Work Text:
You're at a party. Your work Christmas party, to be exact, though Christmas came and went like pages flipped over on a calendar. The piles of paperwork that left no chance for a holiday break haven't dwindled until the few days of calm between Christmas and New Year's Eve came. Working overtime doesn't bother you much - as long as you still get these few days to yourself. After tonight, that is - tonight's the informal dinner at some restaurant you've never heard the name of, surrounded with warmth and laughter, a merry veneer for all the stress accumulated throughout the year. The venue is nice – nothing extravagant, but it's clean and spacious – marble floors, high ceilings. It's a bit dark for your liking, but once you get seated you discover that the low-hanging lanterns diffuse a pleasant glow.
You all exchange gifts – it's done in an odd fashion, and you've all got Saiko to thank for supplying the idea. Once a gift is unwrapped, it can be claimed by anyone else as their own, and the unfortunate giftee would unwrap another, or enforce the cycle of betrayal by stealing someone's, too. Towards the end, even Urie grinning into his hand. And later, when everyone's engaged in conversation (you're talking to Arima over the table, but you're always aware of your little squad, you've trained yourself to be) – you see your four underlings exchange the gifts they all ended up with, to make sure everyone was happy. It's such a small gesture but it does a lot to warm your heart. Your relationship is not without strain – unsurprising, given the circumstances, given the fragile trust you've been forced into, with your life oft on the line. It's good to see them like that, safe and smiling and talking quietly. Through it all, you'd wanted them to have a good rest, and to look back at the passing year with fondness.
It's not before long that the company starts to dissolve – many agents would have family to go home to, some for the first time in quite a while. You hang around, feeling strangely nostalgic. When someone suggests those who remain hit up the closest bar ('We'll just hang around for a while? My shout!'), you don't object, just tagging along for the sake of it.
Turns out you don't have to go far for the 'nearest bar' – it's in the same establishment, just on the second floor, up a narrow stairway. It's darker and louder, voices straining to make themselves heard over each other, over the speakers pumping some Western track. It's not usually your place to go, too bright, too crowded, too many nuisances – but you feel strangely comfortable, feet drawn on your chair, leaning onto the counter, watching the lazy sway of the shadows. There's spots of light, too, reflecting off the glasses – they make a pleasant sound when touched, a gentle ringing, captivating. You like this, you realise, picking up on loose scraps of conversations floating around you, lives of others; watching the hands of bartenders as they scurry to mix their orders. Like this enough that when it's time to part, and the last of your colleagues make their way towards the exist, you bid them farewell, saying you'd like to stay here for a bit, lost in the chimes of bottles and the traces others leave in the air around you.
There's something in these moments, where you simply are. Your hand rests on the surface of the counter, and the wood is hard and cool, and you can let yourself just exist for a bit.
You only drift back to reality when you feel a touch to your shoulder, someone's hand that doesn't belong there. When you turn around there's an intruder beside you, a man, probably in his late twenties – he's well-dressed and in the shadows his face is something that could be considered handsome, but the lack of respect in the gesture, the way he leers at you is instantly off-putting.
'You're too pretty of a thing to be alone on a night like this. How about I buy ya a drink?' You weren't wrong about that, you think as he slurs at you, alcohol-stained breath fanning your face.
'I'm not sure what you mean by 'a night like this', but it certainly shouldn't be wasted on the likes of you.' Frankly, you're not in the mood for dealing with this.
The man says something threatening at that, frothing with insult, but you dismiss him with a wave of a hand, turning back to the counter. He wouldn't try anything in a room full of people. Even if he did, you can take him on, no effort. He's only human, after all, and not the greatest specimen at that.
Still, it's a bit suspicious to just sit there, staring at the counter, taking in the dim glow of the lanterns – colourful, hung low, just like in the restaurant. The bartender looks surprised when you enquire whether there's somewhere you could order a coffee from, but she calls someone else over and orders them to get one from downstairs.
It's not too lively at the moment, and the lady behind the counter hangs around to chat for a bit until the other waiter is back, and a steaming mug is set in front of you. There's milk in a little pitcher on a separate saucer. You move it aside.
You're halfway through your coffee when there's yet another foreign touch, a brush against your elbow. You fear it's the man from before and you're ready to demand he vacate your personal space, but when you whip around to deliver a snarky comment, you see it's someone new entirely.
'Pardon for intruding,' The light is too distorted to make out his features properly, the lanterns casting a bluish hue right across his face, but you see the stranger is smiling at you. 'But you look like you might appreciate some company.'
'I take it as you're here to offer yours?' You're sceptical, as expected, but there's something about the man doesn't startle you or repulse you straight away, and your mind races as you try to figure out why.
'You're free to decline, of course.' the man hesitates, hand fumbling with the collar of his shirt – a nervous gesture.
Then again maybe it's the mannerism, a stark contrast to how your previous 'suitor' approached you. When not dismissed, he's quick to pull up a stool beside yours, but your elbows on the counter do not touch, and his tone is anything but disrespectful.
'May I ask for your name?' he enquires. It's only after you tell him that you realise you're meant to keep secrecy, but it's too late now – besides you can trust him. You do not know this now, but you can trust this man with your life.
'And yours?'
He gives you his name, but you don't quite catch it through all the noise – a customer has knocked over a glass somewhere, as you could tell by the gentleman's loud complaints and the pitiful screech of broken glass. It's probably too awkward to ask again, you figure, so you just extend your hand and mumble a greeting.
'Nice to meet you too,' he responds, smiling. He accepts the handshake, and for some reason you leave your hand lingering in his. He's got nice hands, soft and manicured, but his fingers are so thin, and this grip is weightless.
He tells you about himself, a lot, for a stranger. He's from a wealthy family, and involved in business, politics and humanitarian studies quite a bit. Working for some company that deals with Western relations.
'That's just what I studied at university,' he shrugs, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. You're still trying to figure out whether his hair really is dyed some vibrant shade of blue, or if the effect is a trick of lighting. 'Plus my father was happy I got into it. My real passion lies with literature, though. I grew up with a lot of European classics, and got into Japanese literature around middle school.'
You take the bait easy, perking up at the mention of books. There's not the slightest bit of deja-vu in the air when you discuss your favourite authors – or perhaps you're grown immune to the feeling.
He'd ask you about yourself sometimes, about your past. These questions always made you a bit uncomfortable, and he seems to pick up on that, for he doesn't pry.
'The work you do at the moment,' you're genuinely curious, 'Do you go global much? Like, international travel and such?'
'Right now? I've not been working much, I'm afraid.' He shrugs his shoulders, and his smile falters. 'I've been taking time off for mental health stuff.'
Oh.
'I'm sorry,' You try to fill the silence. 'I didn't mean to pry.'
'There's no need to apologise.' your new acquaintance shakes his head. 'Sometimes things are like this.'
It's a bit awkward after that, conversation strained. Maybe that's why it's not long before your companion calls the bartender over and cranes his neck to whisper something to them. The drink that gets placed on the table in front of you in a few minutes is strange – something emitting a strong scent of coffee, and you think there's alcohol mixed in somewhere. Maybe this is what an espresso martini looks like – he's never really seen them before, just knew that this beverage was regraded highly by his colleagues. It's not like he could have one, anyway.
'Would you like to try some?'
The question you always fear when you're with humans. Usually you'd decline straight away, but he's looking at you, same mysterious smile, and he's so very handsome, and you can allow yourself some bad decisions sometimes. We've trained to hold in basic foods, after all. Besides, there's something charming in having to stretch in your seat to reach for the drink, to lean over someone's lap and place your hand next to their and lock your mouth on the straw that's still warm from their breath.
You expect the usual wave of nausea as you take the smallest sip – but all there is is the fact that the drink tastes good. Really really good, as you're quick to inform your companion, and he laughs at that.
'Thought you'd be ok with it.' is it just you or does he sound relieved? 'Feel free to have some more, if you'd like.'
It tastes almost exactly like coffee – except coffee doesn't come with a biting texture or give you the hint of a slight buzz. It's really really good though, and you don't even notice finishing the drink together, taking turns with the straw when the dispenser is literally an arm's length away. He doesn't shy away from looking at you, and your knees are touching beneath the counter, and this feels right.
When you receive an offer to get you a drink – the second for the night – you find that you cannot refuse.
A drink becomes another, and another, and you haven't talked to someone you can be this free with for a long time, though this just might be the alcohol. It's almost like an espresso martini, the stranger (you really should just just bite the bullet and ask for his name again) confirms your suspicions, but with a slight modification to the recipe, 'A little secret.' he breathes, and you haven't noticed the moment you've leaned on his shoulder and your head is almost tucked into the crook of his neck and he's not complaining.
Two more mystery martinis and he's escorting you off the bar stool, towards one of the little booths lining the wall.
'Don't want you falling asleep on the counter.' The man laughs, and there's a hand messing up your hair and an arm around your waist – that's a new addition – loose enough for you to shake it off if you wished so, but reliable enough to support your weight as you stumble over a chair.
'I can manage myself.' you protest, but suddenly you're not so sure, after all. The room refuses to stand still, and the lanterns suddenly seem to have detached themselves from their lengthy cords, hovering over you in a suspicious flock. In fact, the warm body an arms length away from yours seems the only solid pane of security right now. The lights make everything look dreamy, and the music flows through you – has it gotten more loud as the night went on, or are you just suddenly a lot more aware of it, a lot more sensitive all over?
We've never been good drinkers, you know. There's always been blood wine, of course, but you just never had the occasion to, and the concept of isolated inebriation didn't sound very appealing.
You're probably a bit intoxicated now, though. Just a bit. Just the slightest, as you don't hesitate to tell your mystery companion whose name you still haven't figured out. You can take care of yourself though, and you're quite content here, and no, you wouldn't rather just go home, and the fact that this impossible man seems to have made his mind up otherwise is both frustrating and amusing.
'Forgive me.' he nudges at your shoulder with his head as you're making your way down the stairs. 'I seem to have forgotten you're quite a lightweight.'
'On the contrary,' Placing one foot in front of the other has been difficult enough, but doing this on a slope is a great opportunity to prove your point, as you try and tackle the staircase on your own. He even humours you for a while, until you almost trip, elbow bumping onto the railing. When you almost walk into the door while he bids the doorkeeper goodnight, all he's left to do is guide you outside, muttering an amused 'Look, I don't think you're good to get home like this.'
The fresh air hits you, and it's good, away from the lights and the beat and a bit further apart from the intoxicating stranger. You're standing in an alleyway, with no one else in sight – just the stars above your head, if you crane your neck enough. It cools your head a bit – deep breaths as your mind starts to recover from its temporary lapse. Slowly, you start to realise the nuances of the situation. You're in a part of Tokyo you're unfamiliar with, in a ward you can't even remember the number of. You can barely move unaided, let alone fight, and the culprit of this all is even more defenceless, should they attract attention. You try to stay rational, to seek a solution – but that's already been predetermined, it seems.
'I'm being serious.' when you look back, your companion is flicking through his phone, typing something in. 'You're in no condition to travel home alone.'
'Don't be ridiculous, I'm…'
'I think you should stay with me, at least until you feel better. I'll get you some water and a cab home...actually scratch that, cab's too dangerous.'
'You don't have to do this,' you try, but this whole situation is just too stressful for you to deal with, isn't it? It's much easier to let someone else decide, take care of you for now. Especially when he draws closer again, and you've already missed the weight of that arm around your shoulder. It's the middle of winter, after all, and the warmth is not unwelcome. The fact that he's so damn beautiful doesn't help much, but I can't blame you for that.
'I guess it's best if I keep and eye on you tonight – and I promise it's not just me being greedy.'
'I can look after myself.' Now you're just lying, trying to ignore the way your heart races when he takes your hand in his.
'Are you sure of this, cher?'
'I'm an – an agent for the CCG,' you try again, and you're lucky there's no one else in the alleyway, because that was definitely not a hushed whisper, no matter what you might think. 'It's not safe…'
'Shhh.' The stranger smiles, drawing his arm closer around you, and there's something about the gesture, so soft yet unbelievably possessive it is makes you want to lean into it even further. 'I know.'
'You k-know?' You don't remember telling him. You reason you're too drunk to remember.
'I don't remember telling you,' you repeat the thought out loud, just in case. The stranger smiles at that (and in a halo of the rusty streetlight he looks breathtaking – breathtaking and sad) – and replies something in a language you don't recognise. For some reason it satisfies your curiosity – there's something habitual about being told little reaffirming nothings in the slightly throatier flow of French or Spanish. Things don't make much sense when you're drunk, you decide.
'Still, it's not safe.' You try again, but he won't have any of it.
'Even more so the reason to not leave you alone in some strange part of town.' He's got his phone out again, looking at some map. 'We'll stay at a hotel-' and your heart skips a beat at the implication, and certainly not from fear or panic or any negative emotion on that. You space out and imagine, for a bit, and who could blame you – he's attractive, very; well-spoken and graceful – it's easy to imagine the fleeting movement of these hands in different circumstances – and you stop yourself on that thought just in time to make out the end of his tirade:
'-And I'll get you a cab in the morning. That sound good?'
'Yeah', you manage, and if you sound a bit breather that usual (which you kinda do), he doesn't seem to notice.
You try not to think about how this might look – hanging off a stranger's arm, stumbling for balance, and that your faces are way too close when you gaze up at him and he lowers his head and doesn't look away. You try to convince yourself it's innocent, that is doesn't mean anything and all that's going on is someone being a shitty drinker and burdening some poor stranger with the care for your wellbeing.
He tries to make small talk as you make your way down the alleyway, across a larger street and then through a more secluded block. He tells you jokes, but they're not very good, and that makes it all the better and at some point you're laughing, hands on his shoulders, and he tells you to quieten down – and you're happy.
He looks at you a lot, and the same expression – a gentle smile, a quantified sadness – never leaves his face.
The vestibule of the hotel is hazy – you barely remember the reception desk – it's difficult enough to keep yourself upright, and to attempt understanding the surge of disappointment that washes over you when your companion asks for a suite with two bedrooms.
'You should have a shower, when we get there' the stranger suggests later, when you're in the small space of the elevator and you're leaning on his shoulder. The scent of his cologne is making it hard to think , and it's not just the remains of alcohol that's making your head spin, is it? Even now, you're trying to move closer, trying to figure out how much is too much. He neither rejects your touches, nor seems to respond to them as one would to an advance, and this stoic distance is infuriating.
The suite is nice – you don't think much of it. Everything seems off, and all you can think about is that he's about to walk into his room and you'll be left in yours, trapped in the smell of fabric softener and bleach, walls a sterile white, and a window overlooking a city that knows me more than you. You don't want him to go. Your drunken haze is wearing off now – though you cannot help but try to hold onto in for longer. Everything will be back to normal soon; already, the strange elation of the night fading. You suddenly remember to check that the door is locked, like you've always done, patrolling the void of your apartment.
'Where are you off to?' he calls out, following you as you reach for the door; looking over your shoulder, arm back around your waist as you almost trip over your shoes. The lock is finicky and weird – you've never seen one like that, but you don't feel secure until he leans over you and demonstrates that it holds secure.
You turn around with a word of thanks – and he doesn't have the time to retreat in the narrow hallway so you turn straight into him, and your chest is pressed against his and his legs are on either side of yours and he's so , so close. A beat, another – moments counted by your racing heart, moments of nothing but strained breathing – and then he's kissing you, and all you can think is, finally.
He doesn't stop as he manoeuvres you deeper into the suite, lips never leaving yours, hand ocupping your face, your neck; the arm back on your waist. You think you knock something over – the bedside table, maybe, but it doesn't matter, not as the kisses grow deeper, more heated, tongue moving against yours. He pulls you down onto him until you're almost in his lap, and you follow, melting into the embrace, making the quietest of noises and gasps against his lips. The heat that streams through his touches, the taste he leaves on your lips as he pulls back, leaving you both gasping for breath – and you whimper at the loss, but then there's a kiss placed to your jaw, descending to your neck, and you're not the one to complain.
He's gentle with you, so very gentle, his hands running over your clothed chest with no intention of going any lower, or peeling the fabric off you. His lips map the curve of your throat, dry and chaste, and i's almost like he's forcing to keep himself in check, forcing himself to pull away at the biggest strain of control. Frustrated, you move your hips down, seeking friction, seeking contact, something, and for a moment there's a telltale hardness settling against yours, little sparks of pleasure down your spine – but then he's moving away, retreating. He's giving you space should you desire it, careful not to force himself onto you, and though you realise this (and there's an unregistered appreciation of this in the back of your mind, that he cares), this soothing pace is driving you insane.
You don't want gentle, not right now, not when there's an inexplicable anxiety gnawing at the back of your mind. You want to be used and fucked and made to feel something, something that would leave a meaning in your memory. Leave bruises on your hips and angry red trails on the stranger's back, marks of a momentary desire that you can pretend will not fade. Perhaps that's why you crane your neck to run your mouth over his neck, and when you let your teeth trace the gentle flesh, he stills beside you.
'You don't know what you're doing.' He sighs, hand in yours, and his voice breaks. 'What you've done to me.'
'No.' You echo. There's only you and him, in a poorly lit hotel room, in a distant ward, in a world that never aligns the way you want it to.
You bite down.
That's enough to deteriorate the last of his control – the next moment you find yourself writhing under his touches as he tears your clothes off, as he nudges at your jawline, leaving trails of sore kisses, leaving you on fire, wanting, demanding. It's not long before you're a tangle of bare skin and heated flesh and the awareness of impending irreversibility, and he grinds your hips into the mattress and you beg for more.
You lift your fingers to his mouth - trembling, anticipation and anxiety all at once, and he's eager to draw them in, coating them with saliva. He sucks, tongue massaging at the digits, quiet moans vibrating through your skin. He's always been so very eager to please, after all – it's a pity you won't get to see him on his knees, or pinned beneath you – he's even more beautiful then, even more fragile.
He watches as you prepare yourself, lost between watching the hand working between your legs and reading the turmoil in your eyes. You almost draw back for a moment as delayed realisation hits you – the crimson pupils, the black sclera, the predatory grace in the man's movements. A ghoul. But something within you speaks stronger that reason right now, stronger even than the desire that makes your bones ache. With him, you're safe. With him, there's sanctuary, there's relief.
You thrash in his arms as he enters you, and when he starts to move you're not sure you've ever felt so good, so content (so at home, so just like before any of this happened). You clutch at the sheets, at his forearms, at anything, painfully aware of every decadent sound that you fail to bite back, of how you must look right now, mouth open, lips chewed red, white hair stuck to your temple with sweat. He sees all of it, the bastard, towering over you, taking in the way his touches drive you insane.
And at that moment he loves you, loves you, why won't you realise? When he holds your gaze like that, when you're both beyond control, completely open to each other, when so much raw emotion streams from his every touch, every sigh, why can't you feel it?
You manage to gasp something through your teeth, a plea, a demand for more, and he responds with a low growl, gripping at your forearms as he flips you over. This new angle feels even better as his body drives into yours and he picks up the pace even more, rougher, merciless. Your body is on fire and your brain is behind comprehension - when you register he's choking back a name that isn't yours, you're too lost in the pleasure to care.
'Kaneki-kun,' he sobs against your hair, and you can tell he's close, the jerks of his hips becoming more and more erratic, and you arch your back so you're pushing against him even more, caught between the hand on your cock and the white-hot pleasure that blinds you with every thrust.
'Tsukiyama,' and the name comes naturally, the syllables flowing on their own volition, an echo, a memory.
'Kaneki,' and the way he says that, like a spell, like a prayer – there's something you can never take away from me.
He comes with you screaming his name, nails breaking the soft skin on his back, just like you've wanted. You're not too close behind, panting against his lips, hips bucking into his hand, and then darkness claims you for a while, cool and weightless.
You lie on the floor, panting, as your reality slowly recollects itself around you. You're Sasaki Haise, rank 1 ghoul investigator in the CCG – you remember that he instant he picks you up – arm under your neck and another slipped under your knees, and he places you on the bed. You're barely responsive as he cleans you, then draws the covers over your exhausted body.
'Are you ok?' He asks, later, crawling onto the bed himself, resting on his elbows a safe space away.
'Yeah', you tell him. 'I'm...yeah. That was something.' Your mind is still numb from the pleasure, but beneath all that is something you've never been able to make out and put into thoughts, and you daren't touch it now.
'Is this alright?' he asks, drawing a hesitant arm around you, which quickly becomes a tight embrace as soon as you voice your content.
You're fast asleep, soon, cocooned with comfort, warm and relaxed in the stranger's arms. You don't hear he whisper against your temple – how much he's missed you. How much he misses me. You don't know it, you don't see the ghosts that you walk with every day of your life – his tragedy that he's shared only with me. You look at him and you see a stranger, and you're all too eager to ignore the faint longing that fills the emptiness within you, like a missing childhood memory or a music from long ago. You'd never known how much he's loved, how much he's had to suffer for it. Perhaps it's for the best, for now.
The man – Tsukiyama – he's no longer there when you wake up. The floor is clean, the bedside table has been rearranged. There's an addition though, a small handwritten note.
'Cher,
I hope you're feeling better now. The suite's been paid for, just let reception know when you leave. I'd like to think I wasn't the only one left thinking the time we spent together was pleasant. It was good to see you again.'
Feeling better, yes, much so. Your head hurts, but only a little bit. Why is it that the little drawing of a rose and a moon beneath the elegant cursive makes your heart sink, and you've not known much grief but the sensation is so damn familiar? Why does the 'again' resonate in your mind over and over?
I think we both know why. You can't chase the ghosts within you away forever, Sasaki Haise. You've kept me locked up for far too long, you know – I'm starting to get restless. Besides, you want to let me in, don't you? You shouldn't fight it any longer – haven't you just seen how good it is to let go, to just feel? Somehow, I know what's coming. I just hope – for your sake and for his – that the damage it leaves in its wake is not too great.