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A very long moment passes in which precisely nothing happens but his lips sticking awkwardly to Kyouji's, and then Satomi's fit of insanity passes and he pulls away. The wet, sucking sound of their mouths parting is weirdly unexpected; for some reason he'd assumed that was just a thing they added in movies to make kissing scenes more dramatic. Kyouji is motionless in a way that Satomi has never seen him, bruised face blank, hands resting loosely on the steering wheel and the gear selector. He hadn't even had a chance to shift out of park.
Satomi sinks back into the cracked and peeling vinyl of the Nissan's passenger seat and turns away, clenching his trembling hands into fists. “Just drive,” he says, voice hoarse. He's hot all over — the inside of his raw throat, his sweaty palms, the corners of his eyes. His mouth. “I want to go home.” Because of course he’d been too stupid to wait to do that until Kyouji was dropping him off and he could bolt for it if he needed to.
“You know, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji says amiably, like they're mid-conversation and he’s responding to a question about the weather, “kids don't normally do things like this with adults. Not on their own."
Kids don't normally give singing lessons to preternaturally annoying career criminals either, but that hasn't stopped the two of them so far. The derisive sound that escapes Satomi is wholly involuntary. All at once he's just done — done listening to Kyouji's stupid BS, done humiliating himself in front of a man who refuses to take anything he says or does seriously, done caring what else happens today. He slings his bag over his shoulder and moves to get out of the car, and Kyouji hits the automatic locks.
The door doesn’t budge. Satomi yanks the handle and tries to shove it open again, uncomprehending, but the locks stay engaged. “Sorry,” Kyouji says behind him, as Satomi’s brain finally catches up: Ah, right. Yakuza car. So he is going to die at this awful snack bar after all. The only thing he can make himself feel about that is exhaustion. “Just a sec.”
The touch on the back of Satomi's head is surprisingly soft for a man who's about to strangle him. Kyouji's fingers skim the outer edge of his ear, slide down along his jaw — Satomi hauls at the door handle again, breath sticking in his throat — and then Kyouji is cupping his chin and turning him to meet his eyes, for the second time in less than an hour. The expression on Kyouji's face makes Satomi's insides lurch with what he really, really wishes was only fear. He looks calm, almost impassive, the usual air of good humor entirely absent from the set of his mouth. His eyes are dark and glittering.
It is, Satomi realizes slowly, the same expression he'd seen for the first time yesterday, in the brief second before Kyouji had nudged Satomi gently behind him and brought that briefcase down on the junkie's head. A threat, but not directed at Satomi.
"It's all right," Kyouji says, voice still light and friendly but quiet, quiet. "Satomi-kun. Is there anyone who's been puttin' ideas like that in your head?"
There's blood on Kyouji's shirt collar. The fingers holding Satomi's chin are bruised and scuffed across the knuckles from beating a man half to death. For driving into the passenger side of his car.
Any lingering trace of fear that Satomi is feeling abruptly evaporates.
Kyouji is such a moron. Clueless, insensitive, infuriating. The audacity to think that he isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to Satomi. To try to be a responsible adult about this.
“No,” he rasps, “you giant idiot. Just you. You’re the only one.”
Kyouji blinks, his face falling back into that familiar chastened expression he gets when Satomi picks apart a new aspect of his karaoke performances. He drops Satomi's chin and his eyes go wandering off, like the disconcertingly stained ceiling of his brother's shitty car is suddenly fascinating to him. Satomi is about to start screaming, or laughing, or god forbid crying again, and so before he can think about it any further he reaches out and catches Kyouji by the tie. Pulls at it hard, like he's hauling a misbehaving dog away from something gross on the sidewalk. For one second Kyouji is immovable, rigid, and then he softens and lets himself be reeled in.
He tastes like an ashtray. Satomi can't really find it in himself to mind.