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The third ring is somehow louder than the streets of Kamurocho.
Bass-heavy club music of various tempos and keys, sounds that people living in this city would hear until daybreak, are all drowned out by the muffled drone of the dial tone in Shirosaki's phone. Higashi has already griped about it: how making a woman wait too long to answer a call is asshole behavior. She lowers her phone to dial Yagami again. It makes his stomach drop.
Something doesn't feel right. Yagami isn’t the type of person to not pick up, even if he's fallen asleep.
Higashi doesn't keep up with his cases these days, and has no idea what conspiracy he's been chasing from one end of the city to the next. Occasionally, he receives updates from Kaito, usually when he invites Higashi out for drinks at Tender or a quick bite to eat. Most of the time, Higashi just listens in abject horror. They really take just about any ridiculous job, as long as it pays.
But if Shirosaki is involved, then it’s safe to assume that it's not just an odd job. He knows well enough about the shit Yagami gets into – he's gotten himself involved plenty.
“Try Kaito-aniki.” Higashi offers, tries to not sound panicked.
Kaito answers. They present their concerns, ask him to see if he can raise Yagami. The conversation is brief, even if Kaito says something about school clubs that puzzle both Higashi and Shirosaki. But Kaito isn’t stupid enough to miss that something is wrong, and he’s especially keen when it comes to his partner. Shirosaki thanks Kaito, and after some reassurance and a promise to keep Higashi updated, they part ways.
It’s business as usual for him in the interim. What time he doesn’t spend in Charles, he’s using to find ways to make the hours pass faster.
He doesn't get the update until they find Yagami and put him to bed in the Yokohama office. Sugiura's phone call brings only a little relief. What the hell have they all gotten themselves wrapped up in?
The full story comes out the next time they’re back in Tokyo. It gets explained to him quickly. Too quickly for him to properly understand at first – he has no time to process the extent of this web. As Yagami tells him everything, with Yui Mamiya sat in his arcade because it's apparently the safest place for an accomplice of murder, Higashi can't help but notice the bone-deep exhaustion that's layered itself over every single feature of Yagami’s face. The shine that is often there in his eyes when he's on the verge of cracking a major case is clear, a determination that belies the fact that sleep is a luxury, but something else is mixed in. Whether or not Higashi can pin it as fury, justice, or a cocktail that also harbors vengeance, it’s irrelevant. He isn’t in a position to tell Yagami what he's supposed to feel.
So he keeps quiet through most of the questioning, occasionally supplementing Yagami’s work with input that he thinks would be important. There's a string of events after that: Mamiya is let go, only to return again with a deeper scowl – towed in by Yagami, who has noticeably new cuts and bruises on his face but no less of that drive in his eyes.
Sugiura sees what Higashi sees and has the forethought to speak up, which is nice, because he has an image to uphold. Sugiura tells Yagami to take a load off, leaves no room for interpretation. He needs rest, Sugiura insists. Or at the very least, he needs to stop thinking. They take it upon themselves to keep eyes on Mamiya in the meantime.
Higashi sighs with apprehension. Sugiura tells him that the phone call from before saved Yagami’s life, quips something along the lines of ‘you do care!’ with a soft laugh. A slight droop in his shoulders, Sugiura tosses out one too many what-ifs, and most of them ramp up Higashi’s heart rate. He learns of Soma, of the warehouse that they had Yagami in, of Kaito and Sugiura arriving only a second before a fucking chainsaw found a new home in Yagami’s ribcage.
Who gets beaten and tortured like that only to trot around the next day like nothing happened?
Higashi brings out a bottle of whiskey from the backroom and pours, shares a glass with Sugiura. It helps steer the conversation into something more tolerable. Even if it’s for a short time, he’d rather think less about god complexes and the serial killers that nurture them.
Genda Law arrives in his arcade before Yagami comes back, ready to discuss new developments and compare notes. The second interrogation wraps up, and everyone files out to return to the office and review what they’ve learned. Sugiura volunteers himself to escort Mamiya home. Says it's the least he could do. What he doesn't say with words is that Yagami has spent more time awake than a normal person should, and that he should be assigned to forced bedrest.
Yagami, expectedly, is the last one to go, loitering on one of the stools strewn about the room. He’s thumbing through his phone making notes; probably going through the case files for the umpteenth time tonight.
“Here.” Higashi taps Yagami’s temple with an offering.
The ice shifts and rattles in the golden liquor. “Ah, thanks,” He mumbles, spacey with deep thought. His eyes are still fixed on the screen as he takes the drink.
Higashi regards Yagami with a grunt and moves back to the safety of the register counter, leaning forward onto his arms. His finger rubs the rim of his glass where his mouth just was.The cacophony of singing and ringing from the machines seems to grow louder in the silence. Higashi takes another sip.
“Rude as hell to not look at someone who’s gifted you something.” Despite his bluntness, there’s hardly any bite to Higashi’s words.
Yagami glances up at him, apologetic. He visibly deflates, as if he's been holding his breath for hours. “Sorry, sorry.” The phone finally gets tucked back into his pocket. “I appreciate you sharing your stock.” He offers a smile as payment, raises his glass in a small kanpai gesture.
“Finish your drink and get your ass out of here,” Higashi says. “You need sleep.”
“You want me out that bad, huh?”
“I want you out so you can go to bed. You look like shit.”
“I’ll be fine,” Yagami begins, eyeing Higashi from his seat. “You worried about me?”
A deeper grumble. Higashi downs a bigger mouthful than a sip. The warm burn dribbling into his chest keeps him from thinking about the answer to that question. Of course I’m worried.
“Everyone is,” he substitutes. “When was the last time you looked at your shitty mug in the mirror?”
Yagami snickers, unphased. “Guess that’s a fair argument.” He throws back the remainder of the whiskey, exhales a satisfied sigh, then stands to return the glass to its owner. “Thank you again for the drink.”
At this distance, Higashi can really see every little imperfection cutting Yagami’s face. Red spots where blood was haphazardly rubbed away. Bruises that haven’t quite turned purple yet in the edges of his cheekbones. Too many cuts from a ring on a fist that struck home on his brow, his chin, the hollows of his cheeks. Higashi’s brows knit tighter, wondering if other parts of him were just as mottled with injuries.
Maybe he’s been staring longer than he realizes because Yagami snaps him out of it with a contemplative hum. He lingers a bit, too. Higashi straightens up, clears his throat. All he manages is a pathetic ‘yeah’ that isn’t an answer to anything but the stretching awkwardness.
He watches the back of Yagami’s figure disappear up the steps and around the corner, fading out of view as Kamurocho swallows him again. Higashi shudders out a breath, safe in his solitude, and he tries to not think about Yagami’s gaze holding his. His blood thunders in his ears while he’s inhaling deep, and he buries himself in the crook of his elbow, laid atop the counter. There’s a laundry list of new stressors from today alone, none of which he has any fucking idea how to deal with as they are.
Useless.
The rest of the dark liquid in his glass burns the whole way down.
Higashi doesn’t see Yagami for a few days. When he does, it’s on a whim. Passing by, he tells himself. Just in the neighborhood. He’s got a plastic bag with a selection of drinks both alcoholic and not, some food that isn’t just cup ramen (god forbid Yagami eat something else in his office), and the smallest first aid kit the store had to offer. Just in case.
Harried people step around him while he stands outside of the building that houses Yagami Detective Agency. Higashi cranes his head up to observe the office window that faces the street, scowling as he contemplates changing his mind and heading back to offload these offerings to his on-the-clock employee at Charles. There’s a chance Yagami isn’t even in. He didn’t call ahead – if he shows up unannounced, it gives Yagami less of an opportunity to make excuses about ‘being fine’.
But Higashi is a nice person, so he’ll march himself up those flights of stairs and knock. Once.
He isn’t surprised when there’s no answer. The shelving unit to the right of the door blocks most of the view further in, so peering through the window provides nothing. Higashi tries the doorknob knowing that if Yagami is home it’ll be unlocked. He wonders if he’s lucky or unlucky when the mechanism catches, and the door refuses to move.
Some higher power is looking out for him, Higashi decides. He doesn’t have to expend the energy to act like a person who’s actually concerned about a guy who he finds irritating, and then promptly make himself look like an idiot.
He can save face.
No one can say he didn’t take initiative – even if there are no witnesses besides himself. He turns to walk down the stairs to venture back out onto Kamurocho’s crowded streets. He must have zoned out while fishing for his cigarettes because the second he rounds the sharp corner, he barely has a second to react. He ends up colliding with whoever had just entered the building.
“Oi! Watch where – ah, shit.”
Whether Higashi is exasperated by the fact that his unlit cigarette is now bent in half and torn, or the missed opportunity to actually avoid this interaction is a fucking toss-up.
“Higashi?” Yagami blinks, then hitches an eyebrow. Those sharp eyes are immediately doing what they do best: looking him over, analyzing for any little detail that pries him open without Higashi having to move his mouth. Mercifully, Yagami keeps his speculations to himself for now – or (more likely) to save it as ammo for later.
His hand flexes around the plastic bag as the other scrubs at the back of his neck. Higashi chews on the filter of his busted cigarette, an annoyed scowl wringing his brow. “Was hoping to not run into you.”
“In the building where my office is?” Yagami snorts. He sweeps the fallen flakes of tobacco aside with a foot. “If that was your goal, I think you’re gonna have to rethink your plan.”
He thinks he should get an award for resisting the urge to swing the drinks at Yagami to wipe the grin off. He can’t even make the excuse of someone asking him for a favor in the form of a house call; Kaito’s in the hospital and anyone else he knows would happily do it themselves. He’d rather bite his own tongue off than admit this wellness check was of his own volition, born of his own worry.
“So…” Yagami starts slow after they stand stupidly in the empty hall unmoving for a little too long. “To what do I owe the visit?” His eyes flit downward to Higashi’s bag, then immediately back up. “Something up?”
Deciding that it’d be too much trouble to spin a wild story to get himself off the hook, Higashi relents. He gestures with a jerk of his head up towards the office before wordlessly dragging himself back towards the trap of his own making. He steps aside to let Yagami unlock the door, following him in. The bottles and sandwiches clatter on the tabletop, the bag itself the only thing preventing everything from rolling unceremoniously onto the ground. Higashi makes a point to not look at Yagami, who he can definitely sense is looking at him.
“You still look like shit,” Higashi says.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Have you slept at all?”
Yagami hums in thought, takes long enough to answer that Higashi thinks he’s going to spew a blatant lie. “Kind of. I’ve been busy though.” He drops himself onto the couch but makes no effort to even pretend to decompress. Yagami’s arms fold in a way not dissimilar to the ones between his eyes.
“When are you not busy?” Higashi takes a seat on the single across from him. “You’re gonna kill yourself at this rate.” Sharper, and perhaps with more vulnerability than he wants: “Again.”
He forces himself to look at Yagami, takes note of his features all over again. Dark circles have followed Yagami since he started law school, but Higashi hasn’t seen them this deep since the AD-9 incident. They sap the shine from those sharp eyes. There’s a tenseness in Yagami’s brow that creeps down and sets his jaw. It burrows into his shoulders, and as much as Yagami tries to feign aloofness, he’s doing a shit job. Bruises from whatever altercation happened have faded from angry purple-blue to ugly yellow-green; the deep cut high on his cheekbone has scabbed over, but some fresher ones are scattered here and there on the meat of his cheek, his chin. Higashi’s almost certain that the old injuries hadn’t healed before new ones were added to the palette.
Despite all of that, infuriatingly, Yagami remains beautiful.
And he maybe stares too long at the red patch on the corner of Yagami’s lips. Higashi doesn’t want to think about how tender the split skin is and how it might feel under his fingertip. He’ll refuse to admit, if pressed, that the slight pout of them is charming, admit how he wants to kiss them, and admit how much he simultaneously wants the floor to fall out from under him.
Yagami is suspiciously quiet, and it sets him on edge, like he's being scrutinized the way someone does a specimen pinned for display. Except the creature is still writhing. In an effort to distract both of them and to make all of this less awkward, Higashi fishes through the bag and thrusts a small bento in Yagami’s face.
“Ah –”
“Eat.”
He sets out the selection of drinks, listens to Yagami pop the plastic lid. It isn't lost on Higashi: the bone-deep exhaustion that's got Yagami’s movements all sluggish. There's a quiet but appreciative ‘itadakimasu’ before he starts. Rarely do the two of them exist in a room without one ribbing at the other; he can't decide if Yagami’s lack of snark comforts him or makes him feel worse.
They sit in amicable silence, broken occasionally by chopsticks scraping the edge of the bento box. Higashi pats his pockets for his cigarettes; his face scrunches for a split second when he feels flecks of tobacco from the broken smoke burrow under his fingernails. It's a bit of a fumble but he manages to light up so that his lungs get the embrace of nicotine they so badly crave. As he tucks his lighter back into his coat, he reaches for one of the beer cans he's laid out.
A chill drives the warmth from his chest when he catches Yagami’s eyes on him once more. He still isn't saying anything. Higashi feels the familiar twinge of annoyance brewing in his nerves.
“What?”
Yagami tilts the now empty container into view. Puts it down on the table. “You don't have to do this, you know?”
“Eh?”
“Feed me.” Yagami clarifies. “Check on me. You don't have to force yourself to do something you don't want.”
“I'm not.” Higashi drains half the can.
He can see Yagami trying to figure this out. Where this caretaker behavior is coming from. Higashi can't keep his eyes fixed indefinitely on another person like Yagami can – it makes him uneasy. He knows those dark eyes are searching for insight, any explanation for Higashi being here.
And – he doesn’t owe Yagami an explanation. He’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart. No normal person would be able to stand seeing a friend (in the loosest of definitions) beaten to shit any time they cross paths in the city. Even for Kamurocho, this is insanity.
But Higashi can’t say any of that. Not without half a bottle of whiskey prior so he has something to blame in case he lets slip that he cares. The beer he’s drinking won’t cut it; he needs to keep it together.
Yagami - stupid fucking Yagami - opens his mouth and instantly makes that task insurmountable.
“You’re a terrible liar, Higashi.”
The aluminum pops softly as his fingers stiffen; Higashi scowls, and it takes incredible restraint to not throw the half-empty can at that smart mouth.
“You don’t have to listen to Sugiura, or whoever, if they beg you to do something nice for me.” Yagami starts as he plucks a bottle of water up to drink.
His tone masks something more calculated, like he’s trying all the unlikely possibilities to get Higashi to cave. It’s a tactic Yagami uses specifically for this kind of thing, because he knows that the best way to get under someone’s skin is just a single, perfectly constructed sentence.
“No one begged me to do shit,” Higashi says. It’s like a warning.
Either Yagami completely misses it or purposely disregards it, because he bites back. “We both know you don’t like me that much.”
Something in the way Yagami says that wrenches his throat shut tight. Higashi sits back in his seat, chewing and puffing on his cigarette. He’s lost count of how many times those words have been said to him in that order; thinks that, ultimately, it’s really his own damn fault. The way that the two of them pull at each other’s ears – a couple favors here and there don’t mean that they’re graduating into friend territory.
Kaito-aniki was – is – the only common denominator here. It’s always been Kaito, a presence big enough to envelope them both; Higashi, reluctant to share it. Kaito would clap his shoulder, hand warm and firm, and through his laugh, say Yagami isn’t that bad. ‘Tak is a good guy, Higashi.’ The nickname alone sometimes still makes his finger twitch. ‘You two are more alike than you think. At least for my sake, try getting along.’
Higashi is doing his damn best. He didn’t have to stick his neck out a few years ago and get himself beaten (on multiple occasions) for Yagami’s sake. He didn’t have to agree to letting anyone use his arcade as an interrogation room; only to get himself beaten (also on multiple occasions) for keeping secrets. He didn’t have to ask Shirosaki about calling Kaito to request a wellness check just because a dial tone rang one too many times.
And he didn’t have to spend his day off in a convenience store, tossing food and drink and first aid into a basket for someone who is wholly convinced that Higashi doesn’t like him enough to be a good fucking person.
Yagami’s response doesn’t deserve to be dignified with a reaction. The cigarette has burned to a precariously placed log where any sudden movement could scatter ashes across the floorboards. So he finishes it with a final pull and stubs it out in the portable ash tray he carries. As much as he wants to tear Yagami a new one, he keeps the profanities to himself and snatches the first aid kit.
Bottles and cans clatter as Higashi pushes everything on the table over to clear a spot to sit.
“Did you get into another scrap?” Pointedly, he ignores the prior subject altogether. If they’re going to talk, Higashi is going to be the one steering it.
He doesn’t make eye contact, shuffling through the bandages, swabs, and cotton pads to find what he needs. Yagami remains in his spot, breath steady and his scrutinizing gaze even steadier. There’s no protest when Higashi swipes at the cut near his hairline. He’s looking everywhere but Yagami’s eyes.
“Got jumped by some assholes on the way back. The usual,” Yagami offers.
Higashi grunts, takes care to keep skin contact to a minimum, even if the temptation to swipe his thumb over Yagami’s busted lower lip sparks up again and generates an itch in his fingertip. He works as quick as he can, dabbing away crusts of blood, disinfecting the deeper grazes. Yagami has probably picked up on Higashi’s stubborn refusal to talk, which he respects by kindly backing off.
By the time his injuries are patched, they’ve been sitting in silence for a while; Higashi packs away the extra supplies and makes to get up, and Yagami catches his arm. Higashi stares at the hand in the crook of his elbow, and his pulse races in his ears. He’s dangerously aware of each heartbeat behind his sternum. Heat slowly rises in his nerves; he can’t tell if it’s from offense or something else altogether.
“Did I say something?” the detective asks. Cautious, careful in the way someone would speak to a stray cat.
Higashi hates how softly Yagami is speaking to him.
“No.”
Yagami knits his brow, grip tightening insistently but not enough that Higashi couldn’t twist away if he wanted to. His sunglasses are always a point of ridicule from others, but they also have proven to be a lifeline – a shroud in which he can hide from prying individuals. Higashi is grateful for them, especially now, frames obscuring Yagami’s view just enough that there is still a modicum of safety.
Except Yagami tugs at him, and Higashi growls as he stumbles back into his temporary seat on the coffee table.
“Your bedside manner needs work,” Yagami lilts, releasing Higashi’s arm.
Higashi’s shoulders tense, but he sighs as he loses any will he had left to fight. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“I’m not gonna be ungrateful, Higashi. I appreciate –” Yagami gestures to the rest of the table. “-- all this. But really, you don’t have to go out of your way to do this if you don’t want to.”
The temptation to add a bloody nose to this guy’s already massive list of ailments grows.
“You don’t need to pretend to be my friend.”
He reacts on reflex, brain still processing when, in one motion, he gets to his feet and his fist shoots out to nail Yagami in the face. Dead center, yet there’s no impact when he expects one. Because on the laundry list of insufferable things that Yagami is good at, predicting when Higashi’s emotions get the better of him is one of them. Yagami’s caught Higashi’s wrist, flight path interrupted with so little effort it makes Higashi want to scream.
“I’m not here because I was asked to be.” Absently, he considers a detour to Tender before going home. “But if me being here by my own choice is just so fucking hard for you to believe, I can leave.” Higashi stands.
“Wait –”
That hand stops him again. Firmer. He hates that he keeps running only to be caught.
And it’s definitely showing on his face because Yagami is staring up at him with an expression he can’t unpack. What is that swirling behind those eyes if he believes Higashi isn’t a friend? Pity? Guilt? He wants to be on the receiving end of none of those things; he doesn’t want Yagami’s shit excuse for an apology. Next time the guy is tied up and being tortured in some gang-infested warehouse on the outskirts of town, Higashi won’t feel bad ignoring the phone call.
“Let me go.” Higashi’s voice drops, raspy in its attempt to quell the shaking that threatens.
The man’s grip tightens. “Higashi, please.”
Higashi’s resolve is crumbling fast – how many blades will he endure by the end of the night? In a show of generosity that Yagami doesn’t deserve, he says, “You have three minutes.”
Higashi folds his arms across his chest, reluctance heavy in his body language as he sits on the couch with as much distance between Yagami and himself as possible. The wood of the armrest digs into his hip, and mentally, he grabs at the pressure like it’s a life preserver.
“I’m sorry,” Yagami says. He massages the back of his own neck as he talks, turns to face forward, screws his eyes shut. His whole body sags. “It’s… been a lot lately. And I don’t want to make it anyone else’s problem.”
Too late for that.
“I feel like if I sit still or sleep or take a break, something important is going to slip through my fingers.” A deep exhale, a broad palm rubbing an eye. “People keep getting caught in the crossfire. Tsukumo, Sugiura, Kaito-san…” Yagami, exhaustion suffusing him, drops his forehead into his hand. “Sawa-sensei…”
The defensiveness in Higashi’s shoulders subsides, a little. He remains quiet as he lets Yagami talk: about the case, about the school, about suspects that are thorns in his side. The longer he rambles, the less on edge he seems to become. Much to his displeasure, Higashi can relate.
However, he doesn’t know why he’s still here. Three minutes have long since passed.
“I’m not giving up until all this is over, with the best possible outcome. I owe her that much.” Yagami’s voice softens, the line of thought trailing off as he hangs his head.
Higashi shifts, listens to the other man’s breathing. In the silence, his arms unfold, and he even manages to settle into the back of the couch. He really should’ve stuck to his self-imposed time limit and left.
Curse his bleeding heart.
“You’re going to bury yourself. And you’ll do it before someone else gets the chance,” Higashi says wearily. “Running full speed into your own casket isn’t going to do you or anyone any favors.”
“I can handle it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ll rest when everything is made right.”
“Yagami.”
Yagami lifts his head from his hands and catches Higashi’s look. His eyes are red at the edges, swollen from lack of sleep; a telltale sign of a dam ready to burst. Maybe he realizes that he’s being unreasonable, or maybe he realizes that this is a ledge that he’s dangling off of and Higashi’s the only thing that’s keeping him from a freefall. At the very least, Higashi hopes that the small gestures – the meals, the drinks, the scolding-meets-words of reassurance – are enough to pull Yagami back from a stupid decision.
Higashi can only offer what he already has.
Full of frustration, and admiration of this man’s tenacity, Higashi wonders if it’s worth continuing down this path; if carving open a space in his carefully constructed walls is worth the risk to himself. When the silence becomes too long again, Yagami groans, pushing his hands into his hair as he thumps back against the couch in a slouch.
“Fuck.”
His head rolls back, neck bared to the ceiling. The adam's apple bobs, the sigh he releases taking the rigidity of his muscles with it.
“Sorry.” Yagami stares at a point on the wall, waits a beat, and repeats, “I’m sorry.”
Higashi acknowledges him with a terse ‘hm’. Yagami swivels only his head to look at him, and while gravity pulls his features downward in an unflattering way, nothing short of mutilation would make Yagami less handsome. He wants to throw another punch – maybe at himself, while he’s at it – and he hates the part of his brain that wants to smooth out the fold stamped into Yagami’s browline.
“You didn’t deserve that,” offers Yagami. “What I said, I mean.”
“At least you’re smart enough to admit it.” Higashi grunts, stretching a leg out.
The leather of Yagami’s jacket squeaks against his seat as he adjusts. He tucks a leg under himself, rests an arm along the back of the couch and presses the side of his head into his palm. Something tugs in Higashi’s chest when he meets the other man’s eye. Yagami’s definitely staring; searching for something again.
“What?” Higashi frowns.
“You look tired.” Boyish in the way he lolls his head, Yagami relaxes a little more.
“It’s because I’m here in your office instead of at home in my bed.”
He won’t admit that Yagami’s chuckle sends warmth up to his ears.
“For what it’s worth – thanks, Higashi.”
Sincerity has always been Yagami’s most dangerous weapon, and Higashi can only hope that the flush he knows is rising remains hidden behind his sunglasses. He feels ridiculous that a completely ordinary act of appreciation sets his nerves alight. Curse his fear, curse his weak heart. His finger itches to brush aside the hair caught on Yagami’s eyelash, and the invasive thought terrifies him. If he scrambles fast enough, maybe he can make it out the door before he's interrogated as to why he’s gone pink.
To no one's surprise, Yagami has predicted Higashi’s fight or flight instinct, but he knows he doesn’t have to move. The guy’s smile is disarming enough, and Higashi wants the ground to swallow him whole.
Before Higashi can stop himself, he opens his mouth again. “Tch. Take care of yourself better, so I don’t have to.”
“Yes, sir.” It sounds almost sarcastic, but Higashi’s scowl prompts Yagami to amend his statement. “I’ll try not to trouble you more.”
“You showing up on my doorstep always means trouble.”
“I don’t do it on purpose.” Yagami insists, more at ease than Higashi has seen him in days. He pats his jean pockets for his Seven Stars, flicks his lighter to life. “Next time I drop in, it’ll be to treat you to dinner.”
Unbelievably casual in the delivery, Higashi stares at him like he just said something impossibly offensive and not offered a nonchalant invitation. “E-eh?” His ribs might just crack with how hard his heart is ramming against them. “What for?”
Yagami smiles around his cigarette. “To pay you back for today.” He reaches for Higashi’s abandoned drink and holds it out.
Scoffing, Higashi eyes him incredulously, takes the proffered can to polish off the beer. “With what money? For all I know this is a ploy for you to get another free meal out of me.”
“As long as you’re not asking to go to Kanrai.”
“Cheapskate.”
Yagami muses. “That wasn’t a no, though.”
Higashi wonders if thinking about stepping into traffic means he’s sick in the head. It’s a poor distraction, but he takes his glasses off to clean off dust that doesn’t actually exist. The longer he drags out his stay, the more he loses any semblance of control of this situation. He elects to ignore the fact that being here was a conscious decision that he made himself.
For now, Yagami’s blurred face is a safety blanket – can’t give attention to what he can’t see; except that bit of safety immediately evaporates when Yagami’s suddenly too close. Higashi bites back a surprised yelp and twists away on instinct, the unfortunate barrier of the couch at his back keeping him from moving further. He nearly drops the beer, prays Yagami can’t hear the pulse in his ears.
“What?” he hisses.
It isn’t until his vision starts sparkling that Higashi realizes he’s been holding his breath too long. He can’t read Yagami’s expression, even at this distance. When no response comes, he opens his mouth to protest.
But the only thing that comes out is a shaky exhale. Yagami’s hand comes up to settle against his face, thumb careful and curious as it brushes the mole under Higashi’s eye. The scent of smoke and leather is impossible to miss, a familiar cologne that is distinctively Yagami; uncertain if it’s what makes him dizzy, or if it’s Yagami’s warmth seeping into his skin. His temples throb under the attention, and he swallows the anxiety collecting in his throat.
He takes Yagami’s wrist in a loose grip, makes no move to pry it away. Instead, he sits there with the knowledge that Yagami’s pulse is just as quick as his under his fingertips.
There’s a split second where Yagami’s eyes flit downward, and Higashi considers every decision he has ever been forced to make in his life and every horrible consequence that came of them. What’s one more?
In a moment of unexpected impatience, Higashi sucks air through his teeth.
And in a low whisper, asks: “What are you waiting for?”
The taste of cigarettes blooms into his mouth as Yagami brings him forward. It’s so gentle, the way his jaw is cradled. That thumb is caressing his mole again, and he thinks his heart might actually explode. He leans into the touch, into the kiss, into Yagami. He manages a small breath of air before it’s taken from him again with a wet swipe of tongue.
Yagami breaks the kiss, eyes still shut, and he presses their foreheads together. Higashi listens to him breathe, counting Yagami’s moles to commit the number to memory. His lips are shiny with spit and Higashi resists the urge to taste them again.
A smirk and laugh breaks the spell.
“I didn’t expect that out of you,” Yagami sighs. “Didn’t think you’d just outright say it. It’s kinda cute.”
Higashi yanks the hand from his face and knocks his head against Yagami’s. He feels no remorse about the man’s pitiful declarations of pain and returns his glasses to their perch on his face.
“Not so cute,” grouses Yagami, rubbing the point of collision with more drama than was necessary.
“Stop calling me that.”
There’s a fondness that Yagami looks at him with; he wants to chase after it, wants to run from it. Embarrassment prickles at the back of his neck until a knowing hand settles at his nape with a squeeze. He relaxes under the pressure.
And because Yagami is an ass and has to get the last word in like he’s a schoolboy, he adds, “You know, there were less complicated ways to go about this.”
“The method matches the man.” Higashi swats at his hand. “You’re the problem.”
Yagami humors him with the shallow ‘mhm’ of false agreement.
“Which is why you wanted me to make the move first, huh?”
Deciding that he’s endured enough mockery for the night, Higashi doesn’t give Yagami the politeness of excusing himself. He simply stands in silence to make for the exit.
“Higashi,” Yagami calls out when the door opens, voice warm.
Higashi waits idly.
Kamurocho is patient to receive him.
“Thanks.” For taking care of me. “See you later.”
While he doesn’t spare a glance, Higashi fights a losing battle to not smile, faint as it may be.
“Yeah.”
Door clicking shut behind him, he descends the staircase.