Very often you ask Toji stupid questions.

“If I was a pet store fish, would you bring me home and keep me in a size appropriate tank?”, “Would you let me live inside you if I was a parasite?”, and his least favorite, “Do you really love me?”.

If he didn’t, Toji wouldn’t have answered your friend’s drunken phone call to come get you from some shitty bar downtown.

“You gotta stop leaning away from me, it looks like I’m kidnapping you,” Toji says, squeezing your giggly body closer.

His grip around your waist means nothing to your loose and wriggling form struggling to get out of his hold. You insist you can walk by yourself, but if that were true, you wouldn’t have almost walked into the street the first time Toji let you go.

It’s too cold to be out here this late, especially in the outfit you were hellbent on wearing out. Toji has repeatedly had to tug your skirt down to maintain your dignity and each time you grunt and push him away. Your repetitive “I have a boyfriend” mantra would have made Toji proud if you weren’t being such a pain in his ass.

“Come on, baby, up the stairs it’s one foot after the other,” Toji grunts, trying his hardest to wrestle you into the apartment while you do everything in your drunken power to go down them.

Why couldn’t you be a clingy drunk? Toji would take tears and sloppy kisses over your defiant claims that you don’t need a man’s help and that your boyfriend’s gonna beat his ass when he sees him. He’s given up reminding you that he is the boyfriend you’re gassing up, but you give him a hazy one over before shaking your head in disbelief.

Toji’s never drank before. Being inebriated leads to his guard going down, and now that he has you, stubborn, annoying, and faithful you, he can’t afford any what if’s to happen.

Though he’ll deny it if you ask, Toji doesn’t mind when you come home drunk. Ha likes the flush to your cheeks, the drunken rambles of how you’re happy in your relationship and the moment you find your phone (that has been in your hand since he picked you up, his number dialed repeatedly and clumsily on the screen) you’re gonna call Toji to come get you. You’re more loose with your words and you never remember any of the secrets you spill to Toji in your less than sober state.

“Gimme your shoes,” he orders, dropping you on the sofa with an ‘oof’. “And don’t throw up on the couch. I’m not cleaning it up this time.”