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wttcsms · 8 months

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listen what about the good girl's boy best friend futakuchi ORRRR the police officer x DA with daichi. is daichi underrated enough. please pick one that is worthy and YOU decide whether it should be nsfw or not. i trust you with these

everything's blurry but you, kenji futakuchi;

pairing kenji futakuchi x f!reader word count 3.5k synopsis barely in your baby twenties, and you think life is so over for you. then, while at rock bottom, you run into futakuchi, and realize that 1) he's kinda pathetic, and 2) someone else's pathetic-ness totally distracts you from your own. so, guess you two are in it together. content contains drinking, bar setting (physical location, this fic does not set the bar for anything, don't get it twisted) prompt instead of the good girl x mysterious bad boy, it’s the good girl’s boy best friend (who’s been hopelessly in love with her for a while) x the new girl in town who’s her complete opposite

Kenji Futakuchi strategically chooses a Friday to confess to his first love — that he naively thinks will be his only love, that he naively believes his feelings are love — because it’s basically the end of the week.

Can’t do it on a Monday; when he faces the inevitable rejection, he’ll have to sludge through the workweek feeling like the world’s biggest loser. Wednesday doesn’t work since it’s that odd day in the middle of the week where nothing important is supposed to happen; might as well not try to mix up the monotony. Friday is good because when she breaks his heart, he’ll have tonight and Saturday night to drown his sorrows in cheap liquor, and he still has Sunday to rest up and actually get over it.

The confession goes as expected — despite his sweaty palms, rapid heartbeat, and the voice in the back of his head asking him are we sure we want to go through with this?, Kenji straightens his back and boldly confesses that he’s had feelings for her since high school. He’s met with her wide-eyed expression, a rosy blush creeping upon the apple of her porcelain cheeks, and she looks down at her shoes, too shy to face her best friend since childhood, too shocked about his crush as if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

He already went in knowing that he was going to walk out a loser. It’s a bad mentality to have before entering a game, but he would never cheapen his feelings to the point of treating them like they’re just a part of some silly game. His heart thumping against his ribcage, the tiny adrenaline rush coursing through his veins when he finally decided to just be a man and at least make an attempt to get the girl — all of this is proof that this is real. Not a game. And yet—

“I’m so sorry, Kenny.” He would never allow anyone else to call him by that nickname; this is a privilege reserved only for her. It used to feel like an inside joke between them, but he finds himself shrinking back from her, and now the joke’s flying over his head. He’s on the outside looking in. This is not real, he decides. The humiliating “we can still be friends” conversation is happening to someone who only looks like him, he decides. His sudden desire to get shitfaced at the nearest bar has nothing to do with this awkward, embarrassing situation that is not happening to him, he decides.

She looks like she’s near tears, and she’s such a sweetheart, that he knows that this is somehow harder for her than it is for him. The urge to console her is overwhelming, but then she speaks.

“We’re—” She pauses slightly; she’s careful with her words, always cautious. Kenji starts spiraling, trying desperately to fill in the blanks when he sees her lips start to form that dreaded word, the F-Bomb that will surely impact his ego and blow it up, forcing him to leave it tattered on the sidewalk of her neighborhood. “—friends.”

She says it with such finality, it’s almost like a fucking death sentence. He’s in a courtroom, and she’s the judge telling him that he’s never going to see the sun ever again.

He makes his way to the bar in a daze, muttering to himself, playing a game. He wonders what she was going to say to fill the silence. We’re — just, only, always going to be, better off as — friends. Whatever he chooses, he’s screwed.

“Fuck,” he groans, wanting to bury his face in his hands. The alcohol hasn’t quite hit his system yet; he knows so, because he’s still capable of rational thought. He should stop now, go home, take a shower, and hide under the covers, dead to the world until Sunday afternoon, which is when he has his upcoming game.

“Are you done?” An annoyed voice causes him to look up.

“What?”

“I said, are you done? You’ve been talking to yourself for the past thirty minutes, and it’s starting to piss me off.”

When Kenji is with her, he tries to be a better person. He knows that during their high school days, he had a tendency to pick fights, antagonize others, take delight in besting an opponent. All that holding back only resulted in him being ditched for some mysterious rich guy who drives a sleek black car with tinted windows. Maybe it’s the alcohol finally hitting, but he makes the decision to just be himself. It’s not like he gives a shit on how you’ll feel about his attitude.

“There are plenty of other seats in this bar. Go sit somewhere else if I’m bothering you that much.” He scoffs. You narrow your eyes.

“I was here first. You should move.”

You turn your body to face him, taking in the strange man sitting one barstool away from you. He also fully turns his body so he can face you, almost childishly mimicking your movements, except he’s got one elbow resting on the sticky countertop. He looks like he wants to pick a fight with you, his brown eyes narrowed, lips curled in a scowl. The jetlag, the bartender mixing up your drink order, the lack of sleep, the awful professors in grad school, the date your parents are forcing you to go on — all of it has been packed neatly and tightly into your nervous system, compartmentalized, and promptly stowed away.

You can feel all your built-up irritation clawing its way out of your skin. Normally, you would just roll your eyes, take your purse, and leave. Normally, you wouldn’t have even said anything. It’s not like he was even talking all that loud. Normally, you would just mind your own business.

Then again, thinking too much about your own life is the reason why you’re spiraling, heading straight to rock bottom, no Google Maps needed for you to find your way there. Maybe it’s just better for you to pour all your attention onto this man.

“I’ve been living in this town since I was born, and I’ve never seen you here before.” He gives you a dramatic, childish, once-over. You’re wearing slacks, pointy-toed high heels, a fucking blazer. He snorts, then thinks about her ballet flats that she favors, her fluffy sweaters, her frilly skirts. Wanting to rid himself of all conscious memory of her, he pours himself another shot, downs it like water, and works on committing your serious image to memory. He takes in your disgusted expression.

Better, he decides. He’s not thinking about his little heartbreaker.

“Oh, I didn’t know I was meeting with the fucking mayor.” You give him a once-over as well. He can’t remember the last time he’s been scrutinized so coldly. It’s a feeling he isn’t used to, especially now that he’s a young adult and the volleyball games he plays now don’t feel so high-stakes. You’re sizing him up like he’s an opponent. He wants to tell you that he doesn’t fight women, but he’s petty enough and drunk enough to want to push your buttons — all four of them, really, when he takes in the golden buttons of your blazer, each one of them engraved with some designer logo he certainly can’t afford. “Have you ever considered that not everyone spends their free time getting sloppy drunk? Some of us have jobs.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s a job?” He asks, blinking owlishly at you. “I don’t know what that is since I’m such a simpleton. Maybe you can go call a cab and get it to take you to your job, and let me know what it’s like. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Maybe in a different life, in a different situation, when you’re in a different mood, this stranger would be funny. Maybe in better lighting, he’d even be cute.

“I said some of us have jobs. Never said I was included in that group.” The words taste bitter, and you know it’s not because of the drinks you’ve had.

His expression softens a bit. As a child, Kenji used to poke anthills with a stick, toying with the little guys just because it seemed funny to his boyish brain at the time. Despite this, he’s not the type to kick someone when they’re down, even if you’re rude and have bad manners.

Silence.

This one, he doesn’t bother trying to fill.

He watches you pour yourself a shot, and he copies you. You don’t notice, but then you’re pouring up a second, then a third, and he can’t help it; he follows along. You catch him doing it out of the corner of your eye, and suddenly, a stroke of competitiveness that hasn’t afflicted either of you since adolescence is now invigorating the both of you. He matches you, shot for shot, and oh — he is definitely going to regret this. He might actually regret this by the time Sunday rolls around.

Noticing his hesitation and the near-empty bottle, you drunkenly call for his attention.

“Hey—” You bring your bottle to your lips, downing the rest of the contents, giving him a self-satisfied smile. When you wake up with a raging headache, hunched over the toilet, and having to show up to your blind date with sunglasses to hide your ragged state, you will regret this. Right now, you’ll take any small win you can get.

His cheeks are flushed, his reaction time slower as it takes him a few seconds to process what he just witnessed.

“You’re insane.” He mumbles, fumbling for his own bottle, and missing it by quite a margin.

“Don’t bother. I beat you, I drank it faster, and I’m holding my liquor way better.” Your words are slurred, there is way too much alcohol sloshing in your otherwise empty stomach, and the fact that you can’t tell you sound totally drunk (and neither can he) is a dead giveaway that both of you need to get your stomachs pumped and hooked up to an IV, stat.

“Liar. Look at the way you’re struggling to sit in your seat.” He’s not doing so hot himself. The only reason he’s not swaying like you is because he’s leaning against the bar counter for support. That, and he thinks any sudden movement might cause his brain to shut down.

“I’m fine.” You insist, and you look like you’re going to try to prove just how fine you are, until your phone lights up. Your almost carefree expression suddenly hardens. You decline the call, but even drunk, Kenji can feel the shift in atmosphere, the change in your demeanor.

“You sure?” He asks.

“Absolutely.” You reply back, with none of the conviction you’ve previously been serving up on a platter for him. He almost misses how annoying you are; the mopey version of you is no fun.

(That, and as much as Kenji Futakuchi spends time insisting that it’s not true, his insides are just as soft as everybody else’s. If only he was an asshole. He could be stumbling back home right now.)

“Whatever’s bothering you, I’m pretty sure I have it rougher. So, don’t go throwing yourself an undeserved pity party.”

“I highly doubt that.” At least you don’t sound so resigned when you say it. “And I’m not throwing a pity party.” Pity is for losers.

“Oh, yeah?” He takes the bait you set out — another competition. “What’s the matter with you?”

“My professor stole my paper and took credit for all my work, for starters.” You don’t know why you tell him this; probably because he’s the farthest thing from an academic, and unlike your classmates that you mistakenly considered friends, at least he’s not going to shun you — or, even worse — take your professor’s side.

“Boring.” He fakes a yawn. “You downed a bottle of tequila because of that?”

You frown. “Well, what’s your deal? It better be something major.”

“Soul crushing.” He tells you, and he means it. You’re a stranger. He’ll probably never run into you ever again. His friends will never let him hear the end of it if he tells them the truth, or even worse, they’ll pity him. He decides to let you in on the secret. “I confessed to the girl I’ve been in love with since childhood.”

You’re silent for a second, then, you toss your head back and laugh. His embarrassment quickly gets replaced with indignation.

“What’s so funny?”

You wipe a tear from your cheek. “Oh, nothing. That’s just the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, given the circumstances. Tell me the truth: why are you really here?”

He blinks. “I told you the truth.”

He waits impatiently for your laughter to die down.

“That’s your soul crushing news?” You ask him, clutching your stomach, grinning at him. You haven’t had a good laugh in weeks. You were almost scared that you had forgotten how to.

“She’s a nice girl.” He resists the sudden childish urge to stick out his tongue and blow a raspberry. “Nicer than you.”

“If she’s so nice, then why are you drinking alone at a bar and acting like the world is ending instead of being with her?” You point out.

“How would you reject a guy who confesses to you?”

You don’t mention that you’ve never been confessed to. Instead, you pretend to ponder it for all of two seconds, before saying, “I’d tell him the truth.”

“The truth?”

“If I like him, then I’ll admit to returning his feelings. If I don’t like him, I’ll tell him that.” You shrug. “Simple.”

“So heartless.” He scoffs. “You won’t even tell him that you two can still be friends?”

“Do you think people can still be friends after all that? Like, things will just be the same as always between you two?” You don’t sound mean when you ask him this; just genuinely curious.

He tries to turn the attention back to you. “What if you two aren’t friends, then?”

“Why bother telling him that we can still be friends?”

“It’s polite.”

“It’s cruel. No one really means it when they say they can still be friends. People only say that because they think it softens the blow.” You lean your body forward, palms resting on the bar stool that separates you two. You’re surprisingly steady as you tell him, “Reciprocation is true kindness.”

Your eyes seem to sparkle under the warm lighting of the bar. He wants to blame this realization on the alcohol, but this is somehow the clearest his consciousness has been in a minute.

“What do you mean by that?”

“If someone reveals their true feelings, you should respect them by revealing your own. I hope she told you how she really felt.”

We’re friends. We’re friends. We’re—

a pause, hesitation, reluctance

—friends.

He licks his lips. His mouth suddenly feels dry. He’s aware of you staring at him, but you’re so drunk, you probably don’t realize the intensity of your gaze.

“She told me we’re friends.”

“And?” You press him for more information.

“That’s it.” He runs a shaky hand through his hair. “What does that mean?”

You make a face.

“It means you’re totally fucked. Sorry.”

He groans. “What do you know anyway? You’re just another bum in this bar.”

“A bum in this bar who can outdrink you, and my problems are actually major.”

“So, what? Call him out for plagiarism. Easy fix.”

“Easy fix, my ass.” You grumble. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Not even going to ask you to elaborate.” Then, “Got any other complicated problems my tiny brain can’t understand?”

“I’m totally fucked, too.” You admit. “Except mine is out of my control, and your pathetic situation was easily avoidable.”

“How was my situation ‘easily avoidable’?”

“Well, live a lie and don’t confess. Or, maybe just don’t like her?”

Kenji has never met someone so interesting. Usually, when people spout out bullshit and other complete nonsense, they do it with false bravado and counterfeit confidence. You sound like you genuinely believe in what you’re saying — as if feelings are just something you can flip on and off, like a switch, like a choice.

“Those are your solutions?”

You nod. He can’t even find it in himself to shake his head. He’s now oddly fascinated in what could possibly be going on in your life if you’re handling your shit with such emotionless, cold decision making.

“So, what about your other problems?”

“The whole point of being here is so I can forget about them.” When he doesn’t say anything else, you sigh. No point in acting like it’s not going to happen. “My parents sent me out here because I’m going on a date. Some businessman I went to high school with. They’re hoping we get engaged soon.”

“What’s so problematic about that?”

“Apparently he’s in love with some random girl.”

“So you don’t want to fight for his attention?”

“I don’t want him at all. My parents keep pushing for this, though, and since I dropped out because of the whole plagiarism thing, I don’t—” You pause. Even if he is just a stranger, airing out all your business in this dingy bar is a tad bit too pathetic for your liking. “It’s whatever.”

He bites his tongue, resisting the urge to point out that it sure doesn’t sound like whatever.

“I should go. Thanks for… this.” You wave your hand in the air, unsure of what to call this situation. Your moves are a bit clumsier than usual, and the heel of your shoe catches onto the legs of the stool as you’re getting up, and you can see it all happen in slow motion. You can feel the pull of gravity dragging you down, and you think for a split second that maybe banging your head on this dirty floor might actually be worth it. Maybe you’ll get amnesia and forget how shitty everything is. Maybe you’ll fall into a coma, be basically dead to the world. Maybe you’ll actually be buried six feet under.

Kenji’s reflexes are still quick. He jumps up from his chair, and your body crashes against his. He got up way too fast, and now his head is kind of spinning. The room is spinning. He hears a faint ringing in his ears, and he blinks hard, trying to focus. Everything is blurry.

He looks down, and you’re peering up at him, staring at him curiously. Everything is blurry but you. In fact, he could probably count your individual lashes with the way he’s hyper focused on you.

“You can let me go now.” You murmur, and he clears his throat awkwardly, instantly removing his hold on you. He’s thankful for the shots he took because he can at least blame the scarlet flush on the alcohol instead of the embarrassment.

“Did you call a cab?” He asks, noticing how dark it’s gotten outside.

“I was just going to walk back. Try to sober up.”

Sober seems like a hefty goal at the moment. “Don’t be stupid. Get a cab.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” You huff.

“Let me walk you home, then.”

“I’m drunk, but I’m not dumb enough to let a strange man know where I’m staying.”

“It’s dark, and like you said, you’re drunk. At least call that guy you’re going on a date with.”

You frown, refusing to look at him. “We don’t have that kind of relationship.”

“But you’re planning on being engaged to him?”

“Like I said, we don’t have that kind of relationship.”

In the end, you know that this stranger is right. You’re not sure which cab services are still running at this hour, and you know no one else in this town. You dial Kato’s number, pleasantly surprised that he manages to pick up on the third ring.

“I’m drunk. I’m going to text you my location. Please pick me up.” You ignore a greeting altogether, and before he can give an excuse on why he can’t come, you add, “There’s a strange man here, and I don’t want to be alone with him.” The stranger makes a face, and you mouth out a sorry.

Kato sighs over the line. “Give me the address, and I’ll be there shortly.”

“Thanks, Kato.” He hangs up before you’re even done speaking.

You expect the stranger to make a teasing remark, probably boast about how he knows everything and be pleased with how you did what he asked, but he looks confused.

“Kato?” He repeats.

“Yes, that’s his name.”

“Daisuke Kato?” He presses you, and you nod.

Maybe your paths will cross again, he decides. He can’t tell if this is a good or a bad thing, especially since Daisuke Kato is the name of the man who Kenji’s best friend has fallen in love with.

#kenji futakuchi x reader #futakuchi x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #one shot #haikyuu fanfiction #drabble #fluff #imagine

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