Do You Picture Me Standing on Your Doorstep

one

I am afraid because I can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while I pursue my round of existence from day to day.

Osamu Dazai.

-

People who frequented DeFacto Night were of the insufferable sort. Insufferable club name. Insufferable manager. So, naturally, insufferable guests.

Hirotsu did not loom over Chuuya menacingly, but stood on the opposite side of the employee room, his back to Chuuya. He seemed to be stirring a cup of tea, or... something. Hell if Chuuya knew.

"Nakahara-kun. What was the job description when I gave you this position?"

Chuuya stared at him with an angry look that he failed miserably to conceal. How the fuck was he supposed to remember? He got the job months ago. He decided he'd just bullshit it.

He placed his hands in his pockets. "To brew and serve drinks to guests at the club and be capable of dealing with their drunken mishaps."

Hirotsu turned, only his head, not his entire body. "With a smile. It had all of that, but it also emphasized a positive attitude."

Chuuya tried not to scowl. He mustered the most genuine-looking grin he could, raising his eyebrows. "Did it?"

Hirotsu turned fully, folding his hands behind his back after adjusting his monocle. "Do you think it is appropriate to deliberately spill a drink on a guest, and a regular, at that? Do you know how lucky you are that Mori-san isn't pressing charges? With a suit like that, do you think you'd be able to pay him back with your meager bartender salary?"

It wouldn't be so meager if you paid me more, you old fart. "No, Hirotsu-san. My actions were immature and disrespectful. I'll apologize to Mori-san as soon as I come across him again."

Hirotsu sipped a tiny, wimpy sip of his tea. He always looked like he was afraid of his lips touching the cup, or his tongue touching the tea. Chuuya resisted snickering.

"Watch yourself, Nakahara. Any more complaints and I will not hesitate to drag you out of the door with my very own hands."

Chuuya almost snorted. And risk chipping a nail? "Understood."

"Good. Now shoo." He waved his slender hand at him slightly, as if swatting a fly. "Shoo. Leave."

Chuuya side-eyed him, but complied, picking up his coat off its hangar and walking out of the door in long strides.

The club was always better when it was empty, save for the mess. Clumps of trash and crumbs littered the tables and floor, and a lot of shoes and jackets were left over in various places (Chuuya assumed Higuchi would pick those up and put them in the lost and found the next day, because he was just not up for anything at the moment). An auburn head lay atop the mixer, the knobs digging into his cheek. Sweat still matted the underside of his bangs and trickled down his temple.

Chuuya walked over to the DJ and touched his shoulder. He didn't stir. Chuuya shook him with a bit of force, and green eyes slid open lazily.

"Go home," Chuuya mumbled, dropping his hand.

Tachihara let out a small groan, lifting his head up. The outline of a circle was on his cheek and Tachihara rubbed his finger over it, feeling the way it sunk into his skin. He dropped his head again.

Chuuya huffed. "Seriously, man. Go home. It's like two in the morning."

"Gimme a minute," Tachihara muttered.