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Haru is used to waking up at the crack of dawn, laundry basket clutched in his arms, blinking sleep out of his eyes while he peers around for any stragglers aiming to steal his spot at the laundromat.
He is not used to glossy limousines parked outside his shabby apartment complex.
But lo and behold, there is one, and it’s not just glossy—it’s downright sparkling .
Granted, Haru has only ever seen limousines in movies, but he’s pretty sure they’re not supposed to quite literally blind you.
The tinted window rolls down, revealing none other than Daisuke Kambe with what may as well be the most judgmental look Haru’s seen thus far.
Which doesn’t say much, since Daisuke basically looks like that all the time, but Haru knows this one’s different from the rest. Unlike the rest—unbothered, uninterested, unfeeling—this one exudes sheer disdain.
Haru guesses it’s aimed at his boxer shorts, flip-flops and t-shirt with too many holes to be considered fashionable ensemble, or the loaded laundry basket about to tip over, or the combination of both.
Either way, he really needs to stop spending time with this guy, for his own sanity’s sake.
”What?” He grumbles, because it’s just way too early in the morning to feign pleasantries.
”Get in.”
The window rolls back up, leaving Haru to stare at his own reflection. His eyebrow twitches, mouth set in a tight line.
It is, too early, for this.
Haru takes a deep breath, and quickly regrets it as the stench of week old laundry hits him. Okay, not his smartest move, but the smell only serves as a further reminder of the time and place which Daisuke Kambe should not be present at—laundry day.
He manages two steps from the limousine before the laundry basket disappears from his arms. He stares at his hands, the faint odor of his dirty clothes still linger in the air, and slowly, oh so slowly, Haru looks up.
A man twice his size smiles down at him, holding the basket like a bag of groceries.
“Take care of it.” Daisuke calls from behind the tinted windows.
“Yes sir.”
Haru blinks once, twice, and suddenly finds himself sinking into leather seats. He barely registers the plush velvet interior before the engine hums to life. The giant, currently in possession of eighty-five percent of his life, waves at them as they take off.
Haru pulls at the handle.
It’s locked.
Of course it’s locked.
He shuts his eyes, takes deep breaths, runs through the five scenarios which don’t involve socking Daisuke in the face, and decides fuck it .
“Bastard—”
The smoke goes straight to his lungs, cutting off his words and movements. He chokes, tears pricking his eyes while Daisuke takes another long drag on his cigar, and sends another gust of it into Haru’s face. If Haru didn’t know better, he would think Daisuke was out to personally get him.
But Daisuke isn’t the spiteful type. He just doesn’t care for small talk, less so useless questions, which just happens to be their entire acquaintanceship—Haru refuses to call it friendship.
Because, for starters, none of his friends are billionaires, and none of them try to kidnap him in a limousine.
And, consequently, try to suffocate him in said limousine.
“W-What’s your problem?” Haru sputters.
Daisuke raises his eyebrows at him, as if he just noticed his presence.
His nose wrinkles.
The movement is miniscule, but up close like this, Haru can see it as clear as day. He tries to ignore the heat rising to his face, shuffling back a few seats for good measure.
”Give it to me.”
”What?”
Daisuke stares pointedly at him, as if he’s supposed to have a built-in HEUSC in his brain. Haru stares back, jaw clenched. Whatever patience he had at the start of the day has been wiped clean, left behind like his laundry basket and all the other things he’d planned out if not for one Daisuke Kambe.
“It.”
He returns to his cigar, and all Haru can do is throw his hands up in the air because this is not, and was never not, what he signed up for. He eyes the champagne bottles; the thought of smashing Daisuke’s head enters his mind for a brief moment. It’s tempting, but getting caught for murder isn’t quite on Haru’s bucket list— yet .
And neither is compromising his moral compass, so Haru just massages his temples, trying to rack his brains for whatever “it” might’ve caught Daisuke’s attention in the last few days.
Was it the traffic collision he caused? The building he blew up? The pretty model who tried to file a lawsuit after he’d rejected her?
Or, Haru blinks.
It can’t be that.
“Just take us to the nearest Lawson, please.” He calls out to the chauffeur, the fight in his body sinking with him into the plush seat.
“So, it was in a law firm?” Daisuke remarks on the side. “How very interesting.”
He lets his cigar rest on one of the ashtray fingers and nods to himself, as if some sacred knowledge has been bestowed upon him. Haru stares wide-eyed, mouth slightly agape. Daisuke Kambe, an endless bank account, and even more endless wit, couldn’t for the life of him get everyday, common life.
Forget being worlds apart, the man may as well be an alien.
Haru’s eyebrow twitches.
Rich bastard.
“It’s a convenience store.”
Daisuke looks at him, stone-faced, and Haru sighs in exasperation. “It’s like a supermarket, but much smaller and”—he waves his hand in the air—“more convenient.”
The silence that follows is enough to make Haru want to down the entire bar. But fortunately, or unfortunately, the limousine comes to a halt. Daisuke peers over his shoulder, seemingly engrossed with the large blue and white sign.
“I’ll go get it!” Haru exclaims, scrambling for the door handle.
The door unlocks, unfolds the outside world, and Haru’s nearly brought to tears at the sight. It’s so mundane, so everyday and common, and envelopes him like a warm embrace. This, this is where he truly belongs—
“HEUSC, map out every single Lawson in the Greater Tokyo Area.”
Haru shuts the door in his face.
***
“Enjoy.”
He hands one of the cup noodles to Daisuke, placing his own on the bar counter along with the other snacks.
“I don’t know what you like so I just grabbed some of the basics.”
He gestures at the small pile of tuna mayo flavored rice balls, canned coffee and grape gummies, while Daisuke drinks in the sight.
“Interesting…” He trails off, transfixed by the various snacks.
It’s oddly cute, like a child meeting a puppy for the first time.
Haru rips the cover off his cup noodles, taking an unnecessarily loud gulp to drown out his thoughts. The broth burns his throat—still way too hot—but he’d rather set his vocal chords on fire than think deeper on whatever that was.
Daisuke doesn’t seem to notice the minor meltdown, his attention shifting to the cup noodles in hand. Unlike Haru, he appears perfectly poised, chopsticks broken apart perfectly, cover removed perfectly, noodles slurped perfectly.
Everything just screams perfect, and Haru wants to throttle his own brain for so much as entertaining his previous thought.
“Delicious,” Daisuke finishes after a particularly satisfying slurp. “I had my own personal chef recreate the taste, but it still left much to be desired.”
Haru doesn’t even know where to point out all the wrongs in that sentence. But he does know that it pisses him off.
“Ya know,” he grumbles, “you didn’t have to do this whole kidnap routine. You could’ve just asked me and I would’ve brought this to the office.”
Daisuke rests his chopsticks on the rim, somehow pulls a napkin out of thin air, and dabs at his lips. Haru rolls his eyes—so much for that conversation—grabbing the grape gummies from the counter. He tips the bag over his face, ready to shake a few into his mouth, when Daisuke decides to grace him with his presence.
“It has a special taste,” he says, taking a sip of his broth. “So I wanted to treat it as a special occasion.”
The entire bag spills into his mouth.
Haru chokes, coughs loudly before he manages to chug what’s left of his cup noodles. His face feels on fire, which is definitely due to the lack of oxygen and nothing more, and all Daisuke does is shoot him a glare.
“I didn’t try that yet.” Daisuke murmurs, lips pursed and Haru chokes again .
“S-Sorry,” he croaks, feeling strangely bad about it.
All that cigar smoke must’ve done his head in, that’s the only possible explanation for his behavior. Haru shakes his head, once, twice, thrice even for added effect. Daisuke doesn’t spare him so much as a glance, eyes still locked on the empty bag of grape gummies.
Haru doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this miserable—which says a lot considering their line of work.
He finally lets out a sigh, placing his cup noodles on the counter. A beat passes, silence filling the limousine as Daisuke scans what’s left, gaze slowly darting back and forth between the canned coffee and the tuna mayo rice balls. He settles on a rice ball.
Settles, as in, settles it in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t undo the wrapping, just cradles that one, singular rice ball as if it’s a precious gem.
Haru blinks, shakes his head once more for good measure, and promptly covers his face to muffle his groans.
What. The. Hell.
“Next time,” he bites out, “don’t take a limo.”
He can feel the shift, feel Daisuke’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t remove his hands. He chews his lip, taking a deep breath.
“Just, knock like a normal person.”
“Knock?”
The question lingers in the air, unbearable. Haru can hear the smug smile—leave it to Daisuke to prolong his self-inflicted misery. It takes all of his willpower to push on and not hurl himself into oncoming traffic, lock be damned.
“On my door.”
This time, Daisuke makes sure not to miss a beat.
“Be sure to stock up on those grape gummies,” he says, sounding too nonchalant and too close for Haru’s comfort. “We wouldn’t want another incident like today’s, now would we?”
Haru wants to think it’s still too early for whatever this is, but he can’t.
His face burns too much.