Suna Rintarou usually held his drinks well.

In fact, he was often the one sitting at the edge of the booth during team dinners, calloused fingers swirling his glass with the slow patience of a man who had all the time in the world and none of the urgency to drain it. Usually, he’s the dry humored observer, the cool headed guy in the Suna Rintarou way — never more than lightly flushed nor slightly looser in posture.

However, tonight was far different. Somehow, whatever self control he had, had been worn thin by the weight of celebration and a few too many toasts passed into his hand with the kind of delight that made refusal feel ungrateful.

The match was hard fought and the stakes were high (and ultimately he knew he pushed himself to his limits tonight — and how tiring it was). When EJP Raijin secured their spot for the international tournament, the entire venue had burst like a dam: cheers, claps on the back, and screams of some sort erupted.

(It honestly felt like a moment he should lean into for once. So he had.)

Which is how, just fifteen minutes past two in the morning, he stumbled through the front door of the apartment he shared with the one person the world hadn't pried from him — his spouse. His coat was askew, one sleeve halfway off his shoulder as if worn absently, and his hair which was normally immaculately lazy was tousled beyond its usual disarray.

He made it three steps in. Then the couch met him like gravity had finally found its grip.

With a graceless exhale, he plops down face first against a pillow and lets out a muffled string of words (things even he couldn't comprehend). His limbs sprawled out, long and uncooperative, his legs dangling halfway off the edge while one arm slung over his eyes.

The light padding of footsteps didn't register immediately. Nor did the glass of water placed gently on the table beside the couch or the hand that reached out, brushing through his hair with the affection only a lover can give.

But he stirred, brows furrowing as if air itself offended him and grumbled.

“Don't touch me. I’m married.”

His voice was loud and earnest, enough to make your hand stop mid air. And he finds himself squirming, rolling onto his back and attempting to wave you away with the coordination of a sleepy cat.

(He finds himself opening his eyes amidst this, locks eyes with you that made you think he could finally recognize you and gave you a pointed look.

He was, in fact, inebriated and what was funny was that he couldn't recognize you.)

“Like I’m very married.” He muttered, hands shooting up to rub his face as if to sober himself. “And I don't have intentions on cheating on my partner. Not even by accident. I won't and don't want to look at you. I’m married, okay?”