Work Text:
"Hold still!" Ron scolded lightly, adjusting Toto's hand for the third time.
"I already am!" Toto protested — immediately proving himself a liar by twitching again.
Ron raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, Toto. We haven't even started yet, and still you're fidgeting so much.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?! It was your idea — I never wanted my nails to be painted!”
“That,” Ron reprimanded, “is not the point.”
Ron leaned closer, steadying Toto’s wrist once again. Kept on the futon, he retrieved a small glass bottle of nail polish before unscrewing the cap. The brush emerged slow and glossy, a bead of pale pink swelling at its tip.
Toto fell quiet.
He sat still, waiting for Ron to begin with another one of his theatrics — some exaggerated flourish, overdramatic expressions, and ridiculous commentary.
What he hadn’t expected, however, was Ron lowering the brush with startling care. His methodical craftsmanship was evident — one smooth stroke down the center, then two precise ones along the sides.
Soon enough, the first nail gleamed — coated evenly: neither too thick, nor too thin. Perfect.
Ron dipped the brush again, wiping one side against the rim to thin the excess polish. Angling his wrist, he tilted the bristles just enough to trace the curve of the cuticle before sweeping colour outward.
Toto watched his actions, strangely transfixed.
Did they teach this at BLUE as well? Ron’s expression was intent, meticulous hands working their magic — five years of disappearance and, apparently, he had acquired the ability to paint nails like an artisan.
“Unfortunately,” Ron said smoothly, without looking up, “BLUE doesn't offer courses in matters of such importance. Truly, a shame. They’d never learn how to paint their partner's nails properly.”
Toto choked on air.
He flushed instantly, snapping his mouth shut. Of course a detective academy wouldn’t teach nail polish application! Ugh, it was a stupid thought to have in the first place.
Toto fixed his gaze stubbornly on his fingers — and seemingly missed the faint, knowing smile curving Ron’s lips, working with feigned concentration.
When another nail was finished, Ron spoke, “Do you like this colour, Toto?”
“You've already started painting my nails. What's the point of asking this now?” Toto deadpanned. Still, he examined the shade — soft, pale, almost translucent. Did he like it? He couldn’t quite tell.
Ron tilted his head. “Toto, are you not aware of the wonders of cosmetics?” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “It wipes off. One swipe, and it’s gone.”
His grip tightened subtly around Toto’s wrist, eyes glinting. “Which means I can try anything.”
“What do you mean try anyth—”
Ron’s grip firmed. “Toto, don’t move! It’ll streak otherwise.”
Toto went still at once.
Ron resumed, humming faintly under his breath as he worked. One finger, then the next. Somewhere between the third and the fifth, Toto lost track of time entirely, immersed in ordinary details of the room. The house settled around them; light hummed overhead; the world narrowed to careful strokes and the faint scent of polish.
A sudden cool breath brushed over his fingertips.
“Huh—?” Toto looked down, eyes checking the source of the cool sensation — and found Ron bent close, blowing gently across the fresh coat.
“Wh-What are you doing, Ron?” Toto asked, voice unsteady.
Ron glanced up through his messy fringe, bright blue eyes in full display. “Just drying your nails. It’s faster.”
Faster, Toto thought, as if he couldn’t feel his own pulse pounding through the hand Ron was holding.
Toto turned his head quickly, suddenly finding an arbitrary spot on the futon quite compelling to study. Ron continued humming, entirely too pleased with himself.
When the first hand was complete, Ron straightened.
“Now then,” he declared, lifting another bottle wrapped carefully in black tape. “Let us not waste any time and try a new specimen!”
He held it up triumphantly, showcasing the container to Toto. “But first, can you guess what’s inside?”
Toto stared at the thoroughly obscured object. “No, Ron. I cannot guess the colour of a nail polish whose bottle has been covered with black tape.”
“But it wouldn't be fun if you could see it!” Ron whined, insisting Toto try and guess it. After a long sigh, Toto squinted at the bottle again, as though concentration alone might grant him X-ray vision.
“Is it orange?”
“I had a feeling you’d say that first. But nope, not orange.”
“Red?”
“No.”
“Blue? Green?”
Each guess was met with increasingly delighted denial.
“Agh, I don't know! Just tell me, Ron!” Toto groaned, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration, fingers pulling sharply at the roots.
Smirking, Ron peeled the tape away and twisted the cap open.
Toto blinked.
“It’s… not even a colour.”
“Correct,” Ron said smugly. “It’s glitter.”
“Then why did you even make me gue—” A groan escaped Toto's lips as Ron simply snickered at his misery, looking overjoyed for someone who caused at least 46.3% of Toto's anguish.
“But hey.” Ron gently lifted Toto's hands again. “It'll suit you. Just trust my colour theory.”
“What do you mean it’ll suit me? I am not wearing glitter to work!” Toto argued, pulling away his hand. Ron’s face fell, but Toto wasn’t going to let him have his way with everything. “Absolutely not.”
“But it will look good!”
“No.”
“I promise it will be nice.”
“No.”
“Totooooo—”
“No!” Toto huffed, crossing his arms decisively. Ron deflated with exaggerated tragedy, setting the bottle down. “You wound me, Toto. Such a modest request, denied so cruelly.”
Finally, Toto looked at Ron.
Ron brightened instantly, reaching for the glitter—
“If you’re so eager to use it,” Toto said calmly, “then let me fulfill that request.”
“Wha—?”
Toto took ahold of Ron’s hand and pulled him closer.
Before Ron could recover, Toto had uncapped the bottle. The brush lifted, trailing suspended sparks of light in its wake. Up close, Ron’s skin felt warm beneath his fingers. Toto lowered the glitter clumsily, gliding shimmer across the nail, but maybe not with Ron’s careful precision.
“Leave it, Toto,” Ron protested, attempting to pull his hand away, “the glitter was for you, not me!”
Toto said nothing.
Instead, he smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, echoing earlier words. “We can wipe it off.”
He looked up, meeting Ron’s eyes directly. “Which means I can try anything.”
Ron’s breath hitched.
“There you go!” Toto said cheerfully, and by the time Ron realized what had happened, Toto had already finished five fingers — messy, uneven, but unmistakably glittering.
Under the fluorescent lights, the shimmer fractured into a kaleidoscope of colour, flecks of various hues scattering across Ron’s nails. Tiny reflections danced in the complexion — and, for a fleeting second, Ron almost thought he saw the two of them caught in that shine.
“You’re staring, Ron,” Toto cooed, a smug smile evident on his face.
Ron blinked, then looked away sharply. “I am not.”
Though his ears betrayed him, flushing pink beneath his dark hair.
Toto leaned back slightly, satisfied.
“Careful, Ron,” he murmured, “it might streak.”
Bonus Scene 1:
Amamiya stared at Toto's hands for exactly two entire minutes before speaking. "Why are your nails better than mine?"
Toto flinched, pen nearly springing from his grip. Looking up from a pile of reports, he found Amamiya leaning over his desk, eyes narrowed in deep, investigative suspicion.
"Ah... I'm sorry,” Toto started slowly, “Could you please repeat that again, Amamiya-senpai?" he asked, watching an irritated expression bloom on her face.
"You should respond to your seniors immediately, Isshiki." Amamiya straightened up, turning away with a sharp click of her tongue. "Never mind. Focus on your paperwork."
Toto watched Amamiya step back, and panicked a little — unwilling to displease Amamiya the first thing in the morning. So, in a stupor, he blurted out, "W-well, my nails are actually done by Ron!"
Silence.
Amamiya froze mid-step.
Slowly — very slowly — she turned back.
"...Kamoo-sama did these?" Amamiya asked. Before Toto could brace himself, she seized his wrist without warning, lifting his hand toward the overhead lights as if it were a piece of evidence in a high-profile case.
Toto sputtered, "Y-yes! It was just something he forced me to try, that's all—"
But Amamiya wasn’t listening.
Her expression had shifted entirely — cheeks faintly flushed, eyes shining with reverent admiration.
“He painted them himself…” she murmured.
Toto watched in mild horror as she drifted somewhere far, far away — imagining Kamoo-sama cradling her hand with delicate precision, filing and painting with aristocratic grace.
Ah, He relaxed slightly. Maybe this was fine.
“The cuticle control,” Amamiya whispered, completely awestruck.
“Yes…” Toto agreed weakly.
Finally, she released him, smoothing her expression as though nothing had occurred.
“I see.” A pause. “Very well. Continue your work.”
She walked away with perfect composure — though a giddy skip evident in her gait.
Toto stared after her — then down at his nails.
Under the office lighting, the pale pink caught faint hints of glitter along the edges — messy in places, imperfect with grace.
He remembered warm hands, deliberate strokes, and breath cooling the polish.
A small smile curved his lips. “…It might streak,” he muttered under his breath, and picked up his pen again.
Bonus Scene 2:
“Why are we even doing this on the futon? Let’s go to the table.”
“But that’s the fun of it!” Ron said brightly, and Toto immediately knew he’d be fighting for a lost cause.
“I don’t think cleaning futons — especially this one — will be quite fun.”
“At least that will give me something to do when you’re not bringing me any new cases,” Ron protested, and Toto knew he’d lost a losing wager.
“I’m just saying. Nail polish stains are difficult to remove.”
“Is that so? Then the most optimal solution would be to not remove it at all. Keep the stain as a memorial!”
“Not how it works! And still, you’re really going to get it stained if you continue like this,” Toto warned.
Ron didn’t look up. “If that were true, it would already be stained.”
“That’s not how risk assessment works.”
“On the contrary—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Toto caught the bottle wobbling. He reached for it at once — unaware that another pair of hands were doing the same.
Their hands collided over the glass, fingers tangling clumsily, foreheads knocking with a dull thud. The bottle slipped from both their grips and hit the futon — pink lacquer spilling onto the white fabric.
There was a pause.
“...You moved,” Toto began.
“You panicked,” Ron protested.
“I did not panic.”
“You raised your voice.”
“That was a preventative emphasis!” Toto burst, pointing at Ron’s brush as if it were an accusation.
Ron leaned, observing the spreading stain with clinical interest. “Fascinating. The diffusion rate is impressive.”
Toto stared at him. “It’s spreading.”
“Yes, that’s a normal reaction.”
“You said it wouldn’t stain.”
“I said it would not stain if we were competent,” Ron added, as it would help their situation in any way.
Toto let out a long, tired sigh, already reaching for tissues he knew would be entirely useless. “We’re cleaning this together.”
Ron glanced at him. “I never implied otherwise.”
“Sure sounded like you did.”
Ron hummed thoughtfully. “Consider it… collaborative damage control.”
The stain continued to spread.
Toto sighed again.
“Let us never speak again of the white futon incident,” Ron said suddenly.
And somehow, Toto found himself agreeing.