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"Forgetting something?” Nobu asks.
Samuel turns. Behind him, Nobu smiles at him bemused as if watching a puppy wag its tail so hard it trips over its too large paws in its excitement. Samuel arches a brow, not quite seeing the problem. Then he spots Nobu’s bare feet, leather oxfords filed neatly against the wall of the alcove. A thought clicks and Samuel feels too keenly a wave of embarrassment flush through him as he stands on the living room rug. His Ferragamo loafers are claustrophobic around his feet.
Behind them, Harold hovers at the doorway, his shoes planted squarely on the wooden flooring. Samuel catches the cheeky grin Harold casts at him. Harold thinks Nobu hadn’t caught him. Nobu haven't even twitched or deviated his gaze from Samuel, but Nobu’s brow quirks up at the staccato rhythm of Harold’s foot steps doubling back, a little up roll of his eyes at the thump-thump of Harold dropping his ratted up sneakers next to Nobu’s oxfords. Harold the little bastard, slides back and hangs an arm over Nobu’s shoulder in half-hug, jeering.
“Shoes, Samuel. Really?” like he’s ten again and whittling at Samuel for stealing the library books.
To hammer in the point, Harold sneaks a quick peck to Nobu’s cheek like he was the star student who could do no wrong. Nobu gives a fond exhale, a bigger roll of his eyes as he reaches up a hand to pat Harold’s cheek in a yes-yes-you did well.
Samuel knows that Nobu was going for nonchalant, but with the way his body melts into Harold’s hug, the little flush blooming from where Harold’s kissed him, Nobu could never quite hide how terribly fond he was of Harold – or of both of them, for that matter.