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If Miyuki Kazuya has anything against drinking, it’s simply that he gets too drunk too fast. It’s hard to moderate his intake when a single beer will make him fall asleep within half an hour and a shot will decimate his memory of an entire night. Because of that, he’ll only drink for very special circumstances and around the people he’s most comfortable with.
But to say he’s comfortable around Sawamura these days isn’t quite right. In one way, Sawamura is the only person he can relax around entirely. Kazuya never worries what Sawamura’s thinking or where they stand when he’s so vocal about everything, and he has a way of pulling Kazuya into every sort of adventure. Around Sawamura, Kazuya doesn’t calculate out safety nets and consequences for his every action, he goes along for the ride. And it’s always so much fun.
At the same time, Kazuya is a nervous wreck around the man. It’s like a switch flipped sometime recently and now he can’t stop noticing all the things about Sawamura that are just his type. Hands so callused when Sawamura touches his wrist to haul him around. A firm grip on Kazuya’s knee when they sit next to each other. Earnest eyes that see everything, even if he doesn’t always know what to do with all those sharp observations. Powerful thighs. Biceps for days. Abs—just. Abs. He has them and they’re gorgeous. He’s so hot, dammit. And Kazuya also knows Eijun’s got a pretty big package. He wouldn’t mind being wrapped around it, if you catch his drift—
“Miyuki, you know you’re saying all this aloud, right?”
Kazuya blinks. The noise of the bar comes back to him as his eyes focus on Kuramochi across the table from him. “What’d you say?”
Haruichi rests his head on his fist, raising a single eyebrow at Kazuya from the seat next to him. “Kuramochi would like you to stop waxing poetic about Sawamura’s body.”
“But he’s so hot,” Kazuya says. Then he narrows his eyes and points at Kuramochi, annoyed. “Wait. You read my mind? Can you read minds?”
“No, you dumbass, you’re talking out loud,” Kuramochi groans. “If you don’t stop, I’ll fucking make you. The only person who wants to hear that shit is Sawamura, and he’s sitting across the room right now.”
Haruichi detaches Kazuya’s hand from his cup. The drink inside is one shot of tequila mixed into a giant bottle of juice then doled out into a small glass in hopes they could find his tipsy threshold if he nursed a single diluted shot all night.
That plan was tossed out the door the minute Sawamura walked through it. Kazuya had choked on his own tongue, then chugged most of the glass in one go to try to stop coughing. Except that doesn’t work so well with alcohol, no matter how small the amount, especially for someone who feels its effect so easily.
Kazuya is a wreck, remember?
“We remember, Miyuki,” Haruichi sighs, patting his shoulder gently.
Kazuya tucks his head into his arms and lays down onto the questionably sticky table. “I hate this. Everything is stupid. Sawamura is stupid.”
“He’s not the only one,” Kuramochi mutters.
“I’ll take this away so we don’t have any more chugging accidents, okay?” Haruichi says with a final rub to his shoulder. “Kuramochi, anything else to clear away?”
“Ah, there’s a lot, I’ll help carry these back to the bar. I wanna see what other drinks they have.”
As they leave, their voices fade out while they tease each other, Will you really try something new for once? I’ve never seen that happen and I’m adventurous where it matters! before he’s left alone with his thoughts.
He wishes Sawamura had sat next to him. Objectively, he knows Haruichi was there and Kuramochi and Kanemaru had filled out the rest of the table when Sawamura arrived to the first string reunion party, but he could have come over once Kanemaru left. Better yet, what if he’d sat next to Kazuya anyway? Asked Haruichi to move? And if Haruichi refused, Sawamura could’ve dragged him off the bench with his strong, muscular hands that were made for manhandling Kazuya, declaring that the only spot for him was the one at Kazuya’s side not only at this table but for the rest of their lives and he would pick Kazuya up with his rippling muscles and stupid grin and whisk him away to passionately make out for the rest of their lives—
The hand on his shoulder signals their return, and Kazuya promptly, melodramatically, says, “I want him to wrap me up in his stupid, beautiful arms!”
“Uh. Who are you talking about?”
Kazuya’s heart stops. Oh no, he thinks with a terrified gulp. That’s not Haruichi’s voice. It’s not Kuramochi’s, either.
When he looks up, eyes trailing up and up and up along the arm on his shoulder, Sawamura’s there.
His eyebrows are cranked high into his hairline, and his face looks torn between amusement and shock. His face is gonna freeze that way. But he’ll still be pretty because his face is just like that.
This time, Kazuya only manages to keep half those thoughts to himself.
“Your face is gonna be pretty frozen forever.”
Sawamura whips his arm back to cover his handsome visage. Immediately, Kazuya misses the touch. “Are you making fun of me, Miyuki Kazuya?” Sawamura sputters, patting his cheeks. Boy does Kazuya want to pat them, too. He’d be better at it than Sawamura anyway, so it’s a kindness, and Kazuya is definitely, absolutely, kind. No matter what Kuramochi says.
“Nooooooo,” Kazuya says, surging forward to cup Sawamura’s jaw between his hands. His palms slip a little and stretch Sawamura’s cheeks back into a cartoonish look. “Look at you,” he coos, scrunching and stretching Sawamura’s face over and over again. “Pretty, pretty, pretty,” he chants with each squish.
Sawamura worms his hands out from below Kazuya’s with a scowl, then loosens Kazuya’s grip by sliding his hands up over Kazuya’s and lacing their fingers until he can pry them off.
But now they’re holding hands. Sawamura’s hands are so rough, how is Kazuya supposed to think when they're touching?
Kazuya feels hot. He’s 90% sure it’s not the tequila. He’s 100% sure Sawamura doesn’t look hot because of the tequila either. Because he’s always hot. That’s the problem.
“Miyuki Kazuya!” Sawamura says, exasperated. “Focus!”
“I am, I am.” Kazuya waves their laced hands together, nearly knocking his elbow into the corner of the table. “I’m always focused on you. How’m I s’posed to think of anything else around you?”
Sawamura inhales sharply. He’s got such a nice chest, too, doesn’t he?
“Miyuki, you’re talking out loud.”
“Oh.” Kazuya looks up at Sawamura, where he’s still got one knee on the bench so he can look down at where Kazuya is sitting. His eyes are so lovely in the soft light—but they’re always lovely. So lively, too, no matter what emotion is shining through. But right now, Sawamura looks concerned. Kazuya doesn’t like that. Sawamura shouldn’t ever have to look sad. Maybe leaving the party would help him feel better. Kazuya would love to leave with Sawamura.
He reaches up to smooth out the lines of Sawamura’s forehead. “Can we go home? I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
“You live very far away, Miyuki Kazuya. Wanna crash at mine?”
“That’s what I meant, Sawamura,” he says, enunciating each syllable of his name with slow care. Kazuya ignores whatever crisis Sawamura seems to be having in favor of poking his shoulder. “Carry me home.”
Sawamura rubs the back of his very red neck, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I don’t live that close; you’re gonna have to do some of the work yourself, lazy catcher.”
Kazuya shoots up, nearly falling over until Sawamura grabs him to help him balance. “But you’ve got arms. Look at them!”
“So do you,” Sawamura says and pointedly squeezes his biceps. He helps Kazuya stand up—steadying him again when Kazuya’s foot catches on the lip of the bench just when he thinks he’s home free.
Wow, Kazuya’s head feels so heavy. And his eyeballs are cold. Tired? Cold and tired. Blinking feels so nice. He rests his forehead on Sawamura’s clavicle, breathing in the familiar cologne Sawamura prefers ever since he got an ad campaign with the brand. Sawamura also feels so nice. So comfortable. Kazuya doesn’t know why he felt so awkward earlier, when Sawamura was only ever Sawamura, which was the best possible thing in the world to be.
Kazuya wraps his arms around Sawamura’s waist. Gingerly, Sawamura returns the hug. His hold is soothing and lulls Kazuya into a stronger drowsiness, so Kazuya nuzzles his face into the crook of Sawamura’s neck. “You carry me home in your arms and I’ll make us snacks with mine. That way we’re even.”
“This is what you mean by partners, huh?” Sawamura says, voice deep and breath tickling Kazuya’s sensitive ear.
From behind him, a throat clears. “Having a nice chat?”
Kazuya doesn’t bother looking. “Sawamura has arms, Haruichi.”
“I’ve noticed that about him,” Haruichi responds pleasantly.
“Cheetah-senpai! Harucchi! I’m taking this guy home. I don’t think he can see straight,” Sawamura says in a voice only mildly too loud for how close Kazuya is right now. Sawamura really has grown into himself, Kazuya muses.
Kuramochi sighs, and that Kazuya can tell it's him just from the weight of the sound is a testament to how often he's had to hear it lately. “Get home safe, okay?”
“We always look out for each other.” Sawamura declares it so matter-of-factly, it fills Kazuya up inside with the sweetest joy. As if the two of them together is a certainty of nature, no matter what.
“Partners,” Kazuya smiles into the warmth of Sawamura’s skin.
He feels Sawamura’s answer rumble through his throat more than hears it, but it settles him all the same when Sawamura softly responds, “Yeah, partners.”