a/n: just some more soft, non-toxic chuntaka cos i'm obsessed :) i love takato-san so much him is bby and junta is a simp

disclaimer: i don't own dakaichi!

Takato stumbled out of the cab after leaving quite a generous tip. He adjusted his bag before he made his way into the apartment complex and began his ascent to the desired floor.

This took a lot longer than expected, given the amount of alcohol in his system. By the time he reached the floor he wanted, it took him a few more minutes to find the apartment number because—oh, wait, there it was.

He pulled the black key card out of his coat pocket and inserted it. Pulled it out too soon. Tried again. Made the same mistake.

"St'pid key," Takato slurred, pouting. "I know you wor—ah ha!"

A chiming noise, followed by the sound of locks unlatching. Takato reached for the door handle, turned it, and pushed the door open to reveal the massive apartment of one Azumaya Junta.

He staggered inside, toeing out of his dress shoes. He was fumbling with the buttons of his coat when a voice called, "Takato-san?"

"Chunta," he said and his pout deepened. "Been… lookin' for you, Chunta…"

Forget unbuttoning the coat. It was cold, anyway. Takato abandoned the buttons as he walked forward, arms outstretched.

Junta met him halfway, grabbing him by the arms to steady him when he stumbled again. Takato blinked, vision swimming, and blinked again when it wouldn't stop. Why wouldn't it?

Oh, well. He didn't really need to see straight now that he'd made it to Junta's.

"Takato-san?" Junta repeated, sounding a little concerned. "You're drunk."

"Nn." Takato pressed a hand against Junta's chest, slowly moving upward until he found Junta's face. "Why… why're you so tall?"

Then he pulled Junta down—damn those seventeen centimeters—so he could press their lips together.

It was a messy kiss. Filled with teeth and tongue and the taste of whatever Takato drank before he called that cab to see the man who stubbornly refused to leave his mind. It also didn't last very long.

"Takato-san, wait," Junta breathed out, pulling away. "You're drunk."

Takato gazed up at him with a confused frown. "You… you don't want to?"

"I—"

"But you always want to."

What, so Junta could initiate all these situations, but he couldn't? In what way was that fair? Takato scowled, and perhaps it was the alcohol, but he couldn't help but feel upset. It'd taken so much bravery (read: liquid courage) to get here—to admit to himself that he missed Junta's company—and Junta didn't want him?

He stepped back, feeling rejected and disappointed, wondering why he even bothered coming anyway. "Well, if my company is so unappealing…"

"Takato-san, no, I'm thrilled to see you," Junta said, reaching for his hands. "Especially because you came on your own! That makes me super happy! You told me this morning not to pick you up from work."

"I did—hic!—n't expect you t' listen…"

Junta blinked, looking puzzled and unreasonably attractive. "So you… wanted me to pick you up?"

"Ah—hic!—ha!" Takato pulled his hand away to wave a finger drunkenly in Junta's face. "Do—hic!—n't go makin' me… trickin' me… int' sayin' stuff… yer always doin' that…"

Junta just reached for his hand again, squeezing both of them, and it wasn't that Takato couldn't say no to the display of affection. Not at all. He just let Junta take hold of his hands. Because—because that was the only way he'd allow Junta to hold his hands. Yeah.

(And Junta's hands were warm, so there.)

He said as much out loud, words slurring together. Junta brought Takato's knuckles to his lips and kissed them gingerly, one at a time.

"It's a privilege to hold your hand, Takato-san," Junta whispered against his skin.

Heat crawled into his cheeks and he blamed it on the alcohol. Because Saijou Takato did not become flustered at the pretty words of another. Absolutely not.

"Of course it is," he said, pointedly looking away. "M…'m only holdin' yer hand 'cause… y'r warm..."

"Takato-san does feel cool to the touch," Junta said and accompanied his words with another squeeze of Takato's fingers. "How about we get you in some blankets, hmm?"

Takato scowled. Or pouted. He couldn't tell the difference. "You—hic!—said you did—hic!—n't want to…"

"I won't take advantage of Takato-san in this state," Junta said with a dumb, soft look on his face. "But I will gladly enjoy your company…"

Takato didn't quite understand—didn't have the brain capacity, in his drunken state, to understand—so he kept scowl-pouting, feet rooted in place. It didn't feel fair.

Stupid Junta and his honeyed words… bein' confusing…

"Let's go get warm, Takato-san," Junta murmured into his hair.

Damn it. When had he pulled Takato into an embrace? Takato blinked, unable to resist the urge to melt against the wall of Junta's muscle-sculpted torso. It wasn't bare, but his shirt was incredibly thin. Takato's head lolled forward, cheek nestled against Junta's chest.

"Yer—hic!—heart is… beatin' fast," he mumbled. "Heh heh. Ch…Chunta's heart is goin' so fast…"

"That's because you drive me crazy, Takato-san. Can you blame me for being excited that you're here? It's… almost hard to believe."

He clutched Takato tightly as he spoke, squeezing once more. Takato hummed and then hiccuped into his shirt, legs suddenly feeling weak. Junta's warmth always made him feel weak.

"I—hic!—missed you. So what?"

A slight intake of breath. "Do you really mean that, Takato-san?"

"Sh…shuddap. I'm not—hic!—sayin' it again, you insatiable angel…"

But it was true, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He'd told Junta not to pick him up because he was invited to go drinking with his current crew, and the few days before that, both of them had been impossibly busy.

It had only been less than a week since he last saw Junta. But Junta's presence, his warmth—both in the entertainment industry and in Takato's life—was irreplaceable and magnetic, and going without it…

It hurt so much. Left him feeling hollow and cold, left him craving Junta's company, his touch. So he drank, and drank, and drank, because admitting to himself how much it hurt terrified him. Then he remembered their conversation in Spain and…

And now he stood on unstable legs in Junta's apartment.

"Come on," Junta said, tugging on Takato's shoulders. "Let's go to the bed, yes? Then I'll bring you some water and something to eat if you'd like."

He didn't realise he'd closed his eyes until that moment, but as soon as he peeled them open again, he drew in with his gaze the spinning room, and his stomach churned.

The warm alcohol sloshing around in his belly suddenly felt too hot. The mention of food left him feeling nauseated, and his mouth filled with an unpleasant amount of saliva—a warning, he knew. A warning that foretold a spell of retching.

He tugged desperately, frantically, at Junta's shirt. "W…wait, Chunta, I'm—"

He couldn't even finish his sentence, but it was like Junta already knew. He had a trash bin in front of him and in seconds and Takato heaved up the unsavory amount of alcohol he'd previously consumed.

For several minutes, that was all Takato knew: the miserable, dreadful feeling of being sick. He was too disoriented to notice the hand rubbing his back until he was finally done, breathing shakily and whimpering in discomfort.

"Shh… shh, Takato-san, it's alright," came Junta's stupidly soothing voice, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on Takato's back. "Did you get it all up?"

"Nngguh."

Takato's head lolled back, body slumping onto the floor. A blink and he was in the arms of his partner, once again melting under his touch. He whined as his stomach protested against more movement, but Junta shushed him again, cradling his head.

Takato leaned closer to Junta's hand, into the warmth of Junta's palm.

"You're so… stupid," he mumbled. "Gettin' into my head… makin' me miss you… I don't miss people… except maybe—hic!—maybe Suzuko-san…"

A wave of unexpected emotion swept over him and he struggled to shove it down. He wasn't in the mood to deal with that right now. Especially not when he'd already drunk himself into a pathetic, whining puddle on the floor of an apartment that wasn't even his own.

"Takato-san?" Junta's voice floated above him, filled with worry. "What's wrong? You're sniffling."

"I am not," Takato protested, and then sniffled again. His eyes burned traitorously with tears. "Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot."

Junta cupped his face, warm thumbs brushing away the stray, stubborn tears that managed to break loose. Then he leaned in close, so close that it left Takato's heart stumbling, and placed a feather-light kiss on his brow.

"Is it okay to move you now?" he asked gently.

Takato scowl-pouted and hiccuped again. Damn it, wouldn't they go away already? "I can—hic!—move on my own, Chunta."

"Are you sure?"

Stubbornly, Takato pushed himself up, putting a considerable amount of weight on Junta to do so. He stumbled immediately, and the room seemed trapped in an endless spinning loop. When his arms shot out for something to grab to regain his balance, Junta's hand touched his own. He steadied him effortlessly.

"See?" Takato said, proudly ignoring the arm snaking around his waist. "All by myself."

Junta chuckled. "I see."

"Good. I told you I could do it."

He took a step forward and the world darkened considerably. When his vision returned, he was wrapped up in soft, familiar sheets. He blinked hazily and looked up when a door clicked shut.

"You left," Takato accused grumpily.

"I was just cleaning up, Takato-san." The bed dipped slightly as Junta crawled in beside him. He reached over to set a glass of water on the nightstand on Takato's side. "I'm here."

"Oh." Sudden shame crawled through him, hot and uncomfortable. He looked guiltily down at the blankets. "S…sorry."

Junta leaned in to place a kiss on his forehead. "Don't be sorry. I'm so happy you're here."

Me too, flitted through his brain, and it took several moments for him to realise that he'd said the words aloud.

Which, of course, only prompted Junta into snuggling him more.

(Not that Takato found it unpleasant. But he had a reputation to uphold.)

"You're happy, too?" Junta whispered, a ribbon of hope wrapped around his words. "You mean that?"

"You dolt," Takato said and buried himself in the blankets, and—oh no. There was Junta's chest again. In spite of himself, he leaned closer to it, savoring the warmth. "I don't… say things if I don't mean it. 'Less it's 'cause…"

Because I don't know how to handle how you make me feel.

But he had to admit: it was… pleasant here, wrapped up in the heat of Junta's bed, with him so close. His heart thumped and thumped in his chest, fumbling, until the sound of blood roared in his ears. He could so easily blame the alcohol, but if he allowed himself to be honest—if he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability—he could admit the truth: their close proximity flustered him.

It flustered him that he secretly enjoyed it.

"Stupid angel," Takato mumbled as his head came to rest against Junta's collarbone. "I hate—hic!—that you're so warm."

Truth: I love that you're so warm.

"Oh?" Junta pressed. "What… what else do you… hate about me?"

He sounded more amused than hurt at Takato's confession, and for a fleeting second, that left Takato feeling pissed. Then Junta's arm swept around him, pulling him closer into him, wrapping him in a cocoon of body heat, and all of the ice Takato had been stubbornly protecting melted.

Damn it. Why was this so hard, even after all they'd been through together? Why couldn't he just be honest? Didn't he owe Junta that much? He'd… he'd already promised…

"I hate… the way you got me used to your cooking."

Truth: I love that you cook such delicious meals for me.

Junta squeezed him, and Takato reached out tentatively, pressing a palm against Junta's torso, right over his heart.

"I hate… all your—hic!—sugary words…"

Truth: I love how you act and speak as if your heart beats for me.

"'N' I hate how… I lose… all my experience with you… twenty years—hic!—gone…"

Truth: I'm starting to love that I can be human around you and it scares me.

"Takato-san…"

"...'n' I hate… how much I… love you…" A sniffle. Takato clung to Junta's chest, moving his hand so he could press his ear over his heart and listen to that rhythmic, lovely pulse. "Love you… so much, Chunta… so much I f…forget how to breathe."

Truth: I've never loved or been loved like this before and I'm terrified.

"The feeling is mutual, Takato-san," Junta whispered in his ear. "Thank you for… telling me all of those things. You are… mi tesoro. "

Mi tesoro. He knew, now, what that meant, and its significance.

"S…say it again," Takato mumbled, still listening to the song of Junta's heartbeat.

"Mi tesoro." Junta's chin came to rest on his head. "My greatest treasure. You're my everything, Takato-san. And it is true, what you said—my heart does beat for only you."

Confusion settled deep in Takato's alcohol-fogged brain. He sat in silence for several achingly long moments, cheeks still damp with drunken tears, before he realised everything he'd said—the truths and white little lies—had been mixed up.

Did… did I seriously admit everything to him?!

"Stupid angel," he repeated with another sniffle. "There you—hic!—go again, makin' me… say stuff…"

"For what it is worth… I love hearing it," Junta told him. "I am so happy, mi tesoro. "

"Nn. Say it again."

I like hearing your voice.

At this point, he didn't know what he said out loud and what was merely thoughts, but once he started, he couldn't stop. Junta whispered again the words as requested, though, and his breath ghosted along the outer shell of Takato's ear. Takato closed his eyes, breathing out softly through his nose. The rhythmic sound of Junta's heart thumped, thumped, thumped against his other ear, comforting. Soothing.

"H…hurry up and… find an apartment already," he grumbled. "Wanna… wanna see you… every day…"

Yes, it was true that their relationship was mostly a secret—hidden from the rest of the world save for a few people, only existing for the two of them. Like their love was an entire city of its own, buried from public knowledge. And Takato wished for it to stay this way: wished this moment, in particular, would freeze in time, would exist forever, would immortalise and repeat itself in his memory over and over like a scene in a snow globe.

Just… just like in Spain…

"Love you, Chunta," Takato mumbled into his chest, still so drunk but so very, very warm. "M'sorry… I know I pr'mised already… I'm… still learning to be… hon'st with my—hic!—feelings…" And then: "M'just… scared…"

"I appreciate how much you are trying, Takato-san," Junta said softly. "It makes me so happy."

"Mm. Good. Ch…Chunta deserves… to be happy…"

Junta murmured something else in response, but Takato was already asleep, lulled into slumber by Junta's warmth, and the calming, drumming sound underneath Junta's ribcage.

A heart that continued to beat just for him.