#...I have to split this post in half. damn you tumblr ''character limit''

[onesiesdaydream]

Whiskey Eyes I Chuuya Nakahara x Reader (Part 1)

Part 1 I Part 2

Summary: Chuuya stumbles home piss-drunk in the dead of night. Safe to say, you were both in for a really long night.

A/N: Sorry for having to make this two parts, it exceeded Tumblr's character limit per post so I had to split it :/

MASTERLIST

The clock struck 2:13 AM.

You heard it before you saw him—heavy boots dragging down the hallway, a muttered curse under his breath, and the unmistakable jingle of keys fumbling at the door. You paused the movie quietly playing on your laptop and sighed, closing it with a soft click before slipping out of bed. The door creaked open just as you stepped into the kitchen. You reached into the cabinet for the painkillers. You were already bracing yourself for whatever version of him tonight had dragged home.

“Chuuya?” you called gently, rounding the corner into the hallway.

No answer—just the dull thunk of his coat hitting the floor and the slow, off-beat rhythm of boots scuffing against hardwood. A second later came a muted thud and a mumbled curse.

“Who the hell… put the damn wall there?”

You met him halfway down the hall.

He looked like a mess, honestly—copper hair tousled from the wind and too many frustrated fingers run through it, his hat dangling limply from one hand. His tie was hanging half-undone and hopelessly crooked. He smelled like expensive whiskey, smoke, and a little too much pride.

“Hey, doll,” Chuuya slurred with a crooked grin, blinking up at you like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, cheeks flushed with more than the cold. “Miss me?”

You caught him just in time before he face-planted into the hallway rug.

“Careful,” you huffed, looping an arm around his waist to keep him upright. “You almost kissed the carpet.”

“I didn’t even see the carpet,” he mumbled into your shoulder, clinging to you like gravity itself had a personal vendetta against him.

“I’m fine,” he added, swaying like a ship in a storm. “Just got… y’know… gravity issues. S’not my fault the floor’s crooked.”

“The floor isn’t crooked, Chuuya. You are.”

“That’s rude,” he said with mock offense, attempting to point at you—but it was more of a gentle wobble in your general direction. “Y’can’t insult your handsome boyfriend. S’bad manners.”

“No, sweetheart. That’s physics.”

“Ohhh,” he drawled, like you’d just unlocked the mysteries of the universe. “That’s what that is. Gravity. She’s a bitch.”

He shook loose from your grip with more confidence than coordination—and promptly stumbled forward with a half-spin that sent him staggering into the kitchen.

“Chuuya—!”

Too late. He tripped over the rug at the threshold and staggered with both arms flailing like a marionette mid-seizure before finally catching himself—by slapping both palms dramatically onto the nearest countertop.

Which just so happened to be occupied by your toaster.

There was a beat of silence before he looked up.

Then, with all the solemn gravity of a man who believed he was making deep, meaningful eye contact, Chuuya leaned in and said, “Hey there, gorgeous. You heating things up for anyone else tonight… or just me?”

You stared, wide-eyed, as he blinked slowly at the stainless-steel appliance like it had personally proposed.

“...Did you just hit on the toaster?”

“I tripped,” he muttered, as if that explained everything. Then, with no shame whatsoever, he whispered to the toaster, “You’re hot. S’a compliment. Don’t tell my girlfriend.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose but couldn’t keep the smile off your face. “Oh my god.”

He looked affronted. “Don’t be jealous. She’s just... shiny.”

You guided him toward the bed, half-carrying, half-dragging as he mumbled nonsense between steps.

“You always smell nice,” he murmured, nuzzling into your shoulder as he went. “Like soap… and hope. And… maybe cookies? Did you make cookies?”

“I lit a candle.”

“Oh.”

He paused for a beat. “Still think it was cookies.”

He stumbled again and looked down at his boots with suspicion. “My boots hate me. Jealous, probably. Of my ankles. ‘Cause they’re perfect.”

You snorted, fighting a smile as you lowered him onto the bed and tugged his hat from his hand. His hair stuck to his forehead in wild waves. His tie looked like it had given up halfway through the night.

He groaned and leaned his head back, eyes fluttering shut before squinting back at you through heavy lids. “Whatcha doin’, sweetheart?” he asked, slurred and slow as you knelt to unlace his boots.

“Taking care of you,” you said simply.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest,” he murmured, his hand brushing your hair with a trembling touch. Somehow, he seemed slightly more sober. “Y’don’t have to do all this. But I’m glad you do. You’re soft...”

You didn’t even have time to comment before he muttered, “I think I kissed a jukebox.”

You looked up. “You what?”

“Wait. No. Might’ve been a vending machine.” He frowned, struggling to recall. “Shiny. Judgmental. Gave me a look.”

Nop. Still drunk.

You sighed, tugging off his boots. “You went too far tonight, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away—just looked at you with those whiskey-glazed eyes, full of something distant and heavy.

“They wouldn’t shut up,” he muttered finally. “About Dazai. About the past. So I reminded ’em.”

“By drinking them under the table?”

“And throwin’ one of ‘em through it,” he added proudly. 

You exhaled sharply—equal parts exasperated and utterly endeared before taking a seat next to him. “Chuuya.”

“What?” he asked, suddenly innocently offended. “You’re not mad, right? You can’t be mad, I brought you something.”

You blinked. “You did?”

He patted down his coat with exaggerated concentration, fumbling through pockets before triumphantly producing… a bottle cap. He held it up like it was treasure.

“Ta-daaa~.”

You stared. “Wow. Just what I always wanted.”

“I knew you’d love it,” he said, beaming, then leaned heavily against your side. “You’re so warm. Like a bed. Or a… really fancy scarf.”

You shook your head, lips twitching. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re beautiful,” he replied without missing a beat, as if that settled the entire conversation.

You groaned and handed him the metal water bottle you had been drinking from when he’d stumbled in. “You’re going to have a headache the size of Yokohama tomorrow.”

“Already feel it coming,” he muttered, his words slurring just slightly as he tipped the water bottle to his lips, eyes fluttering closed like they were too heavy to keep open. His hand trembled slightly as he fumbled the bottle, taking a swig more out of instinct than coordination. It was a struggle for him, but he was determined to finish it, even if it meant half spilling it down the front of his shirt.

You watched him for a moment, your heart softening as he sank into the matress, his head tipping back against the headboard with a groan. You knew that sinking feeling all too well—the hangover was already knocking at his door, and he wasn’t in any condition to deal with it just yet.

You reached over and pressed two painkillers into his hand, feeling the warmth of his fingers as they closed around them with far less precision than he usually had. “Here,” you said gently, helping him tilt his head back so he could swallow them. His eyes were still closed, his face slack with exhaustion, but he managed a weak smile as he leaned into your touch.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow beneath his cheek. 

You hummed softly in acknowledgment, your fingers brushing the damp strands of his hair away from his forehead as you leaned in close to him. “You’re a mess,” you teased, but it was with affection, as you worked on pulling his shirt from where it had bunched up over his stomach.

The fabric was wrinkled, and the collar had been twisted all wrong. It took far more effort than it should’ve—his body limp, not quite cooperating with your hands as you struggled to remove his shirt without jostling him around too much.

He let out a half-sigh, half-groan, and managed to lift his arms slightly, giving you just enough room to peel the shirt off over his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmured, his voice still thick with drunkenness, and you couldn't help but smile at the familiar, lazy flirtation that was now tinged with exhaustion.

“Lucky, huh?” you muttered, finally managing to get the shirt off and tossing it to the floor in a heap. 

You moved on to his tie next, giving it a gentle tug, and he made a soft, almost imperceptible sound of protest before he weakly helped you undo it. His fingers were stiff, but you guided his hands with patience, untangling the knot with ease. He let out another small groan when you finished, his head lolling to the side as he slurred, “I swear, if I wasn't so dizzy, I’d be making it way easier on you.”

“Oh, I know,” you teased back. His eyes barely opened, a sleepy, half-lidded gaze still fixated on you as you worked. It was almost sweet, the way he let you take care of him despite all his usual stubbornness. “But we both know you’re not in any condition to be helpful right now.”

He huffed, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Fine. I’ll just lay here and let you be the responsible one. I trust you with my life.”

You smiled softly as you finished peeling away the last of his rumpled work clothes, throwing them in a heap on the floor and trading his wrinkled shirt and slacks for the familiar comfort of his pajama bottoms. The task was a little more difficult than it should’ve been, but you managed to get him settled, his clothes discarded in a haphazard pile on the floor. You tucked the blankets around him, pulling them up to his chin, ensuring he was warm and comfortable before sitting down beside him on the bed.

His hand, which had been slack at his side just moments ago, reached for yours, fingers curling around yours loosely in a gesture that felt almost childlike in its simplicity. His grip was weak but steady, and you could feel the warmth of his hand as he settled into the bed, his eyes barely open but focused on you as if trying to stay present.

“Get some sleep, hun,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He didn’t respond immediately—his chest rising and falling steadily as he drifted off. But just before he succumbed to the pull of sleep entirely, he murmured, “I love you.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his hand, holding it a little tighter. “I love you too, you idiot. Get some rest.”

And with that, he was out like a light, his breath soft and even, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a steady rhythm in the quiet room.