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His phone rings at 2:56 in the morning.
The night is so eerily quiet in his empty apartment that the sudden, shrill sound feels like as much of an omen as a crow cawing by his windowsill. He doesn’t pick up immediately, but he checks the caller ID and feels his blood run cold.
“Sensei,” he says as the line connects.
For a moment, there’s static and a long breath. Jakurai clears his throat, but his words take another second to come to him.
"Good evening, Samatoki-kun," Jakurai mumbles into the phone. "To be quite frank, I didn't expect you to respond. I hope I didn't wake you up?"
Usually when Jakurai talks, there's always a hint of smile in his tone. Samatoki can easily imagine the quirk of lips as he speaks. Right now, however, he's overly serious; the neutrality in his voice makes him shudder.
"Nah, I was up." Samatoki scratches his head as he continues, "What's wrong?"
"Must something be wrong for me to contact you?" Humor makes its way into Jakurai's words, but it's sardonic, almost bitter.
The discomfort in Samatoki's stomach grows tenfold.
"Look, I don't mind you calling me, but you're not the kind of guy to do that in the middle of the night," he argues. "If something's up, just say it."
There's a strange noise from the other side of the line; a sigh, or a chuckle or even a groan. Samatoki doesn't really understand.
"I don't mean to intrude, but I'm here," Jakurai whispers. "By your place, I mean."
All the way from Shinjuku to Yokohama, in the middle of the night, on the off chance that Samatoki might be home. Unbelievable. And damn fucking concerning. He swears under his breath and hangs up without a warning. Samatoki doesn't bother with the window; he marches outside barefooted and shakes in the sudden cold.
Just as he said, Jakurai stands down below by the stairs. His face is frozen on a look of surprise as he stares down at his phone, like the call being cut off left him in that much of a shock.
"Get inside already," he calls, only loud enough to be heard by Jakurai, but not draw attention to them. "You're gonna catch a cold."
The light from the lamppost here is weak, and Samatoki has yet to take a good look at Jakurai. Then, as he ascends the stairs, Samatoki can finally see the smudge across his cheek, the bruise blooming on his jaw, and the raw state of his fingertips. There's blood under his fingernails.
"I believe a cold is the least of my concerns," Jakurai asserts.
Samatoki sucks a breath through his teeth, shocked despite himself. He doesn't quite know what to do with hands, caught up in the urge to tug Jakurai closer. At the end, he opts for grabbing him by the wrist, whisking him away from curious eyes. Safe inside Samatoki's apartment.
"What the hell happened," he says, and forgets to phrase it as a question. He might not have the details—the how's and why's—but he knows this, he's intimate friends with the hollowed look in Jakurai's eyes. Has seen it a couple times staring back at him from inside the mirror.
Lacking in delicacy, Samatoki shoves Jakurai down onto the couch. He stares down at Jakurai, who in turn looks down at his own hands. Samatoki crosses his arms.
"Do I need to cover up for you?" He asks.
To Jakurai's credit, he manages an inelegant sort of breathy chuckle in response. He shakes his head slowly, then digs his thumbnail into the flesh of his middle finger.
"It's nothing that bad, I promise you that." His eyelids lowers, a somber sort of shadow overcoming his features. "Besides, I wouldn't be so careless, if it came to that."
What is 'that', exactly? Is there someone's blood on your hands right now? Samatoki swallows his questions, decides it's none of his business and instead goes to find the first aid kit.
"What you doing here, then?" Samatoki yells from the bathroom. "Doubt you need medical assistance."
"No, not quite," comes Jakurai's almost too quiet reply.
As Samatoki rejoins him in the living room, Jakurai reaches for the first aid kit. "I'll handle these myself."
Samatoki shrugs. "Suit yourself."
He watches Jakurai disinfect the many lacerations on his hands, each movement careful and methodical. There's not even a hint of a wince as he presses a cotton ball coated with antiseptic to the kind of cut that poses no threat, but burns more than it has the right to. The lack of reaction from Jakurai is disturbing.
"You still haven't answered my question," Samatoki asks, once the silence has grown too heavy to bear.
Jakurai pauses; he falters for such a short moment, Samatoki thinks he imagines it. His head tilted, Jakurai hums.
"Would you believe me if I said I simply didn't want to go home?" He offers carefully.
Samatoki frowns. "Why the hell not?"
There's no warning before their gazes meet. Samatoki tries not to flounder in the unexpected eye contact. Jakurai's hair, messy and unbrushed, falls over his face as he moves forward.
"It felt unbearably lonely," he admits. The smile on his face is not quite right.
Someone else might take this as a cue to offer support or comfort. To Samatoki, however, those things have never come naturally. He frowns, and says the only thing that comes to mind, "What, and you didn't think to go to those pet dogs of yours?"
Jakurai is never short of attention when those two are around, but Samatoki doesn't know how to point that out without sounding like a possessive ex.
"They would be shocked," Jakurai replies, "and I don't have the presence of mind to reassure them."
"So you came to me instead."
"Yes."
Jakurai goes quiet as he wraps bandages around the fingers of his right hand. Samatoki catches himself before he reaches out to brush Jakurai's hair aside.
"Out of all the people I know, you're the most likely to be discreet in this sort of situation. And…" He said, quiet and secretive. When Jakurai spoke like this, the world inside this living room became theirs alone. "It was my selfish desire not to talk about it. I assumed you'd understand, and therefore not pry further."
"Shit, I can't even tell if that's a compliment."
Here, Jakurai leans forward, and the space between them suddenly feels too small. Their knees bump as Samatoki shifts.
"It simply means I am safe around you, Samatoki-kun," Jakurai murmurs.
That’s too loaded of a sentence to be said so casually. Samatoki thinks of his mother, of Nemu slipping through his fingers, and swallows his denial. His disbelief.
"You really saying that to a yakuza?" He throws back, as close as he would get to voicing his true thoughts.
There's something to Jakurai, then. The small frown, barely there; his tightening fist, the way he looks over Samatoki's shoulder instead of at him. Like he isn't quite here. And still, he smiles—the cut on his bottom lip becomes more prominent as he does.
It reminds Samatoki that he doesn't know Jakurai at all.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Jakurai comments lightly.
He lays a hand on Jakurai's knee, too light to be anything but for his own comfort. Perhaps it's the need to tether them both down, to fight the disconnect that follows Samatoki in every relation that matters to him. He swallows the knot in his throat.
"Your face is a mess," Samatoki says. Without further elaboration, he tugs the first aid kit back to himself. "You planning to do this without a mirror?"
Without anything to occupy himself with, Jakurai folds his hands into his laps.
"I didn't want to trouble you."
"Sensei, the time to apologize was when you called me at three in the morning. I don't wanna hear it now."
Samatoki applies some ointment to help with the bruise. A cruel part of him wants to press harder, to see if Jakurai would hiss. Instead, his hands are gentle, too gentle; his own limbs feel foreign to him.
"I'll keep it to myself, then," Jakurai concedes.
He works in silence, and Jakurai leaves Samatoki to it. None of Jakurai's injuries are life-threatening, but he makes sure none of them are at risk of becoming infected. When he gets to his lips, however, Samatoki pauses. He looks up briefly, and leans forward into something that can't even be called a kiss. The press is light, Samatoki too aware of the dried blood on Jakurai’s lip to do much more than that. He breathes in deeply, and feels the same satisfaction as he does when nicotine fills his lungs.
"Is this part of your treatment as well?" Jakurai whispers with amusement.
Samatoki entangles his fingers into Jakurai's hair and combs through the kinks in it. Although the way he fixes Jakurai's hair can't be called anything but affectionate, there's enough roughness in it for him to call it a punishment.
"Do I look like the kind of guy who kisses without meaning it?" He huffs.
Jakurai pulls away first, eyes piercing as he studies Samatoki.
"Are you, Samatoki-kun?"
"No." Then, because his impulse control has been deteriorating throughout their interactions, he adds, "You gonna spend the night?"
Jakurai doesn't have the gall to look surprised. He pulls at Samatoki, just barely, enough to make a point. He smells of antiseptics and blood, and Samatoki is drawn to it—chases after him, even.
"If you'll have me," Jakurai replies against the crook of his neck.
Samatoki tightens his grip.
"I will."