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Yamato’s hands itch and sweat.
His greatest opponent yet – Nirei Akihiko’s hand – lies in the too small and still too vast space between their thighs, lax and deceptively casual. Nirei’s fingers are relaxed, curved towards himself, but his pinky happens to be casually pointing in Yamato’s direction. Nosy just like the rest of Nirei, it’s delivering a painfully clear message, and it feels like it’s staring down at Yamato and judging him for keeping his hands in his lap like a coward.
It’s right, of course.
Things are only offensive when they’re true.
Yamato wants to reach out and hold that hand, really, really badly, but he doesn’t really know where to start. It’s not something he does. He’s dreamed about it, of course. He’s also touched and grabbed hands before, mostly during fights, occasionally as easy money, but he’s never really held hands. Definitely not willingly, meaningfully, as a reciprocal romantic gesture.
And he’s thankfully not pathetic enough to ask, just barely, but he assumes it’s a first for Nirei too.
Nirei, who’s already grabbed and prodded at his skin before, his curiosity always getting the best of him and making invasions of privacy seem like nothing. He’s just a little freak like that. He’s touched and turned Yamato’s dangerous, scary hands around and around and around, he’s studied and took the time to sketch his tattoos, asking unimpressed yet curious questions after realizing they don’t carry any personal meaning beyond the same old embarrassing, desperate wish to be seen. (And that, too, has been written down in that creepy little notebook.)
And their fingers even brush almost every time Nirei offers said freaky little notebook to fill – the reason they started meeting in the first place – and whenever Yamato gives it back, enriched with all the information he’s willing to share and the occasional corrections that shouldn’t feel as good as they do.
Nirei has such deft, pretty hands. Small and cute and freckled. He takes good care of them, and he uses them a lot. His knuckles look all scratched up lately, his finger pads always stained with ink. All of it is proof of the hard work he puts into himself, not only providing intel but now actually getting his hands dirty in fights, and Yamato is mildly disgusted not only for thinking it, but also being proud of him for it.
They’re good hands. Too good for Yamato. But still, they’re just hands. It shouldn’t be a big deal. They both don’t have anything to compare this experience to. But Nirei notices everything there is to notice all the time, so he’ll instantly learn and know too much. He’ll feel Yamato’s hesitancy, the dampness of his palm, he’ll probably even hear his erratic pulse and shaky breaths, and he’ll document all of it. Nirei’s notes will outlive whatever the fuck this small miracle is that Yamato thinks he can have, and-
“You know, for a genius, you sure don’t act like one most of the time.”
Nirei’s fingers tap the couch, frustration quiet enough to not be heard, like his hand is also grumbling.
Yamato squints at the little fucker still judging him, swallows his surprise and all his other stupid, annoying, pathetic feelings with it. Then he feels silly for being surprised at all – of course Nirei would quickly get fed up with his shit and call him out on it. That’s what he loves about him.
“What can I say. ‘Guess I like defyin’ expectations.”
He lifts his hands to shrug off the discomfort of being seen, the same nonchalant gesture he always resorts to, then joins them again over his stomach, hoping that’ll hide how restless he feels since he can’t pull his sleeves back down without being psychoanalyzed. Plus, Nirei really doesn’t need to know Yamato’s been antagonizing one of his fingers.
Of course, Nirei is unimpressed. He looks at Yamato’s hands, then back at his eyes again. Always the same brave little bug.
“Just put your hand down, Endou-san.”
Yamato feels hot, recognizes the familiar feeling of his entire face blushing, up to his ears and down to his neck. And yet, for the first time ever, flight seems to be winning over fight. He has to look away, awkward and ashamed and shy, of all things.
It’s weird, wanting to hide. Even weirder is knowing he can’t.
Takiishi’s usually not looking at him, and if he is, he’s not really seeing Yamato but a gift or an act of service, and the good thing is Yamato’s never needed to hide his feelings. Outside of fights, Sakura is the one always hiding his face from Yamato, so he gets to stare all he wants, and the closer he gets, the darker Sakura blushes. But Nirei is always aware of every fucking thing, every single reaction, constantly looking at Yamato from the corner of his eyes and only vaguely sheepish about it, and only when he’s caught.
Unlike Takiishi and Sakura, Nirei’s care is everything but subtle, and he shows it all the time, not just during stolen moments or bloody fights. He’s showing it now with his fidgeting hand, furrowed brows, and halfhearted glare that pierces Yamato’s useless hands to reach the mushiest, most malleable spot he didn’t even know was so easy to access.
It’s weird and freaky. Yamato kinda loves it. It’s the most dangerous situation he’s ever willingly put himself in. Still, it’s not so bad.
He places his hand down as requested – ordered, really – and Nirei immediately snatches it up. He grabs it, holds it kinda like a bad handshake. He was probably so focused on being grumpy that he forgot to plan for this part, which shouldn’t make Yamato’s stomach flip like it does.
Both their palms are disgustingly clammy and Nirei’s still holding Yamato’s hand at a weird angle, but Yamato still feels like there’s a thunderstorm trapped inside his chest. It’s a familiar feeling, it just doesn’t match the setting. There are no punches flying or ghosts of golden flames dancing in front of him, but his heart feels like it’s going to burst all the same.
What the fuck has he become.
Yamato glances at Nirei, at his pink cheeks, sees the way his eyes dart away because he’s also processing the full intensity of this moment. Knowing it feels just as monumental for Nirei should reassure him a bit, but it doesn’t. He just feels extra pressure to make it good, and it’s so dumb because this is all over hand holding, not even something important like a kiss, but it is what Nirei deserves.
Someone who wants to hold his hand and will do it properly, confidently, and won’t bite it off at the first chance.
And maybe Yamato wants a little too much, as he’s always done, and maybe it’s only a matter of time before he fucks it all up beyond saving and all the memories and meticulous notebook logs get soured by his greed and whims, but until then, he can put in some effort. (It’s more than just some. It’s a lot. And of course, Nirei’s already taken note of it.)
He fixes the grip, takes hold of Nirei’s hand properly and confidently. It feels so small, fingers so short as he intertwines them. He likes it.
As he brushes his thumb back and forth over Nirei’s smooth skin, he feels and sees Nirei squirm, then squeeze his hand. If one thing about Nirei is true is that he always squirms – and looks real damn cute doing it – but stands his ground no matter how scared or uncomfortable he is.
Nirei keeps doing most of the work, nail tracing a corner of the big triangle on the back of Yamato’s hand. Yamato knows Nirei doesn’t like it, just like most of the tattoos – he does like Takiishi’s symbol, which never would’ve mattered to Yamato until it suddenly did – and the best part is he never tries to hide his distaste, but he sure seems to be all too happy to touch them now.
Yeah. Judging by today’s crisis, Yamato’s got a few things to learn from him. Good thing he’s always been a fast learner.
He relaxes their hold, strokes the tiny callus on Nirei’s middle finger, feels his healing cuts. He plays with Nirei’s nails, fingertips pressing into them.
Nirei clears his throat. His hands stays there, still kinda sticky, but relaxed. “Um. Wanna watch that chess documentary I mentioned?”
As Yamato grabs the remote and they get comfy to do that, Nirei shuffles a little closer. Not enough for their bodies to touch, but enough to be noticeable.
Maybe, next time, Yamato will be brave enough to wrap his arm around Nirei’s shoulders, maybe even kiss him like he wants to. Or maybe Nirei will beat him to that, too, which is fine. Whatever happens, happens.
For now, their hands stay joined, and Yamato finds he doesn’t even mind the dampness all that much.