Drinking Buddies

One man sits alone at the bar, his arms folded across the smooth, dark stained cherry wood. Light, jazzy piano music wafts through the establishment, its soothing melody twinkling in his ears as he reaches for the highball glass sitting before him, ice clinking against the sides as he raises it to his lips and takes a contemplative swig, juniper on his tongue melting into vanilla and lime as the Tanqueray makes its way down his throat.

What a day.

He replaces the glass, straightening on the barstool as he pushes his glasses up his face, settling them atop his head. His head already hurts (Hell, his head never stops hurting), if that's any indication of what the next morning will bring.

But he can't dwell on that, not now. He's exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally, but not so exhausted that sleep would find him should he choose to go home. So he sits, nursing his drink and staring at the rows of bottles along the back of the bar, feeling the warmth of alcohol in his chest and considering a change of career.

Glancing down at the small notebook laid before him, his thin upper lip pulls into a sneer of disgust at the projected dip that he's calculated into his budget thanks to the events of the day. His shoulders sink as if weighed down by bricks as he shakes his head, long blonde pony tail swaying along his back. With a sigh he snatches the notebook from the counter top and tucks it into the inner pocket of his khaki vest, stopping to straighten the red ribbon tie at his neck for lack of anything better to distract himself with.

After a moment or two he nods to the bartender, a stout man with an honest face that crinkles with concern as he swipes the glass from the counter top so he can refresh it. The bell above the door jingles, disturbing the soft music for a brief moment, heavy footsteps following as the door whooshes closed.

He follows the steps with his sense of hearing, not bothering to turn and look at the newcomer, opting to watch the bartender as he replaces the ice in his glass and pours the clear liquid over it. The pace of the steps slows and stops, replaced by a heavy presence at his side.

"Kunikida."

His tired, narrow amber eyes flick to the right, meeting the intruder eye to eye despite being seated and he nods, resting his elbow on the bar as he takes his glass from the bartender.

"Nakahara-san."

A rustle meets his ears followed by the brush of fabric against his khaki pants as the figure beside him removes the long, dark coat from its form and drapes it across the stool beside him before dropping onto it. The bartender turns to this newcomer but is shooed away with a flick of a leather gloved hand.

"Tch. It's Chuuya, damn it."

Kunikida shrugs, running a finger along the rim of his glass absentmindedly, only half listening to the words. His chin comes to rest in his hand and he waits for an opening in the conversation. Or, at least, a close to it.

"You don't have to be so damn formal, you know. We're in a bar, for god's sake."

Another nod. A deep, drawn out groan escapes Nakahara and a black hat settles on the bartop just within Kunikida's line of sight. The bartender returns with a sheepish, inquisitive look on his face and this time Nakahara raises a finger, sending the man scurrying back and forth, searching for the bottle he knows he saw only moments ago.

Kunikida raises the glass to his lips again, taking a deep swig, feeling the probing gaze of the man beside him sweep across the side of his face.

"Tanqueray?" It's more of a statement than a question. They had been drinking together for some time now and had grown quite accustomed to one another's drinks and the implications that came with them. A firm, steady hand settles on his shoulder, a silent apology.

The rich, deep scent of Syrah floods his nostrils as the bartender places a long stemmed glass before Nakahara, who hums appreciatively but leaves it for now, allowing the contents to settle within the glass.

Kunikida swivels on the barstool, mouth drawing into a thin line as he studies his companion's face. Nakahara meets his gaze and holds it, understanding written across his features and patience in his steely blue eyes.

"Tell me. What did that shitty waste of bandages do this time?"

That waste of bandages. It was a nickname they had come to share when referring to Kunikida's current worker partner, Osamu Dazai, the same man who was, incidentally, Nakahara's former partner, stemming from his mischievous tendencies and the fact that at least half his body was constantly bandaged, no doubt from some sort of misfortune he brought upon himself. The nickname itself was one they had both used frequently to Dazai, independently of one another. When they had met by chance on that fateful night in this very same bar, they had bonded over alcohol and shared stories of torture and frustration.

It had quickly become a weekly occurrence.

Kunikida sighs, pinching the bridge of his sharp nose before raising a hand to his head, fingers feeling through straight, golden locks until he finds his glasses and places them back on his face where they belong. He clears his throat, already feeling the alcohol in his head and hoping it hasn't effected his vocabulary.

Yet.

"I seem to be in need of a new vehicle, or at least the front end of one, thanks to the efforts and antics he put forth today."

A sharp intake of breath is the only response his words receive, but it is enough. Nakahara's grip on his shoulder tightens and then releases as he moves to reach for his own glass, swirling the dark red, opaque liquid thoughtfully before taking a slow sip. The glass lingers against his lips for an unusually long time and Kunikida wonders what he's thinking about.

When he finally returns the glass to the bartop, a smile plays at the edges of his lips and Kunikida quirks an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect.

"Get it repaired and tell them where to send the bill."

Leaning back with a start, Kunikida shakes his head in disbelief and uncertainty, nearly toppling off of his stool in the process. Nakahara reaches forward with a laugh, one hand on his stomach and the other closing around Kunikida's forearm as he pulls toward himself, effectively righting the other man on his stool.

"I couldn't possibly-"

"You could, and you will." He considers the man before him, no more than a close acquaintance, offering to have his car repaired. Nakahara grins at him and his own features begin to draw up into a small smile. His head hurts a little less and his shoulders feel a bit lighter.

"You can't be without a vehicle. And I can't stand the thought of that bastard getting away with such a thing. It's a win win."

With a wink, Nakahara raises his glass. Kunikida concedes with a shake of his head, reaching for his own glass and raising it, the clinking sound echoing across the bar as the bring them together. Both men finish their drinks in a gulp and Nakahara quirks a finger in the bartender's direction.

"Now, what do you say we stop worrying about that idiot and have some fun?" His grin has changed to a lopsided smirk.

Kunikida rolls his eyes but allows himself a small chuckle.

"If I ask what 'fun' entails, does it ruin the experience?"

Instead of answering, Nakahara motions for the bartender to lean in, whispering something to him behind his hand, effectively keeping Kunikida out of the loop. Both of their glasses are removed as Kunikida throws quizzical daggers in the other man's direction, eyebrows knitting together as his stomach starts to churn nervously.

He never has enjoyed surprises. But he trusts that Nakahara won't drug him and put a knife to his throat. And if that makes him a fool, so be it.

The bartender returns with the same drinks as before and Kunikida opens his mouth to question it, until he realizes the wine glass is before him and the highball before his companion. Relief washes over him as he realizes what Nakahara is playing at.

"There's nothing wrong with adding a little variety to your routine, Doppo." His given name rolls off of Nakahara's tongue like it's nothing and he realizes his head really doesn't hurt at all.

He laughs again and raises the wine glass to his nose, leaning in to really savor the scent this time. It's a young wine, that much he knows. It's deep and fruity and when he gives the glass a swirl, he swears it smells of chocolate. He takes a small sip, blueberry rolling over his tongue and giving way to a bite akin to black pepper. It's better than he expected.

A coughing fit to his right interrupts his reverie and he turns just in time to see Nakahara slip forward, sliding off the barstool and onto the floor, his hands raising to grasp the counter as he goes. Kunikida erupts into a fit of laughter at the scene, folding his arms over his stomach rocking back on his stool, hysterical tears springing into the corners of his eyes.

"Damn it." Nakahara let's out a strained growl, attempting to pull himself up, fingers straining as his legs sway beneath him, stopping him from righting himself. After a few tries he finally slumps to the floor, glaring up at Kunikida through the mess of red hair that has fallen into his face.

"Feeling it already, Chuuya?" His laugh becomes a roar, his eyes closing as he throws his head back.

"Bastard." He feels a hand encircle his ankle and before he can fully register what is happening, his back meets the floor and the air puffs from his lungs.

His eyes snap open and the first thing he sees is Nakahara, leaning over him and laughing. He swats at the man's face playfully and he swerves, only to collapse next to Kunikida in a giggling heap.

As he considers his position on the filthy floor of the dimly lit bar, Kunikida can't help but feel a sense of happiness at the kinship he has formed with this man, despite the infuriating variable that had spurred their meeting.

"Hey, Chuuya?"

"Yeah?"

He flips onto his side as best he can, hand settling on the smaller man's shoulder, hoping the sincerity he means to convey can be found within that gentle touch.

"Thank you. For everything."