Undefined Behaviour

The dining room is already loud. Chairs scraping, people talking over each other, lunch being handed out like this is a school cafeteria and not a hotel full of dead people pretending there’s a schedule to keep.

Niragi walks straight past the line. Someone starts to say something about it. One of the girls behind the table opens her mouth too, tray in hand, eyes flicking from his rifle to his wet hair to the fact that he is very clearly not waiting his turn.

Niragi picks up a bowl, looks at her, gives her a slow show of the piercing, crude enough that her face changes before the complaint makes it out.

“Thanks,” he says, and reaches for the food himself.

He fills one bowl. Then another.

The second one feels worse than it should. Another stupid little announcement he did not agree to make, except he did. By taking it. By filling it. By turning before Chishiya even has to ask.

He takes one deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Thumb pressing into the rifle stock.

There’s the shift in the room. The looks. The almost-silence. People too stupid to commit to staring and too stupid not to, at Chishiya in his clothes. Marks at his throat. Moving slower than usual and still somehow looking like he belongs exactly where he decided to stand.

Someone is going to say something.

Niragi feels it crawl up the back of his neck before it happens. Heat. Teeth. The old familiar itch under his skin.

He is still second in command. He still has the rifle. He can still shoot all of them if they forget that.

He does not owe anyone an explanation. He does not owe anyone shit.

“Chishiya,” he calls, rough, like the name is not already the answer to every idiot looking too long.

He jerks his chin toward the bowl.

The dining room is as loud as usual as he makes his way inside, hands still in the pockets of his sweatpants, ignoring anyone in the room like he usually does.

He can feel the eyes on him, though, as he steps further inside the room, feeling the eyes on his neck and the marks there and on the clothes he doesn't usually wear. It is the reaction he expected, and he also decides he doesn't care that they look.

He simply stands there in the full room and watches the militant cut the line, knowing he wouldn't allow anyone to say anything about it. It's how the militants behaved and if you are capable of using your brain you won't get in their way.

Chishiya looks unbothered by the attention he is getting, and he doesn't try to cover anything up. People have already seen enough last night, and he knows the word travels fast in this place. So there was no need to act like it didn't happen.

Two times there is the smallest change in his expression, only visible to those that pay attention to his face. The first one happens as he shuts the girl up, because he doesn't like it. The second, as he realizes he has got a second bowl filled for him.

For a few moments, he allows his eyes to wander over the crowd and his expression says clearly he knows that none of them can say anything, because they know what fate will await them.

As the other calls his name, his eyes land on Niragi, and then he makes his way over to him just as slowly as before. He manages to stay silent and then takes the bowl from him. He says Thank you just loud enough for him to hear before adding louder:

"You want to sit here or somewhere else?"

Because dragging Chishiya out of the room now, in his clothes, marked up, bruised, moving like he very obviously got wrecked and then kept until morning, would make this less of a thing.

The damage is done. More than done. Standing there with two bowls already did half the work for every bored idiot in the room. Running from it would do the rest.

So Niragi does not run. He turns to the nearest table instead and drops into a chair like it was always the plan, rifle propped within reach.

“Here.”

He shoves the first mouthful in because eating is easier than looking at the room, easier than looking at Chishiya, easier than thinking about how his clothes sit on him in public and how every set of eyes in here has probably noticed by now.

Good. Let them notice.

If they want to stare at what happens to someone who gets to stay in his room until morning, they can stare.

They can also remember who lets that happen.

His thumb presses into the rifle stock again under the table.

“Because you’re currently one bad decision away from needing to be carried,” he says, watching Chishiya put on the pants without asking for underwear. Not his loss. Nothing showing enough to become his problem, so. One small win, actually.

He does not answer the real thing comment. Not directly. Chishiya already knows, which is the problem.

He grabs the next best shirt out of the closet, shrugs into it, slips into his boots and ties a quick knot before he looks Chishiya over again. Worn out, bruised, glaring.

He picks the rifle up on the way to the door, pushes it open and steps out into the hallway.

The smaller male's eyes stay on the other, and he watches him grab a shirt and put it on. He feels a small wave of disappointment as the bare skin is covered again, but once he looks over at him, he is back to glaring at him.

He still thinks it's unfair that the militants are allowed to wear proper clothes and the rest swimwear only. But at least now he can wear something other than swimming shorts. He knows the rules, but he likes to break them, or otherwise he wouldn't have the underwear in his room.

The blonde keeps on watching as the other picks up his rifle before leaving the room.

Chishiya follows him slower than he normally would, his body still very much remembering the things they did. The pain was still there, and so he had to bite his lower lip in order to keep any sounds in.

The dining room is already loud. Chairs scraping, people talking over each other, lunch being handed out like this is a school cafeteria and not a hotel full of dead people pretending there’s a schedule to keep.

Niragi walks straight past the line. Someone starts to say something about it. One of the girls behind the table opens her mouth too, tray in hand, eyes flicking from his rifle to his wet hair to the fact that he is very clearly not waiting his turn.

Niragi picks up a bowl, looks at her, gives her a slow show of the piercing, crude enough that her face changes before the complaint makes it out.

“Thanks,” he says, and reaches for the food himself.

He fills one bowl. Then another.

The second one feels worse than it should. Another stupid little announcement he did not agree to make, except he did. By taking it. By filling it. By turning before Chishiya even has to ask.

He takes one deep breath. Squares his shoulders. Thumb pressing into the rifle stock.

There’s the shift in the room. The looks. The almost-silence. People too stupid to commit to staring and too stupid not to, at Chishiya in his clothes. Marks at his throat. Moving slower than usual and still somehow looking like he belongs exactly where he decided to stand.

Someone is going to say something.

Niragi feels it crawl up the back of his neck before it happens. Heat. Teeth. The old familiar itch under his skin.

He is still second in command. He still has the rifle. He can still shoot all of them if they forget that.

He does not owe anyone an explanation. He does not owe anyone shit.

“Chishiya,” he calls, rough, like the name is not already the answer to every idiot looking too long.

He jerks his chin toward the bowl.

Stupid. It’s fabric. Black, too loose on Chishiya’s shoulders, hanging wrong on his frame, collar low enough to show the marks Niragi left like the whole thing was staged to piss him off personally.

His marks. His clothes. His hoodie thrown on the bed because apparently keeping one piece was supposed to make this less obvious.

Then Chishiya opens his mouth and makes it worse.

Niragi looks at him for one long second before he steps closer, bending down until his voice can drop low enough to stay between them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just a little reminder of your scent, princess. Next time I jack off.”

He straightens before Chishiya can do anything useful with that, eyes dragging once over the shirt, the sweatpants Chishiya is about to put on, his bare legs.

“You return this worn, you can have it back.”

Then he turns away like that fixes anything, grabbing briefs first, then pants, pulling them on with damp skin and leather catching where it shouldn’t.

If anything, the militant was the one having a problem with him walking around in his clothes. It was his own fault though. First for ripping his shorts and then for keeping his hoodie.

As the other male suddenly stands in front of him and bends down, his breath hitches for two heartbeats. But he doesn't break the eye contact that is made.

The whispered words seep into his skin and make sure there is another electric jolt. If he thinks this will shut him up though, then he is dead wrong.

"Why jack off while I'm accessible? I know you prefer the real thing," Chishiya whispers back before Niragi pulls away.

He then puts on the shorts while a groan escapes him now and then, finding it unfair that the militant gets to wear underwear and he doesn't. And so he shoots him a small glare as he watches him get dressed too.

“Because you’re currently one bad decision away from needing to be carried,” he says, watching Chishiya put on the pants without asking for underwear. Not his loss. Nothing showing enough to become his problem, so. One small win, actually.

He does not answer the real thing comment. Not directly. Chishiya already knows, which is the problem.

He grabs the next best shirt out of the closet, shrugs into it, slips into his boots and ties a quick knot before he looks Chishiya over again. Worn out, bruised, glaring.

He picks the rifle up on the way to the door, pushes it open and steps out into the hallway.