Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Holy shit,” Kuroiro wheezed out as he began to choke with laughter, “holy shit, Fumikage, you’re so fucked.”

Fumikage barely heard him.  He barely heard anything.  Not the music and not the sounds of people clinking glasses and talking and cheering all around them.  Takami and Mirko were saying something but Fumikage didn’t listen, instead digging into his pocket to pull out his wallet and, with shaking fingers, taking out one of the bills.  Lights flashed on the stage and Fumikage was three drinks in and when the drag queen had come out onto the stage, there had been no denying it.  Fumikage was fucked.

He hadn’t even wanted to go to the drag show.  Not that he had anything against them, what with drag being an important part of the community that deserved respect, but it had truly never been his scene.  It was loud and ostentatious and all manner of things that he had made it a point to avoid in his day to day.  But Takami had been relentless as they’d begun to finish up in the lab and Kuroiro pounced on any opportunity to annoy Fumikage that he could take so he joined in.  When Mirko finally decided to join in on the fun, Fumikage had grudgingly admitted defeat and allowed them to pull him out of the lab and away from his doctorate work and downtown towards a noisy and packed bar.  

Originally, the plan had been to imbibe one drink.  One single drink to make everyone else happy and then he would be able to go on his merry way.  But Mirko had insisted on a second and it had already been in front of him, already paid for as he explained the intricacies of the early goth scene.  As the lights had dimmed and the show had begun, Takami had placed another drink in front of him and Fumikage found himself thinking that it wasn’t like he’d really had plans anyway.  The performers weren’t necessarily awful either and it was a Halloween show that generally vibed with his aesthetic.

But then she stepped out onto the stage, the sound of ‘Halloween’ by Siouxsie and the Banshees pouring from the speakers, and every bit of blood in Fumikage’s brain went straight to his dick.  

She was incredible.  Tall and statuesque with broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and a tiny waist before swelling into ample hips, enormous breasts seemingly barely held in by the black velvet of her Elvira inspired dress.  Pearl gray hair lay long against her shoulders under a black lace veil and the eyes that peeked out over a black lace mask were rimmed dramatically with eyeliner and something that shimmered.  Three additional sets of black arms somehow moved from behind her back, tiny strings catching the light in what he thought might be puppetry.  And while he was well aware that the curves were a trick of padding and shapewear, every ounce of bisexuality in Tokoyami Fumikage’s body rang out in worship.

Whoever she was, she was painfully and completely his type.  As the jangling guitar opening of the song rang out, he grasped the five dollar bill and tried to get any kind of sanity back.  But all that he could seem to do was to drink her in, from the extensive and eerie pale embroidery on her dress that looked like gossamer spider webs to the stilettos that the performer somehow managed to move in gracefully.  Without the ability to clearly see her lips moving, it should have taken away from the performance but the way that she moved somehow made it work, her movements perfectly in tempo.  

She paused during an instrumental part to take a bill from a patron at the side of the stage and Fumikage blinked as he looked around the club, appalled at the amount of people in their chairs still.  How could they not see the artistry in the performance?  The brilliance of the design, portraying a spider in a way that somehow managed to not be cheesy?  The exceptional choice of music, cutting through the cheesier fare of the night?  He stared back up at her, breath stuck in his throat until he found himself moving towards the stage.

The five dollar bill shook embarrassingly in his fingers as he stood at the side of the stage and tried to hide his discomfort at being out in front of everyone.  But that fear was swiftly shoved to the side in favor of fascination as he caught the attention of the performer, her hips swaying deliciously as she stepped towards him.  Sirens seemed to ring in his ears, his world becoming a pinpoint that consisted of her and only her.

He hadn’t been sure where to look.  Her tits had been the first place that his eyes had gone but that had seemed rude, fake or not.  His gaze then fell to her shoes until he realized that that must look like as his head snapped up, cheeks flushing as hard as he thought they ever had.  And then they caught on to the sight of a black silk glove reaching towards him, the long fingers sliding along his knuckles and then back to slide around his forearm, resting briefly around his wrist before taking the bill.  

Lightning and heat seemed to crackle where she touched, his body seeming to be alight with something inexorable.  He hadn’t been aware that his wrist was such a sensitive zone but his mind had become consumed with thoughts of her touching his face, his chest, anything.  And the music only seemed to make the feeling grow as the guitar rang out and seemed to set his skin afire.  He wanted to throw himself at her feet and worship her like the goddess that she was and the power of that was humbling.

When he finally dared to look up, a lock of her pale hair had slipped down, framing her face perfectly and as he met her dark eyes, he couldn’t help himself from stuttering out, “You’re the most beautiful thing that I’ve seen in quite a long time.”

Her eyes widened at his words before crinkling in what he knew had to be a smile.  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said in a low, sultry voice and then she was off, continuing her performance with his five dollar bill clutched in her hand.   He stumbled back to the table in a daze, ignoring the whoops of the crowd around him as he slammed his jack and coke back, ignoring Kuroiro’s ‘hey!’ as he finished off his beer for good measure.  Takami had tried to say something but Fumikage’s coat was being thrown over his shoulders as he headed for the exit.

The cold October air was a stark relief to the raucous, humid club.  The foil on his cigarettes crinkled as the dried leaves whispered in the wind on the trees and Fumikage let his eyes shut for a brief moment as he tried to collect himself.  There was an empty spot amongst the wall in the crowd of other smokers and Fumikage quickly snagged it, grateful for the support at his back as his mind reeled.  

With the chill of the air, the muffled music barely filtering from the club and the sharp fiery spice of clove from his cigarette, Fumikage let his head thunk back against the brick wall.  He thought of Angelica for a moment, a brief, bright pang of pain that made him instinctively reach out for anything else to think of.  But his thoughts continued coming back to her and the things of hers that still sat in his apartment that he needed to tell her to come get but hadn’t had the heart to do.  “It’s been six fucking months,” he muttered to himself as he took another pull of his cigarette but unsurprisingly, that didn’t help to lift the melancholy fog that he’d only had a brief respite from.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, almost certainly from Takami who would be lightly pestering him in an attempt to pull him back to the world of the living.  None of his coworkers would come outside though, having learned that when Fumikage needed space, there was nothing to be done until he got it.  Still, he considered sliding the phone out of his pocket, which was likely a good step in his personal growth.  But not enough as he let it vibrate.

There was a bottle of red wine in his studio apartment, a cheap one that he’d bought on a whim but still, it was there.  He could open it and wallow in his own failure while watching one of the Eastern European budget horror movies that he’d bought in his post break up buying sprees.  He’d likely end up calling his twin weeping once he’d gotten drunk enough, sure, but Shade had become used to that.  

The people around him were bright and loud, the alcohol’s effect vibrant on their cheeks as they talked with their friends and drowned out the sound of the leaves.  If he left now, he could take the 421 bus stop and only have six blocks to walk home, which was perfectly doable.  He could then collect his car in the morning from the university, only somewhat hungover but still with an entire day off in which to sleep it off.

Someone screeched with laughter and with a grimace, Fumikage pushed off the wall, ashed his cigarette and began to stride around the corner and towards the bus stop.  He had tried to be social and it hadn’t worked out.  Takami would understand, surely, and hopefully keep Kuroiro from getting on his case too much about it.

“Are you leaving already?”

Fumikage’s head popped up as he looked back, his boots scuffing against the concrete as he stumbled into a turn.  There was the drag queen, a ridiculous Peruvian looking poncho thrown over their shoulders with light blue Crocs on their feet, the wig gone leaving a shock of shaggy, gray hair that fell over dark eyes.  They were still somehow beautiful, the strange dichotomy of the dress and mask interspersed with the more casual elements of their outfit.  One arm still rested on the corner of the club, as though they’d swung around it to try to catch him.

“Perhaps,” he stammered out, finally taking a drag of his clove cigarette if only for something to do with his hands.

They seemed to hesitate, though only for a moment before they said in a deep, steadying voice, “I perform again tonight.  You should stick around.”

After another bolstering drag of the cigarette, Fumikage found himself nodding his head.  “Yeah,” he murmured, “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good,” they said, the hint of a smile moving behind their mask before they turned back around the corner and out of sight.  And as though he were a puppet himself, Fumikage gathered himself, found a place to throw away his cigarette butt and reentered the club.

Takami blinked at him as Fumikage slid off his coat and shoved it under the stool, Kuroiro seemed poised to say something but held back from Takami’s ringed hand making a motion at him.  Mirko seemed under no such control, instead pushing over a new plastic cup of jack and coke over to him.  “Good smoke?” she asked, voice calm and matter of fact.

“It was,” he said simply as he took his seat.  After exchanging glares with Kuroiro and giving Takami a more apologetic look for not answering his texts, the tension at the table seemed to ease as another performer came out to lip sync to the ‘Monster Mash.’

Takami continued to peer at him, though he was clearly doing his best to be subtle.  Finally, Fumikage pulled out his phone with a quiet sigh as he pulled up his texts, ignoring the ones cajoling him to come back with promises of drinks and keeping Kuroiro from being too annoying.  ‘I’m fine,’ he texted.

Takami almost immediately went to his phone, somehow managing to barely look away from the stage as he texted back with, ‘You sure?  That was dramatic, even for you.’

Biting back the urge to sigh, something that would almost certainly draw a comment from Takami about his penchant for drama, he responded back with, ‘While I appreciate the concern, I would remind you that I am in fact a grown man with a life of my own.’

When ‘You know that I worry’, came back, Fumikage took a long sip of his drink, wrinkling his nose before finally responding with, ‘I appreciate it.  I’m fine, I simply became overwhelmed in the moment and needed to take a breath.’

He turned to watch the rest of the Monster Mash, eyebrows raised as a trio came out to perform ‘I Put a Spell On You’ from Hocus Pocus, their Bette Midler surprisingly good.  When he finally looked back, Takami’s eyes seemed extra pointed as they stared at him.  ‘You good?’ the other man texted.

‘I’m good, Mom’, he mouthed back, fighting a smirk at the way Takami's eyes rolled in response.  He imagined that he had a right to be annoyed by how invested Takami seemed to be in his well-being, especially given that Takami had long since stopped being his TA.  But Takami had been there through Fumikage’s anxieties about developing his thesis and the decision to stay in graduate study instead of finding work in the private sector.  And when the final break up had happened, Takami had been the one to drag Fumikage out of bed and back to work after having spent an adequate amount of time substituting for his classes as Fumikage wallowed.

Fumikage had done the same during Takami’s multiple disastrous break ups, including when his friends with benefits relationship with Mirko had been made clear by her that it would never be anything else.  He’d also been the one to call their advisor when Takami had gone off of his medication in a fit of mania, something that Takami had later thanked him for.  Whether Takami was like a mentor or a brother, Fumikage could never be sure but he did know that he was powerfully glad to have the man in his life.

“ My dear, sweet child. That's what I do. It's what I live for.  To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself.  Poor souls with no one else to turn to,” rang out over the speakers after a moment of silence and Fumikage turned back towards the stage, expecting something trite but somewhat amusing.

Instead, there was the drag queen, standing over a cauldron filled with something that emanated purple light.  It made her skin glow, catching on some kind of shimmer that had been applied to her arms and chest and that made what seemed like tanned skin outside seem almost lavender now.  She was back in black velvet, the end of the long dress unfurling into black tentacles that seemed to writhe around long, powerful legs.  The crocs were long gone, replaced by stilettos that must have been a bitch to find in the right size.  

He felt as though he was in a dream as he followed the line of the dress up, feeling no small amount of ridiculousness at finding an Ursula costume, of all things, so attractive.  And yet, the black dress outlined a beautiful hourglass shape, the statement necklace on her chest accentuating the ample swell of her fake breasts perfectly.  The lace mask was still on, the eye makeup just as dramatic as before but the hair was the same as Fumikage had seen outside, only curled, tousled and pinned up out of her face.  Two eels made out of silk danced around her as she moved her hands, every movement calculated and graceful and yet again, Fumikage was reaching into his wallet.  

There were no thoughts as he approached the stage, only a heady shimmer in his mind as he watched her perform.  There had always been something about statuesque women and men that he had found enthralling, as though there was some primal urge in himself to climb and conquer something so much greater than himself.  It was ridiculous, he had no illusions that it wasn’t, but as he watched her move, high up on the stage and higher still in those shoes, he quaked with need.  She took her time getting to him, accepting her tips from every other person until the end of the song.

But Fumikage had found himself perfectly willing to wait as though he’d been put into a trance from the swinging of silks and impossibly long legs.  And then, finally, she was in front of him as Ursula spoke her spell, one long masculine and still beautiful hand reaching towards his face as it shimmered in lavender.  He could see her lip syncing the words behind the lace of the mask and felt dizzy with an urge to pull it down and see that face but the suggestion of what lay behind proved to be almost stronger.  “Now sing,” the song said and he found himself opening his mouth in obedience.

She smiled at him again and a pale gray silk seemed to come out of nowhere as she mimed pulling it from his mouth, an admirable recreation of Ursula stealing Ariel’s voice.  The room erupted into applause but Fumikage paid attention to none of it, his eyes locked onto hers.  Her hand came back to cup his jaw, her touch making him sigh out loud.  “I’m glad you stayed,” she said, the words soft and only for him before she turned and walked away, leaving his bill still in his hand.

“Holy fuck,” he mouthed before he shuffled back to the table, embarrassingly half hard as he slapped the bill down and finished his drink.  “What madness is this night.”

His three compatriots were admirably quiet as they stared at him, a true feat for Kuroiro who seemed to vibrate with the urge to make some snide comment.  Mirko ended up being the one to speak, voice matter of fact as she said, “Damn, she didn’t even take your dollar.”

“What does that mean?”  

With a snort, she shrugged her shoulders.  “Hell if I know, I’ve never even seen that.  She could have just forgotten, I dunno.”

“But if you had to guess?”  Takami asked.  

Mirko leaned back in her seat with a wide grin, looking effortlessly cool as she messed with her snapback.  “I think that the baby bird should maybe buy her a drink.”

“I hate you all,” Fumikage muttered as he let his head thump onto the table.  “I hope you all know that.  I will quit and go work for Lockheed Martin, I swear to God.”

Mirko only scoffed as Takami struck up a conversation with Kuroiro about Anish Kapoor and the copyright issues around the paint shade Vantablack.  And somehow, despite the conversation having happened hundreds of times before, Kuroiro took up the bait as he launched into a passionate rundown of the complicated politics and ethical questions behind a shade of paint.  But he at least wasn’t talking to Fumikage and, despite the likely disgusting state of the bar’s table, he was left to the relative peace of his forehead against the cool surface.

He had stayed and watched the second performance, as the drag queen had asked.  He’d even tried to give her money, though she hadn’t taken it.  He’d been a gentleman and was free to flee to the safety of his apartment.  And yet, there he remained, seemingly stuck to the sticky table as the emcee announced the final number.  He’d lifted his head for a moment at that but upon seeing the trio who’d sung the song from ‘Hocus Pocus’ back on stage again, he let his head thump back down.

His head flew up as Takami elbowed him, his mind fuzzy as he tried to blink off the sudden nap that he’d managed, a likely understandable occurrence due to the alcohol and lack of sleep lately.  Takami had given him an amused smile, the eyeliner on the inside of his eyes somehow as perfect as ever as he pointed towards the bar.  “Big and Tall is over at the bar.”

Despite the knowledge that snapping his head over to look would likely give him away, Fumikage did just that.  There was the drag queen, the mop of gray hair unmistakable.  The curves were gone as was the makeup and, more importantly, the mask.  The light was still dim but Fumikage could catch the line of a strong jaw before he took in the baffling cameo pants and blue tank top, despite the chill outside.  But the poncho was still clutched in their hands and Mezou followed the lines of those hands up to admire strong shoulders and then the man seemed to catch Fumikage’s eyes, lips curling into what seemed like a nervous smile before Fumikage quickly looked away and back to the table.

“I can’t,” he breathed out, reaching for his coat.  “I can’t, it’s too soon-”

“Tokoyami.”

He looked up to find Kuroiro standing up from his seat, face inscrutable as he said, “If you don’t fuck that guy, then I will.”

“You wouldn’t,”  Fumikage hissed as he stood to meet him, eyes narrowing.  “He isn’t even your type, you are barely bisexual.”

“I dunno man, I saw the poncho and maybe that’s given me ideas.  You saw what Juzo looked like when I first met him, right?  Total hippie.  I could bend my rules and go climb Mt Everest.”

“You don’t have the nerve.”

Kuroiro’s smile was downright ghoulish as the two of them ignored Takami and Mirko’s cackling.  The other man lifted a hand, using two fingers to motion to Fumikage’s eyes and then back to his.  “Look me in the eyes and tell me that I won’t suck another man’s dick solely to spite you.”

Takami had begun to wheeze with laughter but Fumikage felt himself glued to the spot, cheeks flushed with what he was sure was righteous indignation before he spat out, “Fine,” and started to make his way to the bar.  

He damn near lost his nerve halfway there.  The drag queen was talking to a large, burly brunette who Fumikage was in the process of convincing himself was almost certainly his type but when he’d looked back to the table, there was Kuroiro, still standing and grinning that creepy grin, the fluorescent black lights making his teeth even brighter against his dark skin.  It was a spooky effect, Fumikage had to admit as he turned back, took a deep breath and kept walking.

The burly man had moved on, leaving a convenient spot for Fumikage to slide into as he rested his forearms on the bar, tried desperately to act cool for once in his forsaken life and asked, “Could I buy you something to drink?”

He hadn’t realized that there was an already full glass in the man’s hand until the words had come out of his mouth and as he closed his eyes, he quietly considered just taking himself out right then and there before that same deep, handsome voice said, “You can get my next one.”

The other man had rested his own forearms on the bar as well, a mix of different kinds of earthy bracelets on his wrists, mostly small strips of braided leather but some woven pieces as well.  He fidgeted at them with painted nails that were a riot of different neon colors, not matching each other but somehow managing to be incredibly endearing.  “My name is Tokoyami Fumikage,” Fumikage said finally, reaching out a hand to shake as though they were a pair of suburban fathers at a barbeque and not as though Fumikage had been drooling at his feet earlier that night.

“I know,” the other man said, voice amused as he shook the offered hand.  “I’m Shouji Mezou.”

Fumikage startled, eyes flicking up to Shouji’s face before taking yet another double take at the septum piercing and lip piercings that the mask had been hiding earlier.  They seemed entirely out of place when compared to the effortlessly glamorous creature he’d been earlier.  “It is a pleasure to meet- wait.  How do you know my name?”

Shouji pulled his hand back finally to cross his arms, a small, somewhat awkward smile on his face and Fumikage briefly, wildly wondered if the other man might be nervous as well.  “We both work for the university, right?  And you were the one who fought that traveling preacher last year, hard to forget that video.”

That had not been one of Fumikage’s finest moments, if he was being completely honest.  He had not been having a good day, given that his advisor had ripped his head off earlier about an issue with data collection and the fact that he was running off of two hours of sleep, multiple energy drinks, passive aggressive texts from his on again, off again girlfriend and of course, his hair pin trigger.  So when he had been on his way to get his fifth Red Bull of the day and had heard the travelling street preacher start berating a girl for wearing shorts, there just hadn’t been any fucks left in his body to give.

To his credit, he did not physically put hands on the man, a true credit to the anger management therapy that he’d been required to take all throughout high school.  What he did do was to grab the man’s traveling amplifier, open up the back while the man screamed at him and tried to push him away from it and neatly cut what wires he could find with the aid of the wire cutters that he had somehow always kept in his messenger bag.  And then with that annoyance dealt with, he had turned on the man and unleashed verbal fury thanks to a childhood of consistently being accused of being a dangerous satanist.  When he watched the video that had gone up on Tiktok and then Youtube, he had been surprisingly impressed with himself for being as eloquent as he’d managed to be, especially given that he barely remembered any of it.  

“Ah,” he said lamely, flagging down the redhead bartender as he ordered himself a jack and coke before rapping his knuckles on the bar surface.  “I sometimes forget that other people saw that.”

“Not a bad way to go viral though,”

“No, I suppose there are worse ways.”  After a drink of his impressively strong drink, he turned to give the drag queen a shrug.

“Definitely worse ways,” Shouji confirmed as he mirrored Fumikage and took a drink of his own, Adam's apple bobbing as he drank.  He had a light dusting of stubble, the tiny hairs as gray as the ones on his head.  They almost disguised the pocked scarring on his face, though not entirely.  He watched as the man’s tongue darted out to wet supple lips and Fumikage wondered wildly what the piercings would feel like against his skin.

“I uh, I look kinda different outside of drag,” Shouji said after what Fumikage realized to be an entirely too long moment of him staring.  “Sorry, the glam stuff is a lot of effort.  And I don’t even do a full face, I usually have too much else going on, so I mask up.  It can kind of be shocking for people sometimes, sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he blurted out, clearing his throat as he tried to get back some semblance of control.  Music had started back up in the club again and he found himself having to talk louder to be heard of the steady, persistent thump of the bass.  “I mean, you uh, you look good.  Very good.  Like this, I mean.  And like that.  Like both.”

“Oh,” Shouji said, teeth coming out to bite briefly at his lower lip before he nodded.  “Thanks.  That’s very kind of you.”

Fumikage nodded his head as he turned to stare at his drink before furrowing his brow.  “I’m not particularly sure what age I started to get awful at picking people up.  Granted, I doubt that I was ever good at it but…”

Shouji’s fingers were warm where they rested against Fumikage’s forearm, his eyes drawn to the riot of color of his nails before he met what seemed like the most serene eyes in the history of the known universe.  “We were never good at it,” Shouji said, lips curling up into a smile.  “We were just all more drunk back when we were undergrads.”

“Should we get more drunk now?”  Fumikage asked, only half joking.  

“I have to teach freshmen tomorrow at 8am,” Shouji said reluctantly and when he pulled his fingers away, Fumikage’s skin felt cold in their absence.  “And trust me, freshmen theatre majors are a nightmare when you’re hungover.”

“Theatre?  Do you teach acting?”

“Set design.  I don’t have the ego or the narcissism to act.”

“Weren’t you just performing?”  Fumikage asked, abruptly taking a drink as he realized how rudely that had come off.

Thankfully, Shouji had only shrugged, an amused look on his face.  “Well, sure.  But then I’m Tangela, not Mezou.”

“But surely that’s the same as an actor playing a role.”

Shouji chewed on his lip again as he seemed to mull over his answer, finally looking over with another shrug.  “It’s different.  I don’t know why, but it is.  Tangela is me, I’m her.”

Fumikage cocked his head, eyes narrowed for a moment.  “Isn’t Tangela a pokemon?”

The other man had a good smile, Fumikage thought in a daze.  “It is.  I like playing with puppetry in drag, mostly with arms or tentacles or things like that, so,” Shouji shrugged, “I figured it would be a good enough drag name.”

“It’s funny,” Fumikage agreed, watching the way that the lights from the now packed dance floor played over the other man’s face.  “You aren’t what I expected,” he found himself blurting out.

The look on Shouji’s face immediately made him backpedal, catching himself as furiously as he could.  “In a good way!  I don’t know what I expected, frankly, given that I generally am not in this kind of establishment often.”

Shouji cocked his head, considering Fumikage for a moment before he reached into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a small sketchpad and a pen, tearing off a piece of paper with careful fingers before writing something down.  He pressed the neatly folded piece of paper into Fumikage’s palm, eyes crinkling in amusement as he said, “You’re what I’d expected.  I should probably get going but you should call me.”

“I- that- yes, yes, I can do that,” he stammered as he immediately put the piece of paper in his pocket so he wouldn’t lose it.  He watched as Shouji threw the ridiculous poncho over his head, his hair ruffled and slightly staticky and completely adorable as he stuck his head through the hood.  Before he could even really think about it, Fumikage had grabbed the front of the poncho as the other man had begun to stand, keeping him at eye level.

One nervous look at Shouji and the way that he started to grin as he sat back down was enough to push Fumikage to lean in and kiss the man like he’d wanted to do from the first time he saw him.  The music was obnoxiously loud around them, the bar becoming busier and busier by the moment.  Despite the environment being one that Fumikage generally made it a point to stay the hell out of, he couldn’t seem to shake the way that the night and the liquor and the music had built up in him, culminating in skin warmed piercings and the aching intimacy of a kiss that he hadn’t know he’d been longing for.  

There was a hand on his hip guiding him in closer and Fumikage couldn’t help the soft groan he let out when he’d been pressed flush against the other man, his bulk both daunting but incredibly soothing.  He cursed the poncho as it kept him from being better able to feel the strength in his chest and arms but he tried to feel for them anyway.  There was a hunger, the kiss only fanning those flames.  

And it was a good kiss.  It was solid and steady and Fumikage could still feel the grin as they kissed, as though Shouji was somehow just as giddy as he was.  When the other man had pulled back, it had been somewhat of a surprise as Fumikage blinked owlishly at him.  “We’re going to continue this again when you aren’t drunk and when I’m not dead tired,”  Shouji said, reaching in to claim one more kiss before he finally, reluctantly, stood.

“Call me,” Shouji reminded, grinning as Fumikage just nodded before he slipped through the crowd, broad and strong and weaving through the crush of people without a thought.

“I’m so fucked,” Fumikage said with a grin.  “I’m so, so fucked.