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Winter in Tokyo should not, in theory, be the misery that Sam is finding it to be. He’s always lived in the North, after all—New York, Seattle, D.C.—and is dressed perfectly adequately for the snowfall. The conference hall was plenty warm enough, between the press of people and the catered meal. The lingering flush of high-dollar brandy, the full-blast heater blowing in the taxi driving him back to his hotel—there’s no good reason for his current chilly, resentful fog. Honestly, it’s like his soul has caught a head-cold.
He blames Nobu. He’s trying not to.
Nobu is bound to be busy—they are all three of them so busy these days. Perhaps he’s involved in something that’s keeping him away from his e-mail. (And his phone? For three days?) Perhaps he’s changed his contact information. (And not alerted either of us?) Perhaps he’s still concerned about too much contact between the three of them in places where someone might ask questions. (So much so that he can’t even acknowledge an obvious invitation?)
There are a dozen good reasons (and how many more bad reasons?) for Nobu to ignore Sam’s forwarded itinerary for the Tokyo Summit on Global Financial Cooperation. Best to just blame his bad mood on his old friend insomnia and not reflect too deeply on what is causing the relapse.
Back at the Hilton, he slips the bartender a 5000 yen note and points to what looks like a passable bottle of gin (that’s your self-hatred talking), waving off the change. His feet try to steer him in the direction of the little 24-hour market corner, which stands a good chance of having some sort of sleeping pills, but he wrenches himself away before he has time to investigate. Hal and Nobu cleaning out his entire closet’s-worth of melatonin made their feelings on that bad habit quite plain; he can’t even eyeball it on the shelf these days without feeling Hal’s gimlet stare between his shoulder-blades.
He rides up the elevator to his room with the bottle tucked under one arm, mentally correcting the grammar on the English parts of the signage to keep his thoughts occupied.
At his door, he digs out his keycard and waves it around a few times in front of the reader—a new advancement in security, the pleasant woman at the desk explained yesterday afternoon—until a green light flips on and lets him open the door. He side-steps in, squinting in the flickering neon illumination from the window as he tries to simultaneously fit the card back into his wallet and elbow the door closed.
He hears cloth rustle at the same time the thought strikes him, Didn’t I close the curtains before I left?
The figure bears him back against the door in a rush, features a stuttering film reel in blue and red light—short black hair, high cheekbones, a soft jawline. Sam relaxes against the door in spite of the knob wedging into his hip.
“Mr. Murphy. You should be a bit more careful coming into strange rooms after dark.”
“I’m not afraid of a man whose name I put on the guest list for the room, Nobu.” His free hand pinned against the wood, Sam hooks the gin over Nobu’s other arm, leaning down to nuzzle at the man’s temple. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“Did you steal this from that dinner or overpay the bar for it downstairs?” Nobu asks, drawing back to look down at the bottle. He plucks it out of Sam’s hand and holds it up to the window, giving the label a quick glance before tsking and setting it down on the cabinet by the door. “Were you that worried?”
“Not anymore,” Sam defends, allowing himself to be drawn away from the entrance and into the room proper. “Is everything all right?”
The second set of arms, descending from behind him and dropping neatly around his shoulders, does give him a start, and a moment of déjà vu. A familiar height and weight, but the scent is strange, the shirt sleeves the wrong color.
“Is everything all right?” But the voice in his ear is right, a low burl accented with Californian warmth, and once again Sam relaxes, letting Hal take his weight. “Why don’t you tell us?”
“I made several new ‘friends’ tonight,” he answers, “and received three invitations to more private meals at some point in the future. Which I think qualifies the night as a success.”
“Anything you can share?” Nobu rests folded hands over Hal’s wrists, themselves crossed over Sam’s collarbone. With his back to the window, the cascade of garish light outside can’t touch him, only tint the glossy highlights of his hair.
“James Campbell is a good lead. He’s from London, and he was very eager to hear about my old firm’s donations to children’s homes. The other two I’ll get back to you on.”
“Good work.”
They’ve been apart from Nobu too long—Sam can’t tell anymore if Nobu’s smiling when he says words like that, and the dissatisfaction scratches in Sam’s chest. He reaches out and snags Nobu’s tie, dragging him in close enough to see his thin lips, caught up in a rueful curve.
Mollified, Sam sighs and bows his head on Nobu’s shoulder.
“How much sleep are you running on right now?” Hal says from behind him, leaning down to kiss Sam’s exposed neck. His new beard tickles against Sam’s skin.
“Not enough,” Sam confesses. “You changed your cologne.”
“Thought a mob boss would probably use different stuff than a beat cop. Don’t change the subject.”
“I’ll get enough sleep tonight,” Sam protests, though with no real heat. “That is—if you’re staying?”
“I’m told it will ‘reflect poorly’ on my new group’s chances of an alliance with the Nikuda if I leave too soon,” Hal drawls, and from the way Nobu’s chin tips up, it’s clear the words were aimed at him. “I’ll be here all week.”
“As the one brokering that alliance for Azami, so will I,” Nobu adds.
Sam runs the numbers and makes a necessary, but hopefully token, protest.
“Is someone going to notice that you’re not running a hotel tab while you’re doing that?”
“So conscientious.” Nobu might have laughed once, saying those words. Now Sam can barely see the ghost of that child in Nobu’s dark eyes, the uneven hook of his smile. “I am paying for a room at the Conrad, actually. I just don’t expect to be using it much.”
“Satisfied?” Hal murmurs into Sam’s hair.
Sam closes his eyes, feeling his own mouth twitch upward. “Not enough,” he repeats softly, rubbing a thumb over Nobu’s tie and lifting his other hand to cup it over Hal’s shoulder.
Nobu makes another tongue-tsk sound of disapproval as Hal’s grip tightens.
“Well,” Nobu says softly, “I would hate for you to leave the summit with reservations.” He leans in for the kiss as Hal nips at Sam’s ear from behind.
“I’m stealing your booze,” Hal informs him. “Don’t worry; you won’t need it.”
Sam sighs, making no attempt to sound annoyed instead of simply relieved, and holds them both all the closer.