Work Text:
The room is dark and smells like Ren.
These thoughts come to Shota like instinct as he blinks slowly, trying to process the situation he is in. Or rather, the situation they are in because as it seems, he has woken up in the middle of the night—Or wee hours of the morning. Who knows?—with Ren Narita , of all people, in his arms, breathing softly, and in deep sleep.
This is the most ridiculous thing.
They’re lying on their side—in the same bed, what the fuck —facing each other with Ren’s own arm draped lazily over Shota’s middle. Their legs are tangled with one another. The blanket has been pushed down to their calves. And they’re both shirtless . Why that is, Shota is not sure yet. It’s a startling position to wake up to, so much so that Shota’s initial reaction is to freeze . Perhaps that’s for the better since he really didn’t want to deal with Ren waking up to… whatever this is.
What the hell happened?
Ignoring the light buzzing in his head, Shota’s eyes scan the darkness. The windows are closed and the curtains are drawn but faint light from the outside somehow manages to spill in. It’s not enough to see much and he’s in no position to get his glasses but he can make do. He blinks slowly, trying to make sense of the plain walls and the nondescript furniture. He can make out luggage rolled away neatly across the room. It sits next to a pair of wrestling boots and what seems to be a dark shirt on the floor. Shota squints a little and recognizes what seems to be several beer cans on the small table. Oh. Those are empty. Shota remembers now, as he confirms that this is not his hotel room. It’s Ren’s.
How did they even get themselves into this position?
Shota tries to think back.
So. It’s the first night of the G1 and he and Ren opened the tournament with one hell of a match . A full twenty minutes of rising action and emotion, which Shota was sure he would be ingrained in his memory forever . Granted, this wasn’t the first time they’ve fought each other one-on-one, but it’s the first time since their return from excursion. And it was amazing . His heart was in his ears and every fiber of his being was so in the moment that he couldn’t even remember hearing the crowd until after the match.
Trying to describe the ridiculous sense of validation from knowing that they kicked off with something great is futile. There are no words to accurately describe the pleasant ache in his bones, the satisfying soreness of his muscles, the buzzing excitement in his head—from the match, not the alcohol—and the wild hammering of his chest. Shota’s hands were trembling after the match and his knees felt incredibly weak. His head felt empty but his heart was so full. The match felt like a big, big meal with nothing to wash it down. He assumed all these emotions would subside after a brief celebratory dinner with his seniors and peers, but it didn’t. This isn’t the first time that he’s felt these emotions, but for some reason, they felt too much for him to handle tonight. And he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
Equally disorienting was the strong urge to see Ren and be with him, whatever that even meant. It didn’t quite make sense to have those feelings even as Ren sat right across the table from him. Shota remembers watching as the other man stared contemplatively at the sake bottle, visibly debating with himself if he should pour himself another glass. Shota ended up reaching for the bottle and pouring a glass for Ren and for himself. Ren laughed and later returned the favor. That exchange honestly should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. He felt lacking, if that was even the proper term.
Was he in need of closure? No, perhaps “closure” isn’t the right word for it. Their story had just begun after all. And yet he sat there, needing some form of conclusion; something that didn’t involve a three count or a bell ring. Something outside the ropes. Something that’s just them .
Maybe that’s how and why they headed to Ren’s hotel room, not even close to being drunk, which just meant they could drink a little more. It was a bad idea to get more beers. Sure, it’s just a six pack, but it’s the G1, dammit. They should be focusing on the upcoming matches. Clearly , the tournament should be the priority. The smart move would be for Shota to go back to his own hotel room and rest.
But Ren held Shota’s hand as they stepped out of the elevator and suddenly, Shota decided to stay.
Thirty minutes. Shota remembers thinking to himself as he tried to ignore his sudden fixation on the feeling of Ren’s fingers locked with his own. Thirty minutes and I’m leaving.
But Ren opened the hotel room door and led him in by the hand and suddenly, Shota decided to stay for an hour.
Most of the events after that are a blur. He remembers the door clicking closed behind them. He remembers the lights never coming on. He remembers Ren holding onto him as he toes off his shoes. He remembers drinking beer near the table. He remembers wanting to take selfies. He remembers threatening to kill Ren in his sleep if he made faces, which he did.
It took several photos on each of their phones, a couple of half-assed threats on Shota’s part, and Ren cursing at flash photography before the room was allowed a minute or two of comfortable silence as they went through the photos. That was until Ren started giggling about something to make Shota curious enough to take a peek. Ren pushed him away, mumbling gibberish, his accent thick. It’s unclear who started to take videos but they ended up doing that, too. How or when they got to the bed or how their shirts came off, Shota isn’t sure either. They did fall asleep at some point, obviously, but it doesn’t explain how they’re with each other right now.
And that takes Shota back to the present.
He now notes how he feels sore. Not that he’s surprised. Pain comes with this profession after all. In times like this, he normally prefers to get as comfortable as he could and rest most of the pain off. Having to share a bed is not his idea of comfort and yet—Shota glances at Ren’s face—And yet, he can’t help but admit that there’s a rather strange sense of contentment in this. It’s never occurred to him that such comfort is something he either needed or wanted after a match. After any match. Or at all. But, yes, Shota acknowledges the comfort of having Ren next to him, tangled in each other, Ren’s scent in his subconscious, Ren’s warmth against his own aching body. He’s not sure what’s so soothing about this but there’s no two ways about it.
Perhaps it’s the nature of their match? The lead up to it? The result of it? How neither of them truly won or lost? This is the longest time that they’ve gone at each other’s throats since their Young Lion days. Sure, they’ve been in other tag matches against each other before but this… this meant something. Something more . They weren’t lion cubs anymore. This time, it was just them. This time it was vicious, intense and…
Shota takes a deep breath as he ponders the word “intimate”.
Wrestling is a very physical sport. It requires not just skin-to-skin contact but also a high level of trust. Intimate seems to be a proper word to describe it. So why does Shota’s heart flutter when he thinks of the word describing them ?
A mark on Ren’s neck draws his attention away from the question. It’s faint and barely visible in the darkness, but he remembers how it looks in the light. The mark is red, made more vivid at how it’s smeared on Ren’s fair skin. Shota’s eyes linger, wondering if he put that mark there. And how. Ren could’ve easily gotten this bruise from elsewhere during the match—the turnbuckle, the ring apron, the ropes—but Shota prefers to think it was from him. Why he prefers to think that way, he’s not sure. Something about leaving marks on Ren makes his head swim and his mouth run dry.
Maybe it’s the alcohol in my system?
That’s the excuse Shota uses when his hand comes up towards Ren’s neck. He runs a thumb across the red mark, the skin underneath not feeling any different from the rest of the body against him. Not that Shota knows what the rest of Ren feels like, though he wouldn’t say no to finding out.
Wait, what ?
That small admission makes Shota’s heart attempt to escape his ribcage. He’s not sure what to make of it, as with many things about tonight. For a short second, he wonders if he should quietly slip away and leave. But then Ren stirs. And once again, Shota freezes. The arm around his waist pulls them closer and Shota lifts his head instinctively to keep their faces from crashing, allowing Ren the space to snuggle a little more closer in the process. This… This is too intimate, too close, too dangerous . Shota should leave. He should go. He should focus on the tournament.
But then Ren sighs warmly against his skin and suddenly, Shota decides against leaving.
It’s the logical choice, isn’t it? Tearing away from Ren could wake him up, which would then mean they’d have to share an awkward moment about what this is at what god-forsaken time of the night. It isn’t really ideal. Such conversations are better had when the sun is up and both of them are properly awake… right?
Ren’s arm tightens around him.
Right.
So Shota lets his weight rest heavily on the mattress, accepting their current situation and making note of how Ren's head just somehow rests perfectly into the crook of his neck and how Ren’s weight feels pleasant in his arms. Ah, all this thinking is so tiring.
“This is the most ridiculous thing.” Shota whispers into Ren’s hair before allowing himself the comfort of sleep. In a room that’s dark and smells like Ren.