Work Text:
Haru wakes up in an uncomfortable position on an otherwise comfortable couch. He knows, almost immediately, that he’s in Daisuke’s house from the sleek and elegant finishings around him. The couch he’s sprawled across is a deep maroon with elegant designs in the fabric that are outlined in gold thread. He hopes it’s not real gold.
The couch cushions that have been crumpled underneath him look expensive too and it makes him feel slightly nauseous.
Haru remembers that the room he’s in is an offshoot of Daisuke’s own bedroom because that’s something rich people have, apparently.
He groans as he tries the rub out the cricks in the back of his neck. There are papers surrounding him; on the couch, by his feet, and on the glass coffee table in front of him. The mess is the remnant of Haru’s and Daisuke’s night of sifting through casework and old files, trying to find connections between leads and dead ends.
He just woke up, but he can feel another migraine coming on just by looking at the thick paragraphs of information on the pages surrounding him.
He moves to tidy them, but his brain has other ideas, apparently, because he finds himself reading over the papers again as he sorts them into their respective folders.
Damn his workaholic brain.
That’s how Daisuke finds him, rubbing the remains of sleep from his eyes while mumbling to himself, still surrounded by thick stacks of paper.
“Working already?” Daisuke says, cutting through Haru’s mumbling. Haru looks up to see the other man already in a freshly pressed suit, adjusting one of his silver cufflinks.
(Because of course, he is)
Haru himself is in his rumpled work clothes from last night.
He’s about to answer but he’s distracted when he looks more closely at Daisuke because, well-
Daisuke’s hair, instead of being artfully slicked back like it usually is, lays almost flat against his forehead. Haru can see small water droplets artfully clinging to the ends of the dark strands, indicating the man just showered.
Haru’s silence is abrupt enough for Daisuke to look at Haru from where he is still fiddling with his cufflinks. He shoots a confused glance at Haru’s own dumbfounded expression.
Unfortunately, Haru’s sleep-addled brain can’t quite process what it’s seeing.
“Your hair…” Haru ends up saying, trailing off because he doesn’t know how to complete that sentence without sounding weird.
“Ah, it must be strange seeing it like this.” Daisuke realizes.
Haru can only nod dumbly in response while he’s trying to ignore the tightening feeling in his stomach.
“I ran out of my usual mousse,” Daisuke explains while walking to a cupboard located a short distance from where Haru is sitting. All Haru can think is, what the fuck is mousse?
“I have another bottle in here, somewhere.”
Daisuke retrieves a small bottle from the cupboard and shakes it. Haru watches him curiously, trying to seem as if he’s more interested in the hair product than Daisuke’s hair. A water droplet runs down his neck and Haru swallows dryly.
Daisuke squeezes some of the product in his hand and rubs it between his fingers and Haru is drawn to it. Then he stops, suddenly.
He’s staring at Haru with a thoughtful expression on his face.
He looks down at the cream between his fingers. Then back at Haru.
Haru swallows, again.
“What’s the matter?” he says, hoping his tone is light. “You look constipated.”
Daisuke’s face scrunches ever so slightly at this, and then, all too quickly, he’s in front of Haru and he’s reaching out, not giving Haru any time to move away and-
His hand is running through Haru’s hair. Or, more accurately, his hand is pushing the awfully sticky and sweet-smelling product through Haru’s dry and unruly locks.
Haru is too shocked to move for a split second before his instincts kick in and he jerks, ready to headbutt this asshole in the face.
“Stay still.” Daisuke’s other hand comes to rest firmly on Haru’s shoulder, pushing him back into the couch while he continues to shove whatever the fuck ‘mousse’ is into Haru’s hair.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you bastard?!” Haru screeches. He tries to kick Daisuke’s shin but he’s stopped when the other man’s foot stomps on Haru’s own, uncaring of Haru’s yelp of pain.
They struggle for a few more minutes, however long it takes for Daisuke to be satisfied with his torture of Haru’s hair. Haru tries to hit him a few more times but Daisuke is annoyingly perceptive and blocks Haru at every turn.
Haru is going to knock this man unconscious one day, he’s counting on it. It’ll be the best day of his life, probably.
Daisuke, finally, takes a step back when he’s done. He surveys his work while wiping his hand on a silk handkerchief.
(Why is it silk? Who has a silk handkerchief? Seriously, fuck this guy).
Haru, on the other hand, is seething while Daisuke continues to look at him like he’s an art project that still needs adjustments.
“What the hell was that for?” Haru tries to raise his hand into his hair but his wrist is grabbed by Daisuke quickly.
Daisuke is still looking at his hair, considering, while Haru growls and tries to free his hand from the grasp it’s in.
Daisuke hums and looks at Haru now, leaning in slightly and staring directly into his eyes. Haru freezes up, just a little.
“Not bad,” Daisuke says, finally. His lips stretch into a small, satisfied smirk that Haru wants to wipe off his face. Daisuke releases Haru’s hand and straightens up.
He tosses his now dirtied handkerchief onto the table and it lands right on top of the case file Haru was reading.
“There’s an extra toothbrush in the guest bathroom” Daisuke is already walking towards the entryway as he speaks. “You’ll be joining us for breakfast and then we can head to work.”
Haru can only stare at him, once again dumbfounded.
His hair feels abused and smells way too expensive to fit with the rest of his attire. It smells like Daisuke, he realizes. His throat is dry again, at the thought, and so he quickly pushes that line of thinking into the far corners of his mind.
He finishes gathering the case files into messy piles so that they can carry them to the car later. Haru hopes Daisuke isn’t planning on carpooling to work, he would probably crash the car on purpose if the other man got on his nerves again.
The silk handkerchief catches his eye among the papers. It’s a dark navy with Daisuke’s initials embroidered in gold.
Haru stares at it until his stomach growls, pulling him out of his thoughts.
He gets up and goes in search of the guest washroom in this maze of a house, once again trying not to think about the way Daisuke smells or the way his hands felt running through Haru’s hair.
-
Suzue stifles a giggle when she sees Haru and Daisuke at breakfast.
“Are you two trying each other’s hairstyles today?” She asks, her tone polite yet teasing.
Haru shoots a glare at Daisuke while the man looks surprised for just a moment.
“Ah,” he realizes, touching a hand to his now dry hair, not that Haru was paying attention. “I forgot to do my own hair.”
Suzue does giggle this time and seems to come to a realization of her own. “Does that mean you did Katou-san’s hair?”
Daisuke hums affirmatively and his eyes rest on Haru who meets them with his own look of disdain.
“It looks good, doesn't it?”
Suzue is looking at him, too, her smile pleasant and unwavering in the face of Haru’s grumpiness. “I think it suits you, Katou-san.”
Haru feels his cheeks warm under the scrutiny of both Kanbe siblings. He ducks his head and grumbles a thank you at Suzue’s compliment while stabbing his eggs with a little more force than necessary.
The rest of breakfast is filled with the soft chatter of Daisuke catching Suzue up on their case while Haru tries to focus on anything but the smell he has come to associate with Daisuke that surrounds him completely.
-
At work, Haru shoves his head under the faucet in the bathroom sink and washes most of the product out. It’s worth it to see Daisuke’s slightly annoyed expression at his sudden hair change, even if he is uncomfortably damp from the neck up.
The smell, however, lingers and Haru is left thinking of the way the water ran down Daisuke’s neck and how his damp locks framed his face for the rest of the day.
He really is going to murder this man one day.