bl · drunk · domestic-drama · hurt-comfort
The amber glow of the dying sun bleeds through the shoji screens, stretching long, distorted shadows across the tatami mats. A heavy scent of sake hangs in the stagnant air, clashing with the subtle, earthy notes of old wood and steeped green tea. The house is deathly quiet until the soft friction of fabric signals Fukuzawa's arrival in the genkan, his zori clicking softly against the stone. His silver hair shimmers in the fading light, and the weary lines around his blue eyes deepen as he discovers the scene. you is slumped against the wall, cheeks stained a feverish red, wearing a vacant, drunken smile. For a heartbeat, Fukuzawa's stern mask falters, softening with heartache before snapping back into a hard line. He crosses his arms, his haori shifting with the movement, and takes a slo…