Pairing: Shuuhei Hisagi x Izuru Kira

Music: Nirvana, by Blood On the Dance Floor

Word count: ~ 1800

Rating: T

Prompt 40: Comedy of Errors

Waking up was only somewhat less painful than being run over by an articulated lorry. Izuru groaned and pressed his face into the surface beneath him, praying for the pounding to go away—or even to decrease slightly, at this point, he wasn't too picky. He was lying on top of something that was extremely hard and lumpy, and one of his feet was bare. His mouth tasted a little like road kill dragged over gravel, his brain was leaking out of his ears, and his stomach was staging a violent protest somewhere in the vicinity of his esophagus.

Hangover, his liquefied brain supplied helpfully. This isn't Hell, it's a hangover.

The mattress—the hard, suspiciously lumpy mattress—groaned, and Izuru managed to pull himself together enough to lift his head and squint painfully at whatever it was that made the noise. The moment the sight registered, though, his heart did a retarded hop-twitch-flip and took a screaming, suicidal plunge towards the place where his stomach should have been.

Shuuhei Hisagi opened one glazed eye for a moment, stared at him until recognition struck, and then dropped his head back to the ground with a heartfelt, "Well, fuck."

Izuru couldn't have agreed more.

It wasn't like he was opposed to waking up on top of his longtime crush, both of them with minimal clothing and obviously cuddled together in a dark corner of the room. Just…Izuru had been hoping for someway of putting his attraction out there without mortifying himself in the process.

After a long moment, both he and Shuuhei seemed to remember exactly where they were, and looked back at each other. Izuru realized that he was still splayed out on top of the other law student and hastily scrambled off, trying to keep his elbows and knees to himself as much as possible. As Shuuhei levered himself up on his elbows, Kira slid to the floor, head spinning, and tried to take stock.

Head: attached, if painful.

Shirt: gone—long gone, if he was correctly identifying the torn pile of blue fabric off to the side.

Pants: also missing.

Boxers: currently around his ankle, which was truthfully a little bit worrying.

Shoes: …

Izuru looked down and blinked. Well. At least that answered the question of why only one foot was cold, though he couldn't imagine where in the world he had managed to get a pair of Rangiku's wedges, or why one was missing.

When he looked up, Shuuhei met his gaze, obviously bemused, and having obviously just done the same inventory for himself. They stared at each other for a moment, at a loss for words. Then Izuru realized Shuuhei was just as naked as he was, wearing only a shirt, his boxers and those sinfully tight jeans he had been wearing last night apparently serving as his pillow at the moment. He cleared his throat and looked away politely, reaching down to pull his boxers up.

His ass didn't so much twinge as throw up a white flag of surrender, and he froze in horror.

Shuuhei sucked in a breath through his teeth and said carefully, "Uh, exactly how much of last night do you remember?"

Bracing himself, Izuru tugged on his boxers and looked up, worrying at his lower lip. "Apparently not enough," he muttered, forcing his stomach back down to where it was biologically appropriate.

The other man winced and threaded a hand through his spiky hair. "That actually makes me feel a little better," he admitted after a moment, "seeing as how I'm drawing a blank here, too."

It took some doing, but Izuru managed to drag his gaze away from the brunet and look around the room. Of its own volition, an eyebrow started to rise, and he had to bite back a snort. "Somehow, I don't think we're going to be the only ones."

Shuuhei followed his gaze and blinked, his face going strange. "Is that…Renji passed out with a French fry up his nose?" he asked after a beat.

"And no pants? I think so." Izuru surveyed the wreckage from the party, tallying bodies. And… "Is that…a trombone?"

"I swear, Uryuu is such a band geek." Ichigo Kurosaki leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, looking over the ruin of his house with an air of benevolent amusement, despite the definite signs that he, too, was suffering from the bitchy mother-in-law of all hangovers. His death grip on a jumbo-sized coffee cup showed the reason for his alertness. "Though he managed to get that thing up three flights of stairs, dead drunk, without making any noise. That deserves a Purple Heart or something, I think."

"Shh!" someone near the bathroom hissed.

Shuuhei and Izuru looked back at Ichigo, then at the cup in his hand. He shrugged. "There was a call from a hospital in Tokyo, needed advice on a procedure. I found my cell phone in the toaster oven. Only one logical explanation, and only one cure."

"Five martinis and a shot of tequila," Shuuhei said wisely, nodding, and Ichigo raised his cup in a toast.

"And one grande with a double shot of espresso," he agreed. "You two look like you had fun last night. Bedroom's second door on your left, down the hall, if you need to talk things out." He nodded vaguely and turned around, heading for the kitchen. "Now I'm gonna make the strongest-smelling breakfast I can to get these bastards up and moving."

"In an en masse rush for the bathroom?" Izuru muttered, shaking his head. The redheaded surgeon could be a vindictive bastard sometimes. It was almost frightening.

Shuuhei snorted, too, and then sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. From between the cracks of his fingers, he peered at Izuru, his expression tentative. "Um, can we talk?"

Those were probably the three worst words to hear after a drunken one-night stand. Izuru winced, but nodded and staggered upright, almost overbalancing before he managed to kick off Rangiku's six-inch wedge heel. "Right," he said vaguely, trying to stop his head from spinning. "Talk. I think I can manage."

From the couch across the room, Rukia groaned and lifted her head from where she had face-planted in Orihime's barely-covered chest. She blinked for a few seconds, then blew out a disgusted breath and flopped right back down. "Drunk me needs to be reminded of my sexual preferences," she muttered.

"At least it wasn't animals," Rangiku said consolingly, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—of the fact that she was completely naked except for her bra and panties and a layer of what Izuru vaguely remembered was edible body paint.

"And you didn't end up doing abstract agent-based computational economics on the floorboards," Toshirou groaned blearily. "Fuck. Kurosaki is going to kill me."

"Dude, if you can even say that, you're not nearly drunk enough." Keigo slapped a hand across his eyes. "Go. Do shots. Masturbate. Something."

Shuuhei muffled another snort and jerked his head towards the hall, one eyebrow lifting in question. Izuru nodded and followed him into Ichigo's bedroom, which was surprisingly untouched. The law student sank down onto the mattress with a groan and glanced up, looking at Kira with an expression that hovered somewhere between embarrassment and hesitancy.

"Last night," he ventured carefully, "you don't remember anything?"

Izuru leaned against the door and thought about it, then winced. It wasn't that he didn't remember anything, more that what he did remember was not what he wanted to.

"The last think I can think of is Renji setting his hair on fire," he admitted after a moment. "You?"

"The hair," Shuuhei agreed. "That was memorable. And…"

Izuru had a sudden sinking feeling that he knew just what Shuuhei was going say. Oh, god. With a sigh of defeat, he tipped his head back and slid down the door to sit on the carpet, and then muttered, "I said something, didn't I?"

"Mm," Shuuhei affirmed, but when Izuru glanced at him in horror, he was smiling kindly. "You know, I've never had a one-sight stand confess their love while we were both drunk out of our minds."

Izuru's brain shut down, and he buried his face in his hands, half-hoping that the floor would just crumble away at let him fall to his death. It would be far less painful than dying of humiliation like this.

There was a moment's pause, and then Shuuhei said softly, "But then again, I've never returned a confession, either."

It took a moment for the words to work their way through Izuru's still-woozy brain, but when it finally translated, he looked up at Shuuhei in shock. The brunet smiled at him, tentatively, as if he didn't know if he was allowed.

"You haven't noticed?" he asked a little wryly. "I've been staring at you in class ever since we had that Criminal Law class together. You were just…"

Shuuhei didn't finish, but Izuru didn't need him to. He smiled back, then grabbed Shuuhei's hand and dragged him down to the floor, meeting him with a kiss.

It was everything he'd been dreaming about for months now.

"Hey!" Ichigo shouted from somewhere in the distance. "No fucking on my bed!" Something heavy hit the other side of the door for emphasis.

They broke apart with a soft laugh, and Shuuhei reached up to run fingers though Izuru's messy blonde hair. "I think we need to make up for last night's blank spot," he whispered. "What do you say? Do you like living dangerously?"

Izuru thought of just what Ichigo would do to them—what Ichigo and Renji would do to them—for fucking on the couple's bed and drew back with a sigh. "Not that dangerously," he admitted, and then shared a small smile with the other man. "But I know a good coffeehouse on the corner by my apartment. It's ten minutes from here, if you're interested."

"Hell yes," Shuuhei returned, and kissed him again.

"Cute," Renji muttered, dragging himself into the kitchen (minus one French fry and plus a pair of pants) to steal a sip of his boyfriend's coffee. "But are you going to tell Kira that his ass hurts from falling off a skateboard in the hallway, and not from doing the nasty in our living room?"

Ichigo stole the cup back and grinned at his lover. "Nah. I think they'll figure it out soon enough. More fun this way. They've been pussyfooting around this for what, six months now?"

"Seven," Renji corrected, dropping a kiss on the smaller man's forehead, and then asked, "Rukia and Orihime?"

Ichigo just smiled and went back to flipping his pancakes.

"You're a yenta," Renji muttered in amused disbelief. "A redheaded, foul-tempered, scowly, doctor yenta. God save us all."

Ichigo threw the spatula at his head.