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Hanma could find his way home- that is, to Kisaki’s house- from any part of the city, in the dark, walking backwards, with a concussion. It was muscle memory.
Of course it’s even easier when Kisaki is leading the way, then Hanma can just follow him, eyes on the head of familiar blond hair, his narrow shoulders. He’s tired after the fight they just got into, it’s why his eyes linger on the nape of Kisaki’s neck, concentrating on counting every one of the fine blond hairs that tickle his tan skin instead of wondering why they’re going around the side of the house, to the backyard instead of using the front entrance.
“Wait here.” Kisaki orders, not bothering to even look over his shoulder to check that Hanma had obeyed. He had, of course. Standing stock still in the middle of the yard, on the stone pathway, while Kisaki entered the small garden shed on the other side of the yard. He returns, carrying a plastic toiletry basket and-
Hanma tilts his head, questioning. “Hey, what’s that for-?” Then a spluttering cough when Kisaki aims the hose at him and presses the nozzle.
“You smell.” Kisaki explains, while Hanma is coughing. “Bad.” He helpfully clarifies.
Hanma wipes water off his face, still coughing. His sinuses burn. His wet shirt clings uncomfortably to his chest.
Though, he figures it’s a fair assessment. Kisaki was a bit prissy, and Hanma was covered in dirt, sweat, some dude’s blood, and the perpetual smell of smoke that stuck to his skin.
Still. Getting hosed down in the backyard, like a dog-
“It’s cold!” He complains once he’s coughed the water out of his lungs. His hands rubbing up and down his bare arms, covered in goosebumps.
“It’ll warm up.” Kisaki says absently, in a tone that makes it clear that Hanma was being unreasonable. He sprays Hanma with water before he can protest again.
Hanma brings his hands up to his face, turning away, hunching his shoulders. He doesn’t think about getting out of the way, or telling Kisaki to stop, that there was a perfectly functional shower in the house. Kisaki had told him to stay put, and so he stays.
Besides, Kisaki was right, the water was warming up.
Kisaki stops for a moment, fiddling with the setting on the nozzle, the next spray comes out too hard. Kisaki laughs when it hits Hanma in the ribs, making him squirm. And then Hanma is squirming for a different reason, can’t help but smile just at the sound of Kisaki’s laugh, even if it’s him that’s being laughed at. It wasn’t too mean anyways, more childish than anything. Kisaki changes the setting again and the water pressure comes out perfectly.
Kisaki doesn’t turn the water off until Hanma’s clothes are completely soaked through, his hair flopping in his face.
“Take your clothes off.”
Hanma smirks. Already reaching for the hem of his shirt.
“If you wanted to see me shirtless all you had to do was ask-”
“Hanma.” Kisaki warns vaguely.
Hanma laughs. He tosses the shirt aside, it was uncomfortable anyway, then kicks his sandals off too.
He stands there, waiting.
“Your pants too.” Kisaki instructs eventually.
Hanma winks. “Buy me dinner first.”
Kisaki rolls his eyes. “The takeout is already on the way.”
“Oh. Right.” Hanma had forgotten that they’d stopped for food on the way, Kisaki hadn’t wanted to wait and ordered it to be delivered instead. Hanma shrugs and undoes his belt. Finally he’s left standing in his underwear with a pile of dirty, wet clothes and his sandals at his feet.
Kisaki lets him stand there for a second, looking Hanma over before he presses the nozzle again. Instructs him to turn around. Laughs when the water hits the sensitive back of his neck and makes Hanma flinch again.
“Come here.” Kisaki orders.
The hose hangs limply from his hand, a bottle of shampoo in the other that he had dug out of the basket he’d brought with him. Kisaki has to lean up on the tips of his toes to pour a generous amount of shampoo on Hanma’s head. He waits while Hanma massages it into his hair.
It’s Kisaki’s shampoo, Hanma knows because it smells like him, and because he’d seen it before in Kisaki's bathroom and couldn’t help but memorize the brand. It was expensive, he’d checked. He’d seen the price tag and then stolen a bottle from the store. It sits, open and unused, in his bedroom. It smells nice.
Kisaki watches him. Grey eyes boring into him intently. Patient.
“That’s enough.” And he gestures for Hanma to come closer. Hanma does, leaning down when Kisaki doesn’t lift the hose enough for him to get under the gentle spray of water.
Kisaki brings a hand up to Hanma’s hair, and Hanma leans down further, leaning into the touch on instinct. Bowing his head to Kisaki.
Holding still, careful not to splash the water and get Kisaki wet too.
Kisaki’s fingers card through his hair, carefully working the suds out of his hair. His hand trails down the back of his head to the nape of his neck, his small hand spanning the width of the back of Hanma’s neck, his thin fingers digging in sharply. Hanma only sighs. Comfortable despite the crick in his back from the awkward position.
He hears Kisaki huff a soft breath of laughter, when he chances a peak at him through a curtain of wet hair he finds the corner of his lip upturned, not amused but satisfied. Hanma's heart beats loudly in his chest, he feels it at the base of his throat. His whole body feels warm despite the chill.
He gives Hanma another quick rinse, then shuts the water off, tossing the hose aside without a care.
There are two towels in the basket, big fluffy beige towels like the ones in Kisaki’s bathroom. Kisaki only has to shoot him a look over the frame of his glasses for Hanma to hold his arm out, and then the other, letting Kisaki pat him dry. Then his chest, Hanma’s hands trembling despite Kisaki’s clinical touch. Kisaki lets him take the towel to dry his back and legs, which Hanma does in a hurry, wrapping the towel around his hips afterwards.
Kisaki uses the other towel to dry Hanma’s hair. Hanma leans down again, to a more convenient height. Kisaki’s hands almost feel gentle when they rub the towel over his damp hair.
Hanma brings his shaking hands up to wrap around Kisaki’s wrists, Kisaki stops.
Kisaki’s eyes are cold and clear, staring straight back at Hanma even when Hanma’s eyes flicker over his eyes, his pretty face, his lips and back to his eyes.
“Can we-?”
Kisaki shakes his head immediately.
Hanma drops his hands, shoulders hunched. Not quite dejected, because Kisaki is still there, drying his hair carefully, He takes a corner of the towel and dries Hanma’s face, pushing his hair off his forehead, caressing his cheek.
"Good boy." Kisaki says. Voice low. Approving.
Hanma's ears burn. Hands clenching the towel around his hips tightly. He has the not-so-sudden urge to be beneath Kisaki, to look up at him instead of viceversa.
Kisaki doesn't seem to care, unbothered by the fact that Hanma towers over him when he knows Hanma will stoop to the ground at Kisaki's order.
He ruffles the towel over Hanma's hair one last time then gestures at him to follow, leading the way to the empty house through the backdoor. Hanma follows eagerly, he always does. Looking forward to a clean change of clothes, a warm meal, an easy afternoon in good company.
And to sleeping in bed with Kisaki at the end of the night. Like a clingy stray.