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“Oh honey, isn’t it beautiful? I’m so glad I get to spend tonight with you!”
“Darling, what’s truly beautiful is you! The snow makes your skin glow!”
“Oh honey!”
“Oh darling!”
G a g.
He resists the urge to spit on the sidewalk as he whips his head away from the window store television. What the hell was it about Christmas Eve that brought out the worst in commercials? Sappy, over the top romantic with so much lens flare it practically blinded him -
Christmas Eve sucks. It’s nothing but gross couples who just rub it in Ryuji’s face that they have someone and he doesn’t. Which is totally why he’s making his way over to Leblanc, a plastic bag full of snacks and drinks he haphazardly snagged from the 7-11. What better way to protest this stinking holiday with some good ol’ fashioned broship in there? Right?
Right?
Ryuji’s already on the last stretch of sidewalk that takes him down to Leblanc when the stupidity of the situation already hits him. It’s cold as balls - snowflakes like powdered sugar settling across his hair and shoulders - and he sighs almost in defeat. Who is he kidding? Of all the people in their group, Akira would be the last person spending this shitty holiday by himself.
God, he’s literally two seconds away from spinning around and storming off home to eat cheap convenience store food by himself when his phone buzzes.
How far away are you?
Speak of the effin’ devil.
His thumb hovers. Does he lie? Does he tell the truth? If he goes, would he turn up and third wheel him? (And doesn’t that send a shitty feeling through his gut, like a towel being rung up to dry for the last time) Is a pity thing? No, it can’t be, but maybe accidentally, because Akira’s such a nice guy, a little too nice sometimes (despite the way he truly is when they’re in the metaverse - red jeweled eyes that peel him apart, layer by layer, piece by piece.)
Something screeches and Ryuji jolts. A stray cat darts out in front of him, tail flicking to rustle the bushes. How long has been standing there? He doesn’t know, but his nose is cold and feels like it’s been fucked by an icicle, so he gets a move on. The phone gets shoved into his pocket - doesn’t have to think about it if he just, just goes. If he follows through, each memorised step towards the cafe, he doesn’t have to think about it, if he has someone there already, if it’s a pity party, if he’s going to be on the other side of the table and not next to him, an outsiders point of view on whatever and whoever is there. God, if it’s Makoto he’s going to flip and he doesn’t know why because if it’s anyone else he’d flip anyway-
And then his knee hits the sign of the cafe.
“Shit-!” Ow, why does it feel like he’s been shot?! Furiously rubbing at his knee, he shakes his head, a few stray snowflakes falling. Fuck it, whatever. Who gives a crap, he can man the hell up and just do it.
The door to the cafe is closed, but as he puts his hand on the handle he finds it’s not locked. Ryuji breathes out, mist forming a soft cloud over the age-stained glass as he steps inside. The warmth washes over him, and he feels his joints go loose, the tightness in his thigh relaxing a little. It’s empty downstairs - not even Sojiro is here - and there are no lights except for the glow of the bathroom and an orange spotlight on the stairs.
It feels like he’s prowling through the darkness, sneaking in somewhere he isn’t invited. There’s the soft thump of bass radiating from the ceiling, carrying soft muted notes. Ryuji places one hand on the banister, and can make out shadows across the back wall from where he peeks up. Unfortunately, it’s too hard to tell if it’s the shadow of more than one person, but he doesn’t frown too hard at that. He can be happy for his bro.
And he thinks he’ll have to, because there’s a smooth voice drifting down the stairs, rising up and down in tone. He pauses on the step, cocking his head.
“You, you love it how I move you…”
Someone’s singing.
“You love it how I touch you…”
Some of the words are swallowed, as if it’s sung just under the breath, not meant for someone else to hear just yet.
He creeps forward a little more, like an actual creep, god. It’s a voice that sounds achingly familiar - if he stumbles into a scene where Akira’s got a beau crooning to him on Christmas Eve, he really is going to throw up and then throw himself out the window.
“Baby, lay me down and let's pray
I'm tellin' you the way I like it, how I want it”
Oh god, is it sexual? Why does it sound so sexual? Should he be listening to this? Should he even be here? And the closer he gets, the more familiar it sounds, deep and low and burning in the pits of his stomach, where it warms every inch of him, like freshly brewed coffee, bitter and sweet all in one.
But his head is already peeping out, eyes looking over curiously, and he sees-
He sees Akira, mouth making shapes against the song, soft lips curling around each syllable. Those slender fingers are wrapped in some kind of fabric, tracing the seems in a dazed, loving sort of look. The table from against the wall has been pulled out, into the center. There’s a tablecloth draped over it, featuring some sort of platter of something. And there’s - is that effing wine?!
Oh shit, he really is expecting someone, and now Ryuji’s just here to ruin all his plans.
He’s about to spin around and escape, but the motion pushes down on the last step. A loud creak gunshots out, cutting through the music. Akira whips around startled, dropping whatever he was holding in his hands (it’s a red shirt, a very familiar red shirt-?) and he nearly bowls right over a chair. His face is beet red, sucking in his bottom lip.
There’s an awkward stretch between the two of them for a while - Ariana Grande’s voice carrying on, Akira’s hand darting out to steady the chair, a car putters by in the distant background.
Ryuji’s eyes dart down. Button up? Is that a freaking button up? And slacks, those are actual, legitimate, newly pressed and very well fitted slacks on those legs. Eyes to the table - definitely a food platter, and two glasses and two plates and two sets of knives and forks-
He purses his lips. He thought Valentines’ Day was bad, but this? Wow. Woooooow.
Ryuji throws a thumb over his shoulder.
“I, um, I’m gonna go? Sorry for interrupting-” and god he wants to die, like actually die, like have these old ass fucking stairs splinter and crack in a million itty pieces so he can fall through and die.
“No!”
He’s barely even moved before Akira grabs his wrist. Damn, he moves fast when he wants to.
And shit, Akira looks nervous as hell. The flush hasn’t disappeared and his hands are actually a little clammy where the skin rests on his skin. At this angle, Akira’s peering up at him under his long ass eyelashes, a desperate shine to them. It keeps him frozen, his mouth dropping open a little and shit, he must be hallucinating because he swears that the eyes follow the movement.
“N-no?”
Akira visibly swallows. Why is he so nervous?
“No, I just.” Slowly, the hands uncurls from his wrist, although Ryuji still feels the hot brand of it.
“I wasn’t ready yet! You hadn’t texted me back so I was still, uh, getting ready,” and he throws a hand across the stage, gesturing limply to the set table and the...everything else.
Ryuji huffs a little, straightening himself. “Sorry man, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” Clearly he wanted Ryuji to text him so he could figure out a time to then boot him out with a ‘Sorry! I’ve got someone I care about in that way coming over, so you need to get out!’
He lifts the plastic bag up with a sad little ruffle, hunched over again. “...I brought snacks? But I dunno if you wanna-” He has wine, for eff’s sake!
But Akira’s face goes weird. A smile breaks out, and his eyes crinkle with it. “Snacks are great! Just, give me a few seconds-” he softly replies, taking the bag gently with one hand, and taking...Ryuji’s hand gently with the other.
Ha.
Wait.
What?
Before his brain has a chance to catch up, he’s being lead to the table and ushered in, Akira’s hand pushing him down into the seat. He, what? Why is sitting down? Why is he-?
“Oh, we can have these for dessert! I didn’t prepare anything for that.” And then he’s sitting down opposite of him at the table too? Ryuji feels like a fish out of water, with the way his mouth is gaping. You’ll catch flies like that, Ryu-kun, and his mouth snaps shut at his Ma’s reminder.
Akira’s arranging food from the platter unto his plate, and then stands up to grab the wine, popping the cork on it with a twist of his hand. “I didn’t want to make too much, so Ann suggested something called a charcuterie board.” Is that what the platter is? It’s piled with what looks like sliced meat, bread, bits of cheese and fruit. “And Haru gave me this for tonight as well. Don’t worry, it’s non-alcoholic. She would never, even if we begged.”
He, he’s confused. He’s very confused. Akira was singing (quite beautifully so), and then he’s dressed like this, with all of this stuff prepared, and now he’s sitting there too? Feeling very out of place in his beanie and bright yellow scarf that his Ma knitted and practically neon purple hoodie, clashing fairly violently with the red patterned tablecloth.
Just like the scrambled eggs this morning, Ryuji’s brain is properly fried. Which is why he blurts out:
“What were you doing?” Dumbass, he was sing- you saw him! Red handed? Red mouthed? In the flesh??
The flush comes back with a vengeance as Akira tries to get his glass.
“Were you singing?” Wow, a fried brain can still come up with some awkward, embarassing bullshit, huh? “It- it was really good.” Stop, oh my god stop.
“I liked it.” Ryuji you A-grade moron, eat shit and die.
And then what seems like a Christmas miracle happens. Akira turns his gaze away, bites his bottom lip and says
“If you liked it that much, I’ll...I’ll sing for you everyday.” And then the hand comes over the table and reaches for his, and woah those fingers are long and soft with no hint of knife and gun calluses and now they’re threading with Ryuji’s and wow and, and-
And what??
“What’s happening?” He has to ask, he just has to ask. “Aren’t you expecting someone, someone special? That’s why you got all of this set up, right?” He’s not meant to be here, not meant to be sitting here, not meant to be across from Akira, hands linked in what feels like false and humiliating ceremony. “Who were you waiting for? Who-?”
Because it can’t be him. That’s, that’s ridiculous and stupid and it’s friking Christmas Eve and he’s alone and lonely and dumb and-
“I was waiting for you.”
He damn near bites his tongue off.
“What?”
Akira’s earnest when he says this next, sincerity dripping from his huge, sparkling eyes.
“I was waiting for you.” He swallows and squeezes Akira’s hand. “That’s what you meant, right? When you asked me what I was doing tonight, I thought…?”
Oh. Oh.
This is…
Is he dreaming? Is this a dream? Or a nightmare? Is he going to wake up to the universe laughing at him?
Can he actually have this?
Akira’s watching him carefully, but he can feel him slipping a little with each passing second awaiting Ryuji’s reply. The smile drooping a little and becoming strained, his fingers sliding away, the other hand to fiddle with the buttons around his neck.
“I...that’s what you meant...right?”
And Ryuji just. Fuck it. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas Eve and he gets to spend it with Akira.
“Yes, yes that’s what I meant. I’m sorry, I thought this was all, I wasn’t expecting.” And then he tugs at his own hoodie. “I would’ve dressed better, dude!” and he laughs, the sound visibly breaking the tension between the two of them.
The smile comes back instantly. “Oh thank god.” Akira sighs, letting go of Ryuji’s hand to butter up a slice of bread. “If I had misread the situation, I would’ve thrown myself out the window.” Ryuji can’t help but chortle at that, taking his wine glass with the fake red.
Finally, a genuine smile graces Ryuji’s lips. His foot nudges Akira’s under the table, and to his utter delight, it hooks around his.
“Merry Christmas Eve?” He says, raising his glass a little. Akira dinks against his gently, the soft dappled light filtering through the glass.
“Merry Christmas Eve.”