Chapter Text
Shoto hates Mondays.
Nor is he a morning person in essence, but he doesn’t necessarily detest them as much as he dreads the first business day of the week.
If he were to be awoken by gossiping birds along his windowsill, or perhaps gentle sunlight greeting his tender eyelids with bursts of warm hues, he’d be more than happy to start his day with a smile, accompanied by a satisfying cup of tea. Maybe even a pancake or two if he’s feeling particularly content.
However, that was not the plan the supposedly generous gods had in mind for him today.
He’s not a light sleeper perse, but neither is he a log to rouse from the chasmal depths of sleep; perhaps he’s simply grown so accustomed to associating the obnoxious din of his doorbell with unpleasant monthly occurrences that it renders him awake and irked within a matter of minutes.
He knows what that indicates, in fact it’d be the third time this month alone. He can only muster a groan as he directs his weary gaze to his phone - the brightness of the thing is almost blinding as he squints, as if the device had verbally offended him and everything he stands for.
The digital numbers that blink back at him read 9:27, and Shoto just about has it in him to sink back into his sheets, squeeze his eyes shut and allow the gracious hands of sleep to snatch him away once more— but despite such a tempting idea, his evasive scheme is thwarted when the overbearing sound of that damned doorbell slices through the air of his apartment once more for a second too long.
And so, he yanks the nearest shirt he can grasp over his head, not bothering to assess his own attire before stomping across carpeted floors to his front door and furiously swinging it open to reveal…
..nobody?
‘Of course’, he mutters to himself, jaw and fists clenched alike, as he directs his gaze downward to the package that sits ominously at his feet.
He doesn’t even have to look at it to know that it’s another obscene item that his traitor of a neighbor has ordered upon his address in order to avoid confrontation with the delivery man. The true addressee of the package; Shoto is unfortunately very familiar with, as the image of a shit eating grin accompanied by howling laughter plagues his thoughts.
Mysta fucking Rias.
And surely, Shoto has barely scraped by this aforementioned encounter, as from the corner of his eye he thinks he spies the courier clad in an almost offensively orange delivery company uniform scurrying away to his right, the tip of his ears tinted red as he spares shoto a concerned glance.
Despite this he decides to take the benefit of the doubt, as the boy settles into a semi-squat above the parcel. Careful hands peel away the bland cardboard outer-covering, as groggy eyes scan it’s contents.
Sure enough, Shoto is staring right at a fucking vibrator in the middle of his apartment complex’s hallway at 9 o’clock in the morning. He prays the little old woman occupying the apartment adjacent to his crouching figure doesn’t decide to embark on a spontaneous morning stroll at such an inopportune moment— he doubts he’d be able to look Mrs Bailey or her alien-looking chihuahua in the eye ever again.
The sheer size of it alone hints at its capabilities—an intimidating looking thing if you’d ask Shoto. But alas, he isn’t one to judge; the male is not a prude by any means considering his own…slightly questionable preferences, but he most definitely doesn’t want to know what his neighbor, let alone friend gets up to in his free time.
Thus, with a groan and fervid hostility in his veins, he springs back to his sock-clad feet before turning sharply to the left, making his way to apartment 522 with determination upon his face and the cursed package clutched to his chest like a sacred relic.
You will die by my hands.
Shoto is ready to pounce, he’s sure his glare alone can burn a hole through the wooden door if he tries hard enough.
Yet the catalogue of insults that sit upon his tongue die instantaneously when the door swings open to reveal someone who is very much not Shoto’s neighbor.
He’s a tree of a man, majestic in stature and visage. The towel that hangs loosely around his hips along with the engulfing scent of soap indicate his post-shower state. That, or the crystalline beads of water that pool at the delicious hollows created by a defined set of collarbones. Shoto was staring. Oh good god he was staring hard.
The stranger in question simply raises an onyx brow before addressing him,
“A guest?”
Barely a sentence in and Shoto has to repress a violent shiver from travelling down his spine, as a smooth voice greets his ears. It’s rich and laced in a thick accent that—although unexpected, proves to be quite fitting.
He’s hit with a visceral urge to touch the the stranger’s arm, shoulder, or the idyllic descent of an angular jaw into chin. To either confirm that he’s real, or to perhaps absorb some of the sheer intensity radiating off him. Shoto isn’t quite sure.
The rising and falling of his broad chest serves as the only evidence of him being a real human being rather than a pristine sculpture conveniently placed at Mysta’s doorstep to deter Shoto’s potentially homicidal intent as he patiently awaits an answer from said male.
And then there’s Shoto; little frazzled Shoto who’s midnight blue eyes were barely open beneath unkept bangs just a few minutes ago, clad in only an old night shirt he had snatched off his bedroom floor. It’s a few sizes too big, making the gentle curve of his left shoulder visible to the world where the neck of the thing slips downward.
Despite having more clothes on than the man before him, he feels oddly exposed. So much for first impressions.
“Are you going to talk perhaps?”
Snapped from his reverie of pale skin and inky tresses, Shoto gulps as he opens his mouth to speak, cheeks coloring a brilliant scarlet as the only thing that leaves him is an amalgamation of little choked noises that serve useful solely in making the upward curl of the stranger’s lip more prominent - clearly amused by his shortcomings. Shoto doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or slap it right off his face.
It took everything in the smaller man to not dismiss the ordeal entirely and excuse himself — maybe he could even make a run for it; render the instance a trick of the light and save himself from further embarrassment.
‘Yea, sounds like a perfect idea’ he internally monologues, feet already pointing south.
“Oi don’t be mean to Sho, he might end up enjoying it” Shoto hears him before he sees him, unmistakeably the reason why he’s at apartment 522 in the first place.
‘Or not.’
With this unexpected meeting aside, Shoto redirects his attention to his initial plan; godly sculpted abdominal muscles be damned! He was angry! He had a bone to pick with a certain ashen haired menace, even if his guest was…extremely handsome…and staring down at him with the most gorgeous set of aureate eyes shoto has ever seen—
“Aw look he even brought my package by so early in the morning! Aren’t you just the best” Mysta coos, he resembles the cat who got the cream; smug and taunting in his morning glory. Shoto kind of wants to kill him.
For now, he shoves his thoughts regarding the dark haired man into the furthest crevice of his brain, vacuum sealed and ducktaped even, in favor of sliding past the imposing figure by the doorframe to unceremoniously drop the package he had almost forgotten about onto a nearby couch.
“Why.”
Exasperated, Shoto regards the other with his arms folded to his chest. From the corner of his eye he notices that the towel-clad man has disappeared, possibly to get changed. For some reason he feels a bit disappointed at that minor detail…maybe he’s falling ill.
“Oh you know,” Mysta pauses, pulling out the lollipop that had formerly occupied his mouth with an obnoxious ‘pop!’ before slipping the hard candy back in between his cherry stained lips once more. Anyone who consumes that amount of sugar this early must belong to the seventh circle of hell, Shoto deduces.
“A man’s gotta relieve himself sometimes” He then has the audacity to wink.
Shoto attempts to gruffly clarify that Mysta had not answered his query, but he’s stopped when a slender hand reaches for his face.
Before he knows it, Mysta is pulling at the pudge of his right cheek, like a parent would to a child.
“Maybe I’m shy, or perhaps I just get some sick satisfaction from making you deal with it. Especially when you’re so cute when you’re mad at me, shottom”
“You are ill,” Is Shoto’s instant monotonous reply, slapping the ringed fingers away with no real irritation, he could never be truly mad at Mysta, despite how much the other enjoyed getting on his nerves.
And so, not without sparing one last glance at the blue eyed personification of a needle in Shoto’s side (who has now averted his attention to hastily unpacking his parcel with little to no shame) and his irrationally attractive guest who returned not too long ago with a shirt on this time, bless his soul, Shoto exits the apartment with heated cheeks and an objective of burrying his head into the ground like an ostrich to avoid human interaction ever again.
God,
Shoto really hates mondays.