Work Text:
The clock reads 2:35AM. The patrons have cleared out. Most of the other employees too. Tengen is still in the office, wrapping up the books. Kanroji is finishing the sweep of the floors.
And, of course, there is Shinazugawa. He is a dozen feet away wiping down the bar. Giyuu’s eyes track him while his hands stay busy drying glasses and placing them under the bar in the mindless rhythm of a task he could manage while sleeping. He watches the way the charcoal fabric of his shirt stretches taught over his back as he leans forward, the way it pulls across his chest when he pauses to stretch, running a hand through his hair. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows a short time ago, and now the flex of his forearms keeps relentlessly pulling Giyuu’s gaze.
“Finished!” Kanroji’s voice shatters the quiet. Shinazugawa’s focus lifts from the bar, sliding past Giyuu, then snagging, snapping back to him and lingering. For a heartbeat their eyes connect, and Giyuu’s heart jumps in his chest at the twist of confusion that flashes across Shinazugawa’s expression. Giyuu drops his attention back to his own task as if it had been there all along. That’s not the first time Shinazugawa has caught him, and Giyuu berates himself for his carelessness.
Kanroji, oblivious to the brief exchange, bounds up to the bar halfway between where Giyuu stands and where Shinazugawa is nearing the end of the stretch of counter. “Can I help with anything else?” she asks eagerly, brightening as she remembers, “Oh! We still need to do inventory!”
“I can manage inventory,” Giyuu says. “You can go home.”
Kanroji’s bright green eyes widen. “Are you sure, Tomioka? I can help—”
“You worked a double today, Mits. Take off,” Shinazugawa cuts in before continuing his work.
Kanroji bites her lip. She’s a hard worker, and Giyuu knows she doesn’t like to leave until the job is done. But finally she nods in consent. “Well—See you guys tomorrow, then,” she says brightly, before making her way to the door marked employees only to gather her belongings and leave through the back.
Which just leaves the two of them out front. Nerves flutter in Giyuu’s stomach, but Shinazugawa is almost done. He’ll be taking off soon too. Good. Good. The sooner he leaves the better.
“I’ll help with inventory,” Shinazugawa says, the offer carrying the bite of a challenge.
Giyuu’s pulse spikes and his eyes flick up, grabbing the next glass in the line. He takes a moment, then gives his reply in the same measured clip he always uses, without room for argument.
“No.”
Shinazugawa stops, straightens, head tilting as he looks across the bar to him. The confusion is back in his expression, stronger than before, layered with accusation. “Why the hell not? It’ll take you an hour by yourself—”
“I don’t mind,” Giyuu says, dropping his gaze. And it isn’t a lie. He doesn’t mind. But the reason Shinazugawa can’t stay has nothing to do with Giyuu’s willingness to shoulder the task. And it certainly isn’t charity.
Giyuu just doesn’t know if he can be alone with Shinazugawa for that long without making a mistake.
We’re co-workers.
We don’t even know each other.
He can barely stand me.
The silence stretches long enough that Giyuu risks a glance back up. Shinazugawa’s eyes are narrowed, violet flame sparking, and a vein in his neck is pulsing at the edge of the collar of this shirt. Giyuu forces himself to not stare at it, follow it, imagine what lies beyond the clean-cut uniform. He meets Shinazugawa’s glare instead. Giyuu isn’t really sure why he is so angry, but (as per usual) Shinazugawa doesn’t make him guess for long.
“I’ve been working here for over three months, Tomioka. You still think I can’t fucking handle something as simply as inventory?”
Ah, Giyuu figures that would be a reason to be upset if it were the case. Still, there’s more snarl in his voice than is warranted for the situation. It confuses Giyuu. Shinazugawa seems so level-headed with customers and other staff. It’s only Giyuu that seems to get under his skin so quickly and for so little.
Sighing, Giyuu slowly sets the dry glass in the line with the others. “It’s not that,” he tries, still unsure what his excuse will be. Shinazugawa’s competence has never been in question, though, so he needs something else. But he doesn’t know what else to say, so he lets the words hang, open-ended and incomplete.
Shinazugawa, seeming to realize that Giyuu has no intention of telling him what it is, clenches his fists. His expression shifts too quickly for Giyuu to follow what he might be thinking, feeling, only that it seems like there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t know where to start. Finally he seems to give up trying, turning away.
“Fucking asshole,” he growls under his breath, then at full volume says, “Fine then, do it alone. I’m leaving.”
And he does, tossing the rag into a basket to be taken to the laundry, then stalking away. He pauses briefly just as he gets to the door, his hand gripping the handle white-knuckled. Then he shakes his head once, shoves the door open, and disappears.
Giyuu watches the door slam shut, something twisting painfully in his gut, followed by a pressure in his chest. He wishes it wasn't this way. Why can’t they just…? But no. Giyuu shakes his head to clear the thoughts, the emotions. Good, he forces himself to think again. Good. This is good. Because now that he’s gone, Giyuu can breathe again. Now that he’s gone, he doesn’t have to school his eyes and his hands and his thoughts. Idiotic thoughts. Wishful thinking thoughts. It’s only been three months since Shinazugawa was hired, and the shifts are feeling longer and longer. It’s unprofessional, Giyuu knows, the way he struggles to maintain this detached distance (as if he could get closer, even if he tried.)
But the question nags at him, all the same: How long can he keep this up?
A long sigh drags from his lips and forces his attention into the moment. Three more glasses to dry. Inventory. Then he can go home and sleep and hope that Shinazugawa won’t antagonize him in his dreams as well.
As Shinazugawa predicted, it takes Giyuu nearly an hour to do inventory by himself. Part-way through, Tengen peeks in to let him know he’s off and wish him a goodnight. Entirely alone, now, he loses himself in the work and the quiet. It’s tedious and, aside from being short one bottle of whiskey, uneventful. The task keeps his thoughts off of his surly white-haired co-worker, though, cooling his temperature, slowing his heart, so he doesn’t mind it.
As he finishes the last of his tasks and prepares to lock up until the next day, he re-commits to keeping things professional, to doing better at maintaining his composure, to not staring–wishing–wanting every time Shinazugawa is in his vicinity. He can do this.
It all shatters when he steps out the employee exit only to find that Shinazugawa did not, in fact, leave. He’s leaning against the back of the building, staring at nothing, a cigarette in his fingers, smoke curling from its end. A bottle of whiskey—the one missing, Giyuu figures, now just under three-quarters full—sits at his feet.
“Shinazugawa,” Giyuu says, rooted to the spot, eyes locked on his co-worker. He’s cast in sharp relief, narrow stripes of pale skin and edges of white hair lit by the white security light above the door while the rest of him falls into black shadow. He’s removed his bowtie, dropped the straps of his suspenders to hang slack at his hips, loosed the top three buttons of his shirt, baring the top of his chest, and Giyuu’s gaze drags over him before he can manage to wrench it away.
“Tomioka,” Shinazugawa returns with mockery. Sharp. Angry, still.
And yet…
Something is different, Giyuu realizes. He doesn’t know what has changed, but what he does know is this feels dangerous.
The late hour. The shadowy dark. The isolation. The alcohol.
The way Shinazugawa looks.
The way he’s looking at him.
His violet eyes glow as he lifts the cigarette to his lips and takes a deep drag, smoke curling from his mouth, wreathing him like a living frame, and Giyuu’s mouth feels dry. Shit. He needs to move. He needs to go. Be professional. Say goodnight, walk to his car, drive away. Simple.
But he can’t move.
“Cigarette?” Shinazugawa offers, pulling a pack from his pocket.
“I don’t smoke,” Giyuu replies automatically.
Shinazugawa looks down, huffs, a truncated mockery of laughter, and says, “Figures,” sliding the pack back into his pocket. The cigarette returns to his lips, pursing around its slim shape, and Giyuu is staring—he knows he is staring—but he can’t look away.
“Why are you still here?” he asks.
“Why is that your business?” Shinazugawa fires back, blowing smoke into the sky.
Giyuu doesn’t know. It’s not his business. He shouldn’t ask. There’s no point.
“You said you were leaving,” Giyuu says instead. Over an hour ago, the addendum hangs unspoken between them, its implications seeking resolution. What logic is there to Shinazugawa’s continued presence? There’s no reason for him to still be here. He should be home. Or anywhere else. Not drinking whiskey and chainsmoking in the dark back alley of the bar he works at, after hours, waiting.
…If he’s waiting.
It feels like he’s waiting.
“I was leaving.”
Shinazugawa abruptly pushes away from the wall and walks towards him. He’s steady on his feet, despite that the empty space in the bottle on the ground promises he is at least moderately drunk. There's barely a slur in his voice though as he continues, “Now I’m trying to figure something out.”
Giyuu is still standing barely a step from the entrance, the metal door at his back. There’s a wall to his right, Shinazugawa approaching from his left. He knows he needs to move now, walk towards his car, something, anything, but he doesn’t, and then it’s too late. Shinazugawa stops in front of him, and there’s really no going anywhere. The scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey over cologne is sharp, pleasantly bitter. It surrounds Giyuu like a cloud; he can almost taste it on his tongue.
“Figure out what…?” he asks. His voice is tight in his own ears, and he can feel the tension ratcheting higher between them as Shinazugawa looks over him slowly. The white-haired man’s jaw ticks like he’s grinding his teeth. A crease deepens in his brow as the seconds tick by.
“Something,” he finally repeats, then Shinazugawa, already close, too close, steps forward. Giyuu matches it with a step back, using the last shred of his will to try and put space between them. Only there isn’t anywhere to step back to. His back hits the door with a hollow thud.
“Shinazugawa—”
“Shut up,” he says, but his voice is quieter. The anger is muddled now, mixed with something else, and Giyuu’s mouth snaps shut. They’re practically the same height, but somehow standing like this, Shinazugawa feels taller, Giyuu tilting his chin to look up at him.
Shinazugawa’s free hand lifts to a small section of stray hair falling over Giyuu’s shoulder, taking ebony strands between his thumb and fingers and twisting them slowly. It sends Giyuu’s heart hammering, fueled by the hunger that’s been murmuring beneath his skin for weeks. Now it is singing, rushing through him until it is all he can hear.
“Fuck, you’re a piece of work, aren’t you,” Shinazugawa mutters, almost as though to himself, and lets Giyuu’s hair slip from his fingers. But his hand doesn’t lower. It lingers in the air over his shoulder, hesitating. Giyuu thinks there’s a flush pooling in Shinazugawa’s cheeks, but the white light, the dark around them, makes it hard to tell, and it’s forgotten in the next moment as Shinazugawa’s eyes narrow, determined, and he rests his fingers lightly along the column of Giyuu’s throat, thumb pressing against his jaw. He’s staring at Giyuu intently, and Giyuu wants to look away, feeling too raw and exposed under the amethyst of his eyes, but he can’t. His hands splay against the cold metal of the door to keep from reaching out, the desire to touch Shinazugawa aching in his fingers.
“What are you doing,” Giyuu breathes, barely managing the words, voice strangled by anticipation.
Shinazugawa doesn’t answer this time though, drawing the cigarette to his lips, breathing in deep. He holds his breath a moment, flicking the finished cigarette away and setting his hand on the door behind Giyuu, arm creating a barrier—as if Giyuu had any intention of trying to slip around Shinazugawa and escape this… whatever this is.
The moments stretch long. When Shinazugawa moves, it is agonizingly deliberate, measured and unhurried. He tilts his head, brings it down, closer, until their noses are nearly brushing, and Giyuu has the absurd thought that Shinazugawa—Shinazugawa—is going to kiss him—God, he wants Shinazugawa to kiss him—
But he doesn’t.
So close that Giyuu can feel the warmth of his lips, he releases his breath, slowly, controlled. Giyuu watches the sultry flow of smoke as if in a trance and his lips part. Following some pull he can’t explain, he closes his eyes and breathes deep, taking the smoke from Shinazugawa’s lungs into his own, its biting scent overpowering the cologne, the whiskey, burning against his tongue, his throat, his every sense filled with it, with him.
Time feels like it has stopped, the moon and stars frozen in a black sky, as they stand there, only inches between them, caught up in smoke-laden breath and shared body heat, tension pulling the empty spaces between them taut to the point of breaking, and every point of pressure where Shinazugawa’s fingers touch his skin itches. The urge to seek more, take more, is overwhelming, but Giyuu quells it, relishing the moment, reluctant to let it go.
It is Shinazugawa who finally breaks the moment. His fingers slide against Giyuu’s throat until they hook around the back of his neck, holding him still, but instead of closing the last shred of space between them, he pulls back. Giyuu’s eyes drag open reluctantly and he looks up at him, knowing that his face must be burning, that his eyes must be dark with how much he wants, that any semblance of composure he’d had is surely gone, vanished as thoroughly as the last curl of smoke from the cigarette now discarded on the ground.
Shinazugawa’s eyes are once again locked onto Giyuu's, keeping him as trapped as the hand on his neck, as the arm against the wall, and his voice is low and dangerous when it comes, as much a caress as a threat.
“The next time you spend your shift staring at me like that, you’d better be prepared to fucking do something about it.”
Giyuu’s heart trips, his knees feeling like water. He can’t speak, let alone move, so he says nothing, does nothing. His paralysis doesn’t seem to matter to Shinazugawa, who after one more prolonged instant finally lets him go and steps back, turning away. Only then, given space, does Giyuu feel the breath flood back into his lungs and the cogs of time start turning again. He presses back against the door, the chill metal seeping into his skin, grounding him. Shinazugawa walks back to the wall and bends to gather the whiskey bottle.
“Take this off my next paycheck,” he says to Giyuu, tilting the bottle back and forth, the amber liquid catching the light. Then he walks away, melting into the night.
Giyuu watches him go until the dark swallows him, then drops his head back against the door.
Unprofessional, the thorn of logic still buried in his core chides sternly.
The rest of him is buzzing though, and there’s a sudden anticipation for his next shift that he’s never felt before. For just a moment, he pulls the logic loose, closes it in a box and puts it on a shelf in the back of his mind.
Yes, what just happened was (alarming, enticing, addicting) unprofessional on both their parts.
They're co-workers, after all.
They barely know each other.
Giyuu isn’t certain that Shinazugawa even likes him.
But somehow in its wake, Giyuu just can’t bring himself to care.