even while hammered, he still became flustered at the mere thought of Nowaki.
He also reasoned, with all remaining cognition, that Nowaki was either asleep or working the overnight shift at the hospital. Still, despite his better judgement, Hiroki was absolutely determined to beckon those strong arms around his torso in the unholy hours of a rainy morning.
Hiroki was on autopilot as he dialed in Nowaki's number with the provided keypad, and, using all still-coherent cylinders, committed himself to listening through to the dial tone, and perchance, if he answered, Nowaki's voice.
There's no way he's going to pick up. This is a waste of time, the brunet scoffed to himself as he waited for the dial tone, followed by the—
"Hello?" a groggy voice greeted on the other end.
Hiroki felt the ever-welling urge to hang up right then and there, but his boozed-up and buzzed pride wouldn't allow it. He trekked on with the courage of a fool.
"N-Nowaki...", he finally said.
C'mon, stupid ass, you don't have to sound like a demure little schoolgirl!
There was a brief, and as Hiroki could imagine, shocked pause before the other party replied.
"Hiro-san? What are you doing up so la— er, early?" the voice presumed to belong to Nowaki asked incredulously.
The ever-so-articulate Hiroki struggled like made to come up with a valid excuse as to exactly what business he indeed had for being up "so la— er, early."
Trying to swallow the panic in his mind and mouth, he made quickly to provide his boyfriend with a perfectly logical explanation:
"Ahem, I dee-sssischided to get a headschtart on grading. Mit-sssuha-ssshi isch on b-break, you know."
Rather than flowing like he so desperately wanted them to, the words fell and cried as would a baby taking its first steps. He hoped that this feigned confidence would save him from Nowaki's pesky knack for seeing through his lies.
Another pause. Then, a low chuckle. The usual sugar found in Nowaki's voice, at least when talking to his dearest Hiro-san, surfaced itself in full force, which made the caller's heart practically explode:
"Are you drunk, Hiro-san?"
Shit! Damn Nowaki and his uncanny ability to see right through me.
However, a renewed resolve coursed through Hiroki's inebriated veins. He would not allow Nowaki hold of the upper hand as he so often did in their previous encounters.
I'm not going down without a fight!
"Of courssse not, idiot! I may hate my job, but I'd never schlack off on my reschponschibilities."
Little did Hiroki know just how slurred his speech was.
Now I just need to convince him to come over. You made it through university and an ego-crushing rejection; surely you can get a colossal moron to c-cuddle you in the comfort of your own home without explicitly stating it...right?
"Then why are you doing it now?" Nowaki's tone inflected in equal parts earnest and hook-line-and-sinker-ness.
Damn him! Damn him to the fiery pits of hell!
"I-I'm taking a break! Can't a diligent professcher call hisss boyfriend?"
The cocky dumbass is never gonna let me hear the end of it...
"At 2:15 in the morning?" the voice of the cocky dumbass in question sounded...muffled almost?
No matter, a slight change in vocal projection was the least of Hiroki's worries at the moment: With the combined effect of drowsiness and intoxication taking deadly hold of his consciousness, he fumbled for even a partially intelligible retort. Alas, his words, like his godforsaken height, fell short of Nowaki's victorious bounds.
"I, well, er...I—"
Just as Hiroki's lover seemed to smite him, he just as quickly came to his begging aid:
"I'll be over in ten minutes or less, Hiro-san."
Beep, beep, beeeee.
A continuous stretch of beeps followed Nowaki's firm declaration and persisted for the length of a full minute before the melted pile of Hiroki finally flipped his phone shut.
The professor, for once, did not know what to think, nor what to say. Then again, in almost all matters concerning Nowaki, he usually didn't. He simply sat straight and forthright, left slack-jawed in the sterile silence of the room. His faraway gaze focused on nothing in particular.
Hiroki stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back.
Now that he sat, free of prying eyes and noisy brats, and high on the coppery taste of convenience store beer, the exhaustion that accumulated throughout the week finally hit him like a truck.
And, before teetering off into this well-deserved slumber, he muttered the single word that was always the first thing on his mind upon waking and, just like now, the last thing on his mind upon drifting:
"Nowaki..."
The frantic pitter-patter of soled feet upon heavy wood could be heard throughout the entire premises as a pleasantly anxious Kusama Nowaki climbed the stairs to his boyfriend's apartment.
While sleep-deprived and still a bit stunned from the fluorescent lights of the building, nothing dared to blight the excitement Nowaki felt whenever he was on his way to meet his precious Hiro-san.
Still, he wondered from the core of his being exactly why Hiroki decided to call him at such a peculiar hour. Regardless, he was more than happy to pay his longtime lover a visit, and it seemed to him that that was exactly what Hiroki needed.
A few more flights brought the doctor-in-training to the much anticipated doorstep, and, with the insertion of the spare key Hiroki gave him and a single twist of the knob, he was in.
All-consuming darkness greeted Nowaki as he stepped into the tiny apartment and made to remove the shoes and coat from his person. Upon squinting, he noticed what appeared to be Hiroki's satchel leaning against the right-facing wall and, to his left, his overcoat thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch. Just by observing this mundane arrangement of possessions did Nowaki immediately conclude that his Hiro-san had had a long day.
The floorboards creaked with age as Nowaki inched his way across the living room and to the desired destination of Hiroki's bedroom.
He's either asleep or wallowing around under the sheets.
However, the raven-haired man was surprised to find the bed, while characteristically unkempt and unmade, totally and utterly free of human occupation. He checked under all blankets, pillows, and sheets just to be 100 percent sure of his lover's absence. No luck.
It was then that his typically sound mind assumed a state of unfamiliar panic, and Nowaki formed a one-man search party to track down the missing Hiroki.
As much as he wanted to, he refrained from shouting so as not to rouse a potentially dozing Hiroki. God knows if he did that a whole new myriad of complications would arise for him...
On a deeper plane, Nowaki also understood just how hard Hiroki worked for the University and his students, no matter how much he seemed to be put off by it all. This work ethic Nowaki would always admire him for, even if there came a time when the love shared between the two gradually and definitively vanished into thin air.
A blissful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he knew then that he could no longer wait to glomp his beloved Hiro-san.
Now, if not in his bedroom, then where?
Bathroom? No. Dining room? Nope. Kitchen? Nay. Study? Negative, Roger Dodger...
The only place left for him to be that I haven't checked yet would be the living room, and he never uses the living room unless I—
Nowaki stopped dead in his careful tracks at the sight of a sleeping Hiroki: head tilted to one side, limbs sprawled about the couch with no apparent intent of placement, and a throw pillow clutched to his chest for protection from the big an bad lurkers of the night.
What's more, chestnut locks revealed relentless patterns of tossing and turning; soft snores could be heard making their steady escape from an agape mouth upon closer proximity to the lax body.
All Nowaki could do was stand and stare, drinking in every aspect of Hiroki's beautiful vulnerability.
This trance was broken by the unconscious man's intense grunt as he shifted to his right side. At once, Nowaki's doctorly conduct kicked in and he found himself scrutinizing his lover for any tell-tale signs of physical ailment. The placement of his steady hand against Hiroki's forehead was enough to indicate a mild fever.
Sighing and shaking his head at Hiroki's neglect of his own health, the younger man made to fetch his senior some blankets to prevent his condition from worsening overnight.
He returned shortly thereafter with the warmest and thickest blanket he could possibly find and swaddled Hiroki as he would newborns at the hospital. In doing so, Nowaki hoped to preserve the heat that threatened to leave Hiroki's body, as well as serving the dual purpose of ensuring that he maintained good posture while sleeping. Proper posture was imperative to the support of one's back and neck, and Hiroki, Nowaki knew, needed to practice it into his death: the poor bastard spent five, sometimes six, days a week either hunched over a desk or standing for the purposeful delivery of one of his infamous lectures.
And, Nowaki would never say this aloud, at least not to his boyfriend, but Hiro-san looked unbelievably cute wrapped up in that blanket like a sleeping infant.
For the finishing touch, he leant down to plant a tender kiss to the dormant man's forehead. As an aspiring doctor, it was his most potent remedy reserved only for his most potent patient.
He never thought that he would have fallen in love with one of his patients, but here he was, attached at the hip and basking in the profound kinship he felt with this fiery, irascible, and frequently frustrating guy who just so happened to be one of his patients, even if just for the night. And... Dr. Kusama was in love.
At that moment, the patient began to whisper a string of oddly phrased ramblings that sounded an awful lot like something he would never, ever want the doctor to hear. Ever.
"Mmph...Nowaki is...baka...and I am panda...he still loves me anyway. I...still love him."
Upon listening to and processing exactly what it was that Hiroki was saying, Nowaki found that it was now his turn to fumble for words that would not come.
Not that Hiroki was actually talking to anyone, mind you, but Nowaki considered sleep talk to be a legitimate extension of the human conscience, perhaps even more telling than the individual's conscious speech.
And so, it was with this realization that Nowaki deemed himself the happiest man in the world. Indeed, the urge to hold his Hiro-san was still very much there, and he decided that there would be no better moment to sate himself than this one.
Delicately, and with all the care he could muster, the doctor pulled his patient into the loving embrace both of them had been waiting for all week. This was an additive to Hiroki's usual prescription, and Dr. Kusama was certain that he'd be back to his irritable self come daybreak.
The End.