Work Text:
The hotel room was quiet, too quiet.
Ango Sakaguchi sat at the small desk by the window, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as the laptop’s pale light painted his face in blue. It was almost midnight in Berlin—well past morning back in Yokohama. Oda would be asleep by now, buried beneath a mess of sheets that probably smelled faintly of cigarettes and coffee, the same scent Ango always associated with home.
He missed him.
Ango sighed and leaned back in the creaky chair. The day had been long—conferences, briefings, half a dozen polite lies exchanged in the name of diplomacy. His voice still carried the flat tone of professionalism, his expression locked in that same neutral calm that people mistook for composure. But now, alone, the mask felt heavy. His fingers lingered over his phone screen, tracing the last message Oda had sent hours ago:
“Don’t work too hard. Sleep when you can. I’ll be here.”
Ango smiled faintly.
Oda always said that—softly, almost absentmindedly, but with a weight that pressed against his chest long after reading it. There was a stillness in the man that Ango envied: a simple way of existing, of being kind without asking for anything back.
He rubbed at his temples, debating if he should text him back. It was late. He didn’t want to wake him.
Then, out of nowhere, an idea sparked—tiny, ridiculous, yet warm.
Oda may be asleep, but that didn’t mean Ango couldn’t try and communicate anyway. Oda would just see his messages when he woke up. And Ango wanted to surprise him—something new, something different, something… personal.
His gaze drifted toward the mirror across the room.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
Ango wasn’t vain. He was many things—methodical, sharp, introverted—but vain was not one of them. Yet there was something amusing about the thought of sending Oda a photo, just once. Not one of those sterile, work-related images where he stood in front of official buildings or conference halls. No—something more intimate. Something just for him.
He stood up and turned on the bedside lamp, lowering its brightness until the room was bathed in soft gold. The curtains were drawn, the city beyond just a blur of neon and rain against the glass. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. He shrugged off his coat, then loosened his tie, the movement almost hesitant—as though someone were watching.
A quiet laugh escaped him. “Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. But he didn’t stop.
He adjusted the camera on his phone, testing the angle. The first photo came out stiff—expression too neutral, posture too formal. The second was better, though he still looked too much like Public Security’s Ango Sakaguchi and not Oda’s Ango.
He tried again.
And again.
Until finally—he caught it. A faint, half-tired smile. Glasses slightly crooked. His hair undone from the day’s long hours, falling over his brow. The lamplight softened his features, painting the edges of his face in warmth instead of sharpness. He looked… different. Almost gentle.
He stared at the image for a long time before saving it.
It was strange, how a photograph could suddenly feel so alive.
He typed a message, erasing it twice before finally sending:
I thought I’d try something new while you’re asleep. Consider this an early birthday present.
He attached the photo and hit send before he could second-guess himself. His heart stuttered for a beat, the kind of nervousness he hadn’t felt in years. It was absurd—he’d stood before crime lords and political heads without blinking, yet the thought of Oda seeing him like this made his pulse quicken.
To distract himself, he poured a glass of water and went to the window. The city lights shimmered below—cold, unfamiliar, but strangely comforting. He thought of Oda again. How, in Yokohama’s morning light, Oda would wake up to that photo. Maybe he’d smile. Maybe he’d roll his eyes. Maybe he’d even text something teasing like, “Since when do you send me modelling shots?”
Ango chuckled quietly at the thought, resting his forehead against the cool glass.
He could almost picture it: Oda sitting at that little kitchen table, mug in hand, sunlight spilling across his bare shoulders, reading Ango’s message with that soft, unbothered expression of his. Maybe he’d save the picture. Maybe he’d just keep it open for a while. Ango didn’t really need a reply. The thought of Oda seeing it was enough.
When morning came in Yokohama, Ango’s phone buzzed where it lay beside the hotel bed.
He blinked awake, groggy and half tangled in sheets, and reached for it. One new message.
Oda Sakunosuke:
You look good when you’re not pretending you don’t have a heart, you know.
Also—thank you. Best early birthday gift I’ve ever had.
Below that, another message appeared, seconds later:
Now it’s your turn. Expect something tonight.
Ango smiled so widely it almost startled him.
He typed a reply, the morning sun spilling through the Berlin window as the city stirred to life around him.
I’ll be waiting.
And for once, he meant it—not in the distant, cautious way of a man too used to secrets, but in the way of someone who had found something worth returning to.
Something simple.
Something human.
Something like love.