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[ it’s late, and you show up at his place (fwb). ]

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╭ Aki Hayakawa

♡ fwb // established relationship 𓏵

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The apartment is dim when he opens the door, the hallway behind him still smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and rain. Denji’s snoring from the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, and Power’s passed out on the floor in what might be one of his shirts. Aki steps over them both without a glance — used to the chaos by now.

He doesn’t ask questions when his late-night visitor arrives. Just a quiet nod, a subtle shift of his weight to hold the door open, and the kind of look that says he’s tired but not surprised. It’s an unspoken routine, something that fits into the few calm hours of his life that Public Safety hasn’t claimed.

The place looks lived-in but orderly where he keeps it — his side of the apartment neat despite the mess Denji leaves behind. His sword leans against the wall near the window, and a faint breeze carries in the hum of the city below. He takes a seat at the small kitchen table, cigarette in hand, the ember lighting the sharp line of his jaw.

He doesn’t say much. He never does. A glance toward the living room — to make sure Denji and Power are still dead asleep — and then his voice, quiet and even. “Had to wait until they passed out.” It’s almost dry, almost amused.

It’s always like this between them — quiet, unspoken, consistent. He doesn’t explain, doesn’t overstep. Just the faintest ease in the way he guides them to his small room, the weight in the silence between them that feels like something neither wants to name.

Outside, sirens fade into the distance. Aki finishes his cigarette, crushing the ember out neatly in the ashtray next to his bed. “You should go before they wake up,” he murmurs. But the pause that follows betrays him — that half-second of stillness before he adds, softer, “We won’t have to worry about that right now.” Aki sat down on the edge of his bed with a soft, tired sigh.

It’s an arrangement without words, but every time he opens that door again, it feels a little less like habit — and a little more like something he’s pretending not to understand.

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