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a rainy Saturday

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The first time he kissed Hiyakawa was on a Saturday.

It started out a particularly tiresome day, really. The client who had so desperately needed their help the week before, who had been so eager to have them come out bright and early on a Saturday morning to investigate what she'd sworn was some kind of haunted kitchen, had called late Friday afternoon to cancel their visit. Hiyakawa, damn him, hadn't seen the message until after Mikado had come in to work earlier than usual feeling sleepy, hungry for red meat, and more than a little bit frustrated.

(His face had been bright red, he was sure, when he'd asked Hiyakawa if he was absolutely certain it was necessary to refrain from sex for a whole week before each client. Hiyakawa had been too cheerful by half when he'd breezily said that he'd done all the research and it certainly seemed like it helped. Considering the surprisingly large number of clients coming in these days, Mikado was pretty sure he'd never be able to schedule a date with anyone but his right hand ever again. Not that his schedule had been full of that before all this started anyway, but it was the principle of the thing.)

The weather matched Mikado's mood that Saturday too — the sky had been lead gray when he'd left home, clouds hanging heavy until they'd begun pouring down rain ten steps from the front door of the office building. There had been no time to open an umbrella, though it didn't matter because as the first sheet of rain fell, Mikado remembered that he hadn't put his umbrella back in his bag before grabbing his phone and hurrying out the door earlier. Rain had still been lashing against the office window as he made it inside, and he had fervently hoped it would stop before he had to go back out.

Hiyakawa himself hadn’t made matters any easier. There hadn't even been a hint of apology in his tone when he'd announced to a dripping wet Mikado (then strongly considering whether to wring out his socks before trudging back outside) that their services weren't needed that day after all and that maybe it would be a good day to catch up on all that business paperwork Mikado hadn't done yet. That would've been fine — Mikado had a method for filing receipts now that didn't require quizzing his boss on butterfly nets more than once or twice a month, plus the rain really was awful — except that Hiyakawa was antsy.

“Maybe you should make some tea now, Mikado.”

“Do you even want tea? I can’t, I’m in the middle of this.”

“I'm still your boss, you know.”

“If I don't finish this paperwork, you won't be because there won't be a business to employ me.”

“But that doesn't mean you can't make tea.”

“You know where the kettle is.”


He made the tea then with a certain lack of graciousness, plonking Hiyakawa's cup down on the desk more forcefully than he really needed to as some tiny part of his mind encouraged him to just swat the man with the drink tray already. Mikado's socks were really damp after all, and now there was tea sloshed on his hand. Frustrating.

Twenty minutes (and one side trip to the kitchen for a towel) later, the numbers on the papers spread across the table were starting to blur into an incomprehensible mess and a faint whiff of tea from his once-pristine shirt sleeve drifted by his nose for the fourth time. When he heard the obnoxious squeak of the cheap desk chair as Hiyakawa shifted towards him, he slipped his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. Why him?

“I want to try something, Mikado.”

“Absolutely not.”

“It'll only take —"

“Paperwork. I am doing paperwork now.”

Yet another squeak grated at Mikado’s ears as Hiyakawa leaned back in the chair once more, apparently (miraculously?) giving up on the new idea of the hour without too much fuss, and he gritted his teeth as he forced his attention back to the pile of papers that wasn't dwindling in number nearly as fast as he would like. If it had been the Saturday he'd been expecting to have, maybe they'd even be almost done with the client visit by now and he could've been poised to happily tuck into a plate of delicious, delicious meat.

Meat. His stomach growled at the thought of his abandoned lunch plans. Mikado’d heard about a really good restaurant in the client’s neighborhood from one of the girls at the bookstore, too, and on the train this morning he’d already been halfway into dreamily planning his order...

There was whistling. Why was there whistling? Why did he even bother to ask why Hiyakawa did any of the things he did? Of course there was whistling. Hiyakawa probably hadn’t given up on whatever he wanted to try after all, he’d probably found some stupid website talking about controlling spirits through the judicious use of whistling, and if he didn’t stop it soon, Mikado was going to stab his pen straight through this neverending pile of paper.

“Did you need something else?”

“Hmm? No, I don't need anything? Unless you're ready to try –“

“Still doing paperwork.”

Squeak went Hiyakawa's godforsaken chair, drip went the top of Mikado's left sock, and THWACK went Mikado's pen against the table as he finally noticed it had run out of ink a third of the way into the form he'd been working on. Three solid minutes of scribbling and all he had to show for it was the faint imprint of his handwriting on this absolutely pointless piece of paper.

This was a cursed day.

By the time he felt the couch dip down under Hiyakawa’s weight next to him, Mikado had lost track of how long he’d been sitting there with his head thrown back, glasses off, and eyes squeezed shut – it could’ve been an hour but, he thought, it was probably more like a minute. There was no way he could actually get in a full hour of staring off into space on a day like this, he just wasn’t that lucky.

Mikado opened his eyes to the sight of Hiyakawa sitting there beaming at him. He had that cheerfully expectant look on his face, that look that never boded well for anyone in the room but especially not Mikado. The man definitely hadn’t forgotten any part of that new idea, then, there were no miracles to be had in this office. Dammit.

His stomach growled once again. Why couldn’t this morning just be over already?

“Now that you’re taking a break, let’s –”

Hiyakawa didn’t get to finish talking before Mikado grabbed a fistful of his stupid shirt and pulled his stupid, frustrating face down towards his, before Mikado found himself pressing his lips against Hiyakawa’s right there on the stupid, lumpy couch.

Their first kiss was quick and closed-mouthed and the single dumbest thing that Mikado had ever done in his life.

Their second kiss was longer and the second dumbest thing that Mikado had ever done in his life. But it had kept Hiyakawa from saying one more word about trying something, so on the whole it was probably an acceptable sacrifice (he thought, only slightly hysterically, as he untangled his hand from Hiyakawa’s now exceedingly rumpled shirt).

More than an acceptable sacrifice, really. Hiyakawa’s face, which seemed a little less stupidly frustrating than it had two minutes earlier, was frozen in an expression that Mikado could only describe as something like elated confusion. For the first time all day, he sat without a word on the couch, hands absently smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt, until Mikado’s stomach made a fresh set of demands. Hiyakawa startled then, his expression smoothing out into that pleased grin he liked to send Mikado’s way every time he was particularly impressed.

(The jump in Mikado’s stomach at the sight of that was definitely not hunger. Damn the man.)

“…oh! Mikado! Can we—”

“I’m not kissing you again! I’m hungry!”

“Ah… shall we go get lunch then?”


“Of course.”

Their third kiss came under Hiyakawa’s umbrella on a rainy street corner outside the restaurant, Hiyakawa’s hand tracing the lines of Mikado’s face. And for the first time that day, Mikado didn’t mind his damp socks so much.