Tags: Alcohol, hangovers, mentions of bodily fluids (blood), body modification Word Count: 1046
The first thing Fukutomi became aware of upon wakefulness slowly slipping into his brain was the smell of bacon freshly sizzling on a skillet.
The second thing Fukutomi became aware of was stabbing pain lancing through his body.
He groaned, turning his face into the soft thing he was laying belly-down on, muffling his voice.
“Good morning,” a much too level voice – much too unbothered by his obvious suffering and aversion to noise – said. He instantly knew it to be Kinjou.
Fukutomi tried to reply – something in between ‘Good morning’ and ‘Please be quiet’ but all that came out was a muffled mishmash of sounds.
“I take it you had a good night?” Kinjou asked.
Fukutomi tried to push himself up on – what he now realized was – the couch. The effort proved futile and he let himself slide back down. He managed to rest his face so that it was not completely muffled by the couch cushions. “I went out,” he said.
“I know.”
“Arakita, Shinkai, and Toudou were there.”
“I see.”
Fukutomi huffed, furrowing his eyebrows. “Alcohol was also present.”
“So I assumed,” Kinjou said.
“Kinjou,” Fukutomi said with some effort. “I think I’ve been stabbed in the back.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Have you checked?”
“I didn’t see any blood on the couch, if that counts.”
“We still have the cover on it, so it wouldn’t stain anything,” Fukutomi mused.
He swore he could hear Kinjou nodding. “Yes, that was certainly my first concern.” The sizzling sound stopped, leading Fukutomi to gather that Kinjou had finished breakfast.
“Can you please check?” he asked.
“If there’s blood on the couch?”
“If I’ve been stabbed.”
“If you’re really that concerned that it’s a possibility, then of course.”
It was a few moments before Fukutomi felt the calm weight of someone settling on the couch beside him.
“Sit up,” Kinjou said.
Fukutomi struggled to comply, his arms objecting to the very idea. But, slowly, he managed to do what he was told. Kinjou deftly slipped his fingers under the hem of Fukutomi’s shirt, his fingers dragging lightly against the skin of his back as he pulled the shirt up to Fukutomi’s shoulders.
“Huh,” was all Kinjou said for a moment.
“What?”
“Well, there is a bandage on your back,” he said. “A gauze pad is taped onto your shoulder. Do you want me to see what’s under it?”
Fukutomi groaned. “Please?”
Kinjou gingerly scrapped at the edge of the tape with a fingernail. Once he had hold though, he didn’t hesitate to rip the tape off. Luckily it wasn’t very stuck to his skin, but Fukutomi still hissed.
Kinjou was silent for a moment, and then another. Fukutomi couldn’t even feel him moving, and it unnerved him. Fukutomi tried to look at him over his shoulder. “What is it? Is it bad?”
Kinjou cleared his throat. “You haven’t been stabbed.”
Fukutomi almost sighed in relief, but Kinjou’s voice led him to feel the thought was incomplete. “Then, what is it?”
Kinjou balled up the gauze, placing it gingerly aside. Fukutomi could still feel Kinjou’s other hand holding his shirt up firmly in place, leaving his back exposed. “You have a tattoo.”
Cold terror lanced through Fukutomi. “I… do?”
“I assume one of your companions convinced you. Or else, the alcohol did.”
Fukutomi clamps his eyes shut, groaning. “I think… It was Toudou’s idea?”
“That certainly sounds like something Toudou and alcohol would do.”
Fukutomi opened his eyes. “But! Wait, it’s alright. I remember now. I insisted that I choose what it was, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
Fukutomi looked over his shoulder to see Kinjou raising his eyebrows. He wore a humoring sort of look, as if a child had just told him that the moon was a roll of cheese hung by fishing line.
“It says Never Give Up,” Fukutomi said.
Kinjou slowly shook his head. “No, it doesn’t.”
Fukutomi nodded. “No, I know that it does. I thought it would be interesting to have it written in English, so you may be misreading it.”
“No, I’m not misreading it.”
Fukutomi blinked. “Then… what does it say?”
Kinjou pursed his lips before saying, “It says Lettuce.”
The room was deathly silent for a small eon.
“What?”
“It says Lettuce.” Kinjou repeated. “In English,” he added, hopefully, as if it were a consolation.
“Are you certain–”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re misreading it?” Fukutomi tried.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Kinjou said with consideration. “But, even if my English is not up to par, I am almost certain that Never Give Up is three words, and this is quite clearly a single word.”
“Well…”
“A single word that definitely reads as Lettuce.”
Fukutomi, with some effort, took a deep breath. “Could you read it again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just read it again…”
“I’m looking at it, right now.”
“Just,” Fukutomi sighed. “Read it. Just. Read it again.”
Kinjou took the hem of Fukutomi’s shirt with both hands again, and with great care pulled it down to cover his back. After waiting a beat, he pulled it up again, like a magician yanking the cloth off of his most recent illusion.
“What does it say?” Fukutomi asked.
“Never Give Up.”
Fukutomi perked up, eyes widening. “Really?”
“No,” Kinjou said. “Of course not.”
Fukutomi groaned, slipping his hands over his face.
“It’s not so bad,” Kinjou said. “Let’s eat breakfast and then we’ll research tattoo removal.”
Fukutomi groaned again leaning back onto Kinjou. He hissed and shot back up, though, the minute his tattoo made contact with Kinjou’s chest.
“Still sensitive?” Kinjou asked.
Fukutomi nodded miserably.
“Well, get up,” Kinjou said, pushing off of the couch and walking back to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better after we eat.”
“What did you make?” Fukutomi asked with a sigh.
“Well, I fried bacon,” Kinjou said. “I could slice some tomatoes and we could have bacon, Never Give Up, and tomato sandwiches.” The smirk was almost imperceptible, but it was most definitely there, and Fukutomi hated it.
Fukutomi flinched. “I hate you, Kinjou Shingo.”
Kinjou shook his head, his smile becoming more evident. “No, you don’t.”
FILL: Team Fukutomi Juichi/Kinjou Shingo, T
Word Count: 1046
The first thing Fukutomi became aware of upon wakefulness slowly slipping into his brain was the smell of bacon freshly sizzling on a skillet.
The second thing Fukutomi became aware of was stabbing pain lancing through his body.
He groaned, turning his face into the soft thing he was laying belly-down on, muffling his voice.
“Good morning,” a much too level voice – much too unbothered by his obvious suffering and aversion to noise – said. He instantly knew it to be Kinjou.
Fukutomi tried to reply – something in between ‘Good morning’ and ‘Please be quiet’ but all that came out was a muffled mishmash of sounds.
“I take it you had a good night?” Kinjou asked.
Fukutomi tried to push himself up on – what he now realized was – the couch. The effort proved futile and he let himself slide back down. He managed to rest his face so that it was not completely muffled by the couch cushions. “I went out,” he said.
“I know.”
“Arakita, Shinkai, and Toudou were there.”
“I see.”
Fukutomi huffed, furrowing his eyebrows. “Alcohol was also present.”
“So I assumed,” Kinjou said.
“Kinjou,” Fukutomi said with some effort. “I think I’ve been stabbed in the back.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“Have you checked?”
“I didn’t see any blood on the couch, if that counts.”
“We still have the cover on it, so it wouldn’t stain anything,” Fukutomi mused.
He swore he could hear Kinjou nodding. “Yes, that was certainly my first concern.” The sizzling sound stopped, leading Fukutomi to gather that Kinjou had finished breakfast.
“Can you please check?” he asked.
“If there’s blood on the couch?”
“If I’ve been stabbed.”
“If you’re really that concerned that it’s a possibility, then of course.”
It was a few moments before Fukutomi felt the calm weight of someone settling on the couch beside him.
“Sit up,” Kinjou said.
Fukutomi struggled to comply, his arms objecting to the very idea. But, slowly, he managed to do what he was told. Kinjou deftly slipped his fingers under the hem of Fukutomi’s shirt, his fingers dragging lightly against the skin of his back as he pulled the shirt up to Fukutomi’s shoulders.
“Huh,” was all Kinjou said for a moment.
“What?”
“Well, there is a bandage on your back,” he said. “A gauze pad is taped onto your shoulder. Do you want me to see what’s under it?”
Fukutomi groaned. “Please?”
Kinjou gingerly scrapped at the edge of the tape with a fingernail. Once he had hold though, he didn’t hesitate to rip the tape off. Luckily it wasn’t very stuck to his skin, but Fukutomi still hissed.
Kinjou was silent for a moment, and then another. Fukutomi couldn’t even feel him moving, and it unnerved him. Fukutomi tried to look at him over his shoulder. “What is it? Is it bad?”
Kinjou cleared his throat. “You haven’t been stabbed.”
Fukutomi almost sighed in relief, but Kinjou’s voice led him to feel the thought was incomplete. “Then, what is it?”
Kinjou balled up the gauze, placing it gingerly aside. Fukutomi could still feel Kinjou’s other hand holding his shirt up firmly in place, leaving his back exposed. “You have a tattoo.”
Cold terror lanced through Fukutomi. “I… do?”
“I assume one of your companions convinced you. Or else, the alcohol did.”
Fukutomi clamps his eyes shut, groaning. “I think… It was Toudou’s idea?”
“That certainly sounds like something Toudou and alcohol would do.”
Fukutomi opened his eyes. “But! Wait, it’s alright. I remember now. I insisted that I choose what it was, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
Fukutomi looked over his shoulder to see Kinjou raising his eyebrows. He wore a humoring sort of look, as if a child had just told him that the moon was a roll of cheese hung by fishing line.
“It says Never Give Up,” Fukutomi said.
Kinjou slowly shook his head. “No, it doesn’t.”
Fukutomi nodded. “No, I know that it does. I thought it would be interesting to have it written in English, so you may be misreading it.”
“No, I’m not misreading it.”
Fukutomi blinked. “Then… what does it say?”
Kinjou pursed his lips before saying, “It says Lettuce.”
The room was deathly silent for a small eon.
“What?”
“It says Lettuce.” Kinjou repeated. “In English,” he added, hopefully, as if it were a consolation.
“Are you certain–”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’re misreading it?” Fukutomi tried.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Kinjou said with consideration. “But, even if my English is not up to par, I am almost certain that Never Give Up is three words, and this is quite clearly a single word.”
“Well…”
“A single word that definitely reads as Lettuce.”
Fukutomi, with some effort, took a deep breath. “Could you read it again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just read it again…”
“I’m looking at it, right now.”
“Just,” Fukutomi sighed. “Read it. Just. Read it again.”
Kinjou took the hem of Fukutomi’s shirt with both hands again, and with great care pulled it down to cover his back. After waiting a beat, he pulled it up again, like a magician yanking the cloth off of his most recent illusion.
“What does it say?” Fukutomi asked.
“Never Give Up.”
Fukutomi perked up, eyes widening. “Really?”
“No,” Kinjou said. “Of course not.”
Fukutomi groaned, slipping his hands over his face.
“It’s not so bad,” Kinjou said. “Let’s eat breakfast and then we’ll research tattoo removal.”
Fukutomi groaned again leaning back onto Kinjou. He hissed and shot back up, though, the minute his tattoo made contact with Kinjou’s chest.
“Still sensitive?” Kinjou asked.
Fukutomi nodded miserably.
“Well, get up,” Kinjou said, pushing off of the couch and walking back to the kitchen. “You’ll feel better after we eat.”
“What did you make?” Fukutomi asked with a sigh.
“Well, I fried bacon,” Kinjou said. “I could slice some tomatoes and we could have bacon, Never Give Up, and tomato sandwiches.” The smirk was almost imperceptible, but it was most definitely there, and Fukutomi hated it.
Fukutomi flinched. “I hate you, Kinjou Shingo.”
Kinjou shook his head, his smile becoming more evident. “No, you don’t.”
“You’re right,” Fukutomi admitted. “As always.”