#it begin.

          had you told kunikida only a few months ago that he’d be spending his more of his evenings with a member of the port mafia than without, he’d not have believed it. he certainly didn’t understand it when it began happening  —  still doesn’t, not wholly. he does, however, know they’re far beyond questioning this for what it is ( this being time spent together entirely of their own free will and not being thrown crudely together by the hands of fate and circumstance  ) and by now, they’re well into acceptance. 

        that’s two of the five stages of grief.

        he considers for a moment that he’s too harsh in thinking that. after all, he wouldn’t bother with someone that he didn’t hold some kind of trust in; even if that trust was less than clearly defined. before he can reflect any further on the matter, nakahara proves his grievance right in just a simple movement  —   sat on the pool table, he manages to block the shot that kunikida has been meticulously angling for seven minutes and thirty four seconds with his boot. ridiculous.

       ❝   nakahara.   ❞  glare sharp and judging, kunikida frowns across the way at him and his brow furrows, distinctly in frustration. yet, if he were actually angry  — note, composed irritation and pure rage are two completely different beasts  — then he wouldn’t hesitate to aim for his teeth, right then and there. that, and if it weren’t chuuya across from him. him and that... indescribable quality of his; the very same one that drew kunikida to him time and time again.