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you could never get away

Chapter Text


It’s raining the first time Haru gets away from him.

Given of course it’s man-made rain due to cause of explosion only inches below the rushing surface of water beneath the highway bridge—but it’s rain nonetheless. It even sets up a series of rainbows flashing over each other to commemorate their first meeting. Light enough it could hardly bother a man of his caliber but could easily drown an ant who didn’t fight hard enough.

Ah, that’s right. Daisuke slips a hand into pocket of his perfectly tailored slacks, observing the scene below him with cool nonchalance. An ant.

The slender little police officer glares daggers up at him from where his fingers barely manage to hold onto the ledge of the bridge. Daisuke gives him some credit—it’s not an unwanted amount of hostility on the first meeting. He’d had his eye on the brown haired man since he threw himself in front of his car, watching those infuriating eyes come into view past the cloud of cigar smoke blown right into his face.

He almost feels like pulling one out right now, just for the grand look of it all.

For such thin looking arms underneath that audaciously ragged jacket, he seemed to be sturdier than he looked. And fast. Fast enough to help that stupid, silly criminal out of the ready-to-blow van, and just determined enough to cling to the bridge before he blew up along with it. Fast enough to slip out of Daisuke’s new car and clamber over the hood of it without any second thoughts, jumping the distance and forcing his way into the car.

Daisuke’s seen plenty run of the mill officers similar to this investigators... brand of justice. He has not met many who live up to their righteous boasts.

Daisuke casually watches the way his fingers flex, scrambling to keep their grip. His arms are trembling, struggling to hold him up while gravity pulls down. There’s a nice, shiny spot of crimson dribbling down between his eyes from where he must’ve gotten hurt jumping out of the car. What a silly man you are. The officer below him bares his teeth, clearly unwilling to bark out the few words anyone else would’ve uttered in a heartbeat to ask Daisuke for his help.

Something stirs in him—a first in a very, very long time brought out by an actual living being, not a nice, very nice car or a good cigar or alcohol. A miniscule, struggling person at his feet.


Daisuke likes to feel satisfied.

He’s got nice eyes. Daisuke feels his lips start to curl up into a smirk. The investigator’s eyes narrow into slits. Good eyes. There aren’t many men in this world with eyes like that—that makes this investigator one of a kind, like a limited edition release.

And Daisuke’s always liked to be the only one to have something. What good is a rarity if it could belong to anyone else?

He wonders just how long this bold investigator can hold out—he was going to pull him up, honestly. Eventually. Perhaps after a few more minutes of watching his arms tremble and his face strain and reveling in the pure and utter satisfaction of watching this man he’d only just met struggle at his feet because for some inexplicable good sense, Daisuke feels it will be a touch difficult to witness such satisfaction again.

When the investigator’s fingers start to give out, Daisuke takes a step forward, smooth enough to show his casual intent—and perhaps that’s what does it.

The investigator’s eyes narrow into slits, he scowls, fiercely up at him, and before Daisuke can even revel in that—he lets go, allowing himself to fall.

(He gets away.)

Daisuke calmly blinks, utterly unaffected or unmoved as the investigator plummets down into the river. He hardly watches the bubbling surface until the soft, barely colored head pops back up.

“HEUSC,” he says. “Tell me a bit about that detective.”

And he slides into the car he’d just bought for a billion yen and drives back down without another word.


The second time Haru gets away is due to a slight miscalculation.

“Let Teppei deal with him! All he does is gamble anyway—maybe they’ll even get along.”

Daisuke pauses just a finger away from opening up the door to Kiyomizu’s office. He raises a thin, fine brow, graciously taking in the sound of Katou Haru’s voice from the other side of the thin wood—cheap wood, Daisuke notes, as essentially all the items in this floor of the office are. He ought to do some refurbishing for his own sake.

It’s utterly clear who Haru is referring to. Haru and not Katou because Daisuke deems them on a perfectly one-sided first name basis—they shared his first little run with this group together after all, no? The first time he said Haru he was given the amusing show of watching Haru get worked up into a storm, hissing and spitting at him while the others held him back like some kind of misbehaved cat.

Daisuke does not mind cats. He prefers the stupid, blind loyalty and obedience dogs can bring to him, but he finds it amusing the way cats like to play the act of indifference. They wander, stray, and do as they please but at the end of the day—they know exactly whose house they must return to.

Haru and Daisuke are partners now, and of course it’s because of Daisuke’s own interference to and otherwise jolly Kiyomizu. Out of the entire band of ragtag, sorry chums left behind by the police in this... charming floor—Haru is the only one he will entertain the idea of.

“I think the two of you get along well!” Kiyomizu says happily from the other side. Daisuke finds the jovial man a touch useful after all, if only for moments like this. “You’re our best Haru-kun, I think you can really bring Kambe-san right up to speed with us.”

“Oh, he doesn’t need to get caught up,” Haru spits. Daisuke smirks. “He needs to leave. Just put me back with—“

Daisuke opens the door without much care. Kiyomizu looks up in surprise and Daisuke watches Haru’s back, relishing in the satisfaction of see the man jump near clean out of his chair. Haru’s head whips around quickly latching back onto him and his eyes narrow, lips pulling back into that scowl that really, really does not do wonders to his face. Haru’s not hideous, but he could do well to offer a charming little smile more, truly.

Haru doesn’t look the slightest bit guilty or ashamed, perfectly fine with Daisuke knowing just how much he despises him and the very thought of being with him beyond the few inches from their desk.

Fine, Daisuke smiles, slow—it’s practically a smirk. By me.

“Kambe-san,” Kiyomizu greets warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Daisuke says smoothly. He relishes in the heat of Haru’s gaze burning holes into the side of his head. He’s been stared at by much, much worst. “I only wanted permission to go over some records.”

“Permission?” Haru mutters darkly. “Since when have you ever asked for permission?”

Daisuke smiles, slow. Haru’s brows furrow and he sits up a little straighter in his chair, as if subconsciously sensing danger. Daisuke doesn’t take his eyes off the other man as he says without batting an eye, “I always check for consent before I lay my hands on anything.”

Haru’s frown deepens, looking more annoyed, Daisuke easily gathers that those words have flown completely over his head—not that he expected much else, one look at the man and Daisuke knew exactly what he was dealing with.

He will have fun with this.

(More fun than he has had in quite, quite some time.

“Oh, this is wonderful, we can talk this out right now!” Kiyomizu says, looking at Haru. The other man blinks in disbelief, looking horrified by the notion. “—let me grab some coffee for all of us.”

“W-Wait a second—“ Haru starts.

“Black,” Daisuke says automatically, cutting the other man off. “A pour over will do.”

“Oho, I like your style!” Kiyomizu slides right out from his desk, walking amiably past a gaping Haru and Daisuke steps clear into the room, holding the door open for Kiyomizu as he leaves. “I’ll be right back you two!”

Daisuke nods, waiting until the man is clear before he lets the door knob release between his fingers, swinging shut with an audible, satisfying click.

His dark eyes swing right back to Haru. He watches the other detective’s brows furrow deeper, follows how his lips pull back into a snarl again, baring his teeth at him. Daisuke’s smile widens, as harmless as a tiger.

“I’m hurt,” Daisuke says, even though he is not hurt at all. Haru’s scowl deepens. “I thought we’d hit it off as partners.”

“Yeah, hit it off alright,” Haru snaps. Daisuke steps deeper into the office, slow and deliberate, taking his time in studying the side of Haru’s face, the soft ends of his hair and the thinly exposed expanse of his neck. “Don’t care what Kiyomizu-san says, I’m gonna push for it.”

“Of course,” Daisuke says. “And I’m sure no amount of...” he walks, allowing his path to follow behind Haru’s chair. He pauses there, a foot away from the man and he observes as Haru doesn’t even stiffen at his presence behind him—as though he were used to interrogations of this sort. “Monetary compensation would change your mind either?”

“Hah!” Haru looks as though Daisuke’s validated every point he could ever make. And of course, Daisuke absolutely has—he has to give Haru a few inches to work with, you lose the line a little before you pull. “This is exactly what I’m talking about—paying someone to be your partner?”

Tight leashes are no fun, after all.

“It’s worked before,” Daisuke says, casually making his way to the edge of Kiyomizu’s desk since Haru refuses to turn around. Haru’s still too focused on glaring at the edge of the desk like it will solve all his problems. “If not monetary, what else can I offer to make this partnership worth your while?”

“Worth my...” Haru pinches the bridge of his nose. “There isn’t much, you can count on that.”

Daisuke slides into the space between Haru’s chair and the desk, leaning back against the wood. Not as cheap, but still very, very cheap. He gets a better look at Haru’s features now too, watching the deep little furrow of his brows, the utter loathing that seems to radiate off him in waves that bounce useless off his expensive suit. Haru will need at least 5,000,000 yen more worth of loathing to even scratch a button.

There’s something about the way Haru furrows his brows that fascinates him—he hasn’t quite put a finger on what that is yet.

“You don’t seem to entirely be lacking in intelligence,” Daisuke says airily. He watches the vein throb on Haru’s head. “I’m sure you could think of something.”

“Sure,” Haru snips back. “I’ll think of a few. How about a transfer?”

Daisuke smiles, like entertaining the thoughts of a toddler. He spreads his legs as he leans back against the desk, Haru’s knees tucked tight to each other as he sits in the chair across from him—it’s a big, plush old thing that fits Kiyomizu’s image and makes Haru look smaller. Daisuke watches his shiny leather shoes slide a bit across the wood until his stance has Haru between them.

“A transfer. To where?”

Haru smirks right up at him, eyes flashing aggressively. Ah, there are those eyes again. Haru always looks at him with such hard eyes—he wonders how soft they can become.


“First division,” Haru says, spitting the first out. Ah, yes, there’s some bad blood there Daisuke’s having his own fun unearthing. “Second. Third. Whichever one you want. I bet it can’t be hard to swindle your way in.”

“Fine,” Daisuke says.

Haru’s lips had been parted for another scathing retort but they promptly sputter when he realizes what Daisuke’s said. Haru’s eyes bulge, growing wide in disbelief and Daisuke watches in pure, lazy amusement as Haru starts to get a little excited, expression brightening. “W-What?”

“I’ll transfer,” Daisuke says. Haru’s face is one of complete disbelief. “If you transfer with me.”

Haru looks as though he’s just dumped a bucket of ice water on him—not unlike their first meeting. Daisuke smiles, that nice, polite smile he can flash as easy as breathing that’s not very nice at all. “Go screw yourself.”

“How about I make a suggestion?” Daisuke says smoothly. Haru huffs unhappily, looking over to the door, begging Kiyomizu to return. Daisuke’s already calculated it’ll take the man several more minutes at his leisurely pace before coming back. “To make this partnership work?”

“Oh, yeah?” Haru says bitterly. “And what suggestion would that be?”

“I just have to show you my worth as an able partner, right?”

Daisuke smiles again, he makes it a much more genuine one. Haru stops, looking at him with wide eyes, clearly unable to believe it but of course, of course Haru will. Because if there’s anything Daisuke know—and he knows much—it’s that warm-hearted fools like Haru will always give the most despicable people a chance if they push the right buttons, play the right words.

“...well, you’re not going to be able to do that by throwing money around like—woah!”

Daisuke’s foot lodged itself under Haru’s chair, lifting it up several inches and tipping it backwards. Haru’s hands grab the arms of the chair instinctively, feet kicking out as Daisuke takes a calm step forward, all in one motion, and places himself neatly between Haru’s legs, standing, calm and cool while Haru splutters, trying not to fall back and out of the chair. “What the hell—“

Panicked is a good look on Haru. So is angry.

“Don’t worry, Haru,” Daisuke says. Haru snarls at him, frantically trying not to fall backwards and out of the chair as Daisuke leans forward an inch. “You won’t be disappointed.”

Daisuke considers the distance between the two of them. He considers Haru’s infuriated face and decides perhaps he hasn’t tested just enough.

So Daisuke takes one more even step forward.

And that seems to do it—Haru promptly jerks back, as eager to escape the vicinity between the two of them as he possibly can be—and ensures his own clumsy demise. The chair tips back the rest of the way without Daisuke’s help, and the ebony haired detective watches in smooth nonchalance as Haru tumbles to the floor with an obscene squawk.

Daisuke calmly tips the chair back into place with the tip of his foot. Haru scowls, huffing as he props himself up on his hands, jerking his head around to Daisuke. “If you’re looking for a fight—“

Daisuke slowly, darkly considers Haru’s form sprawled on the floor, legs folded up under him while he turns back on his hands like some wronged lover kicked out of the apartment in the middle of the night.

There’s something about this look Daisuke finds himself liking, but he can’t quite put a finger on what that is just yet either. Perhaps he should find out.

The door opens to the warm smell of coffee and Kiyomizu’s smiling face. “Sorry for the wait, you two! Here, I’ve got our coffees—oh! Haru-kun! What are you doing on the floor?”

“I fell,” Haru spits, standing up and brushing dust off his pants. He shoots a calm, breezy Daisuke the most venomous look he can muster and marches off, ripping the door open. “Bye Kiyomizu-san, I’m going to finish those reports.”

“I thought you wanted to—“ he winces when Haru slams the door shut and Daisuke doesn’t even blink. “Oh, my. Maybe he needs that day off more than I thought. Haru-kun works too hard.”

“...Kiyomizu,” Daisuke says and the older man turns to him with a jovial smile. “How long would you say it takes you to walk to the breakroom?”

“Hmm? The breakroom? Maybe... ten minutes or so? I put a little hustle into it today!”

“I see.”

(A minor miscalculation. No matter.)


The third time Haru gets away is because of a criminal.

“What the hell did I do in my past life to end up in a situation like this with you?”

Daisuke entertains him with an answer, “Perhaps an uncanny amount of good.”

Haru scowls, such a deep, angry frown that makes his brows crease in that curious way Daisuke has taken to noticing. The two of them were following after an armed robber about to upstage the first division from a bit of wisely leaked information—but of course, as always, Daisuke and Haru are one step ahead of anyone else when the two of them put their minds to it. The only hitch to the plan was the dumbwaiter shaft breaking on them, leaving the two lodged at the bottom of the shaft’s floor while Haru kept the wood of the shaft box from sitting on top of their heads with his feet.

Haru’s legs are propped up against the wall behind them, so he doesn’t have to work too hard to keep the box from landing on their heads. His back is sprawled against the floor of the shaft, scrunched up uncomfortably with his head touching the other side of the wall while his hands brace either side. Being stuck here wouldn’t be as terrible as it was if he was stuck with positively anyone else—Mahoro, even Shinnosuke.

But, of course he’s stuck with fucking Daisuke because they’re partners and for some ungodly reason, Daisuke didn’t let him topple down the shaft by himself—he had to go crashing after him after trying to grab Haru’s foot and falling through as well.

It’s a small, tight space, as all dumbwaiter shafts usually are, forcing the two of them right together.

Which leaves Daisuke’s position—face lax, almost unbothered as he kneels between Haru’s legs, having coaxed them a little further apart for more room—“Don’t touch me, bastard!” “Now, Haru, I simply don’t want to be crushed.”—and his hands on either side of Haru’s head, hovering over his partner.

Daisuke’s dark eyes have been calmly observing their space, moving his hands freely along the stone walls, searching for a way out while Haru spits out the occasional snappy retort that Daisuke humors just because he can.

Haru hates how god damn close he has to be to this bastard. He smells like rich cologne and cigars. And something else. God forbid he ever knows what it is—he doesn’t even care.

Daisuke blinks calmly, occasionally shifting between Haru’s legs, his knees right beside his ass. Every now and then he looks at Haru who just snarls right back at him for even looking.

“Can you reach my phone?” Haru suddenly says, brightening at the idea. Daisuke’s eyes lazily flicker back to him, almost half-lidded. “My right pocket.”

“Pants or jacket?” Daisuke asks.

“Pants,” Haru says. “Teppei should be waiting outside still when we flush them out. Maybe he can sneak around back and pull the box back up so we can get out the first opening.”

There’s a door right in front of them, but it seems wedged shut from the inside. Someone outside would have to pry it open. Daisuke considers his words for a moment before he reaches a hand down between them.

The tips of his fingers brush over the soft white cotton of Haru’s shirt, trailing down past his buttons. Haru ignores it, focusing on moving his legs to find a more comfortable position while keeping this box propped over them. Daisuke keeps his eyes focused on Haru’s face, taking note of the long flutter of his lashes—light colored like his hair. He considers the seemingly permanent furrow of his brows, the light pink on his cheeks from the tight air and fall.

No, Daisuke surmises. Haru is not hideous at all. He has potential—which only makes sense, because Daisuke deserves only, only the best. He won’t settle for less.

Daisuke’s hand presses down against Haru’s hip, still light. Haru’s eyes are trained above his head where his fingers are still trying to work at the door behind them, seeing if he can weasel his fingers through. Daisuke feels a small smirk tug the corners of his lips as he lets his fingers rest there before giving Haru’s hip an experimental squeeze.

Slender hips. How fitting.

Haru blinks but doesn’t look fazed—that makes this a touch more fun for Daisuke. “Back pocket—can you reach?”

“I need you to lift your hips a bit,” Daisuke says smoothly. Haru scowls, simply because he has to do something for him, but obediently lifts his hips.

“Better,” Daisuke praises, his voice is low, like velvet. So you can be good. Haru’s brows furrow slightly, his fingers barely wedging through the gap of the shaft door. Daisuke leans forward, shifting his weight to his knees while he brings his other hand down to the other side of Haru’s hip, holding it there with a ghost of a touch. Not yet. The best catches were made when unaware.

His other hand did as it was supposed to do, sliding under Haru and touching his back pocket. Haru frowned, shifting his hips in an attempt to get less contact. “It’s not exactly hiding—“

Haru momentarily freezes. He blinks, once, twice. Daisuke’s hand is firm, holding his hips up while the other dips into his back pocket, grabbing the phone—exactly like how Haru said, just, just doing what anyone would so then why—

Haru finally realizes just how snug the two of them are. Daisuke’s elbow is keeping one of Haru’s knees apart so it doesn’t bump into his head. Daisuke’s hips, firm, are pressed tightly to his, bring their lower halves flushed together aside from the minuscule layer of clothes between them. It’s hot. Air is tight in this shaft and the damn space is cramped enough, but god damn it he doesn’t need to be any closer to the guy than this! What would someone say if they saw the two of them?

Haru starts blinking rapidly. No, there’s something off about this. He can’t quite put his finger on it—

Daisuke watches Haru below him, eyes dark, lids low—and he revels in the curious confusion swirling openly over Haru’s face. So expressive.

Daisuke finally puts a finger to one of those strange thoughts from before—Haru, angry and flustered on the ground—Haru, below him, under him—it’s a very, very flattering look for the detective.

(Daisuke decides he likes it.)

“Haru,” Daisuke says in that low, dark voice of his, truly velvet. It makes Haru scrunch up his brows in a funny way. “Lift your hips more.”

“Wha—I’m bending over backwards here!” Haru snaps at him. Daisuke looks bored at his complaints and that makes him madder. “How about you try to hold this up and get folded in half like a pretzel—“

Daisuke roughly pushes Haru’s hips up—sliding his hand from his hip to his lower back. Haru almost yelps, jerking in surprise instead at the rough action, spluttering at the stupidly rich man’s audacity. His knees bend further. “You bastard, just grab the damn—“

“You’re more flexible than you look,” Daisuke says, and Haru’s never noticed before but he’s got a funny way of talking that makes it sound like a rumble—a low, buzzing hum. It also feels like a backhanded compliment.

His cologne washes over him. The faint, crisp smell of mint covered only by the heavy tang and bite of cigar smoke. Haru falters, blinking repeatedly when he feels like he’s suddenly getting half a good look at himself.

Haru’s knees are hooked over Daisuke’s shoulders—broader than he expected. He’s practically in the damn guy’s lap, hips pressed snug as Daisuke leans over him, one hand still pressed firmly to his lower back, raising him up while Daisuke’s other hand, clutching his phone now sits on his stomach. If he makes one fucking joke—I’m gonna kill him. Haru finally looks up and he balks, face pale.

Daisuke’s expression isn’t one of disgust or condescending—it’s unreadable. Haru doesn’t know why, but he’s hearing those warning bells again—danger, danger, danger—like it’s supposed to save him from—

“...Haru,” Daisuke says, sounding completely and utterly calm. Haru suddenly wonders if he’s just going crazy from the claustrophobia. Daisuke sets his phone down on Haru’s stomach, using his lower abdomen like a table. It pisses him off in the back of his head. “Passcode?”

“P-Passcode,” Haru’s fingers slip against the wedge he had on the door. “Uh—five, seven—“ Haru feels that weird little fear spike up when Daisuke doesn’t once take his eyes off his face, focused on a specific spot—his chin? Was there something on his chin? Daisuke’s hand presses harder against his lower back. “Five, seven—“

“Seven,” Daisuke presses. Is he even looking at the screen? Did his voice always sound this husky?

“S-Seven, six—“

The door to the lower shaft is torn open. Haru’s head swings back, mouth falling open in disbelief while Daisuke eyes darken, brows creasing, ever so slightly as his hand fists the fabric of Haru’s jacket against his lower back.

The thief stares right back at them, eyes bulging from his head.

“W-What the hell—“

Daisuke reaches forward, hand striking like a snake, and slams the robber’s head against the wall. He crumples to the floor, dropping the sack of jewels.

“H-Hah!” Haru shouts, quickly scrambling forward, flailing wildly under Daisuke. The ebony haired man above him doesn’t look particularly amused, grabbing Haru’s knee before it decks him in the chin as Haru pulls himself out of the shaft. Daisuke releases his grip on the lower part of his jacket at the very last second. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

Haru finally pulls free, falling flat on his face. Daisuke pushes the box above them up with a light tap and slides out himself. The box crashes down with a shudder to where they were and before Daisuke can say anything, Haru’s already on the phone, speaking animatedly with the group over the lucky capture.

Daisuke makes sure no one notices when he shoves the crook’s head into the police car with a little more force than necessary, puffing on his cigar and watching Haru smile like an idiot as the family who owned the jewels thanks their group profusely. He casually taps out his ashes onto the head of the thief, ignoring his hiss of pain as Haru hurriedly waves him over and Daisuke walks, taking his time until he stands beside Haru and the family thanks him too.

Chapter Text


The fourth time Haru gets away is because of, loathe as Daisuke is to admit it, luck.

And it happens twice.

(Perhaps Haru was a lucky man. Lucky enough not to blow up with that van, lucky enough to be the one by Daisuke's side, lucky enough to be the gem a man like Daisuke happens to entertain the thought of having.)

But he supposes it was luck that got them into the situation in the first place.

“I don’t really understand why you don’t hire someone to do this,” Daisuke says, clearly bored while flipping through another police report booklet.

“Because if we had the money to do it, we already would’ve,” Haru snaps. On a second thought he also adds, “Don’t even.”

Daisuke makes even the light shrug of his shoulders seem classy and nonchalant. The two of them are stuffed in for a day of cleaning in the archive rooms used by all the divisions—old, harmless evidence and report books. Their radios are left ready on an empty shelf to be called away—but it seems no crimes will be pulling them aside from this duty.

The closet is hopelessly stuffy, and dusty. Daisuke had given him such a look when Haru showed him the room and Haru chose to ignore him, taking off his thick jacket and rolling up his sleeves and setting to work. Daisuke watched him for several minutes before following suit—unbuttoning his blazer and draping it over Haru’s jacket.

Daisuke was working on the higher shelves while Haru worked on cleaning the lower floors, on his hands and knees and trying to fit into the crannies to find loose papers. One of these could be important someday, damn it. Haru grabs one box, tugging it free.

First Division Roster Photos.

Haru stops for a second at the label. His heart catches, twisting sharply. It forces his mouth into a soft grimace, brows furrowing as he silently drags his fingers down the label of the box. So this is where they left you, huh? He hesitates before pulling the lid off, reaching in for the first set of thick card stock—the group photo of the entire task force.

He gives himself a moment, just one, to look at it. He finds himself in the photo, a bit younger, eyes bright and fierce, probably thinking he could take on the whole world. Just at his shoulder, only an inch shorter and already taller now, still growing—is Hoshino, bright-eyed and staring at Haru because he'd probably been distracted right when they took the photo. Hah. He was a cuter kid back then.


Haru doesn't scream because he's tougher than that, but he does yell. His hands fling upwards, jostling the box and the photo and Daisuke calmly grabs it out of the air, holding it between his fingers as though he were observing a bank statement. Half-curious and completely without a care. Stupid, stupid rich people. "Say something next time, asshole!"

"I thought you wanted to finish this fast," Daisuke says, his finger traces the line of faces and pauses on Haru's. "Getting sentimental now?"

"As if," Haru bites. "I was just looking. Hand it back and we'll put it in the next room."

Daisuke doesn't listen though. He observes the photo, taking his time tapping his finger on Haru's bright-eyed expression, considering it from every which way like examining the cut of a diamond. Haru scowls, arching a brow at him as Daisuke's finger slides over, pressing his nail into Hoshino's face. "This is that incompetent young man from the First."

"He's not incompetent," Haru says. Daisuke's eyes slide over to him, fixing him with a side-ways stare. His eyes are dark and unreadable but Haru continues, "There's a reason he's on the First unlike you—a reason that doesn't involve money. He's a good officer."

Daisuke smiles, not meeting his eyes as he regards Haru with something like amusement. Something, but it's not quite amusement. It feels thicker than that, goading. Haru suddenly feels like he's on thin ice even though he has no reason to be.

"He," Daisuke says, calm and clear as day, "seems like nothing."

Haru fists the front of Daisuke's stupidly expensive shirt. It feels like fucking silk between his fingers, cool and smooth and Daisuke's eyes flash, like a flicker of light as Haru presses close and snarls right back, "You don't know any—urk!"

Haru stares wildly up at the swinging ceiling light in disbelief. His back is pressed to the floor of the archive room, one of Daisuke's legs pinning the lower half of his body flat to the floor. His hand settles calmly over Haru's neck, applying just enough pressure to remind him who's there—Daisuke's fingers flex, pressing the sides of his neck and Haru stiffens.

"I do know," Daisuke says, low, like thick, dark chocolate melting over his ears. "That you are worth millions more than them." Daisuke's fingers press a little harder into his throat, possessive and Haru swallows, glaring right back up at him because it's all he could do, head thrumming, pulse racing. Daisuke even offers him a small, slender smile. He looks like a wolf. "Worth much more than anything he could ever afford."

(Haru doesn't get it. He's never going to understand this guy. Daisuke's just—something else.)

"...get off," Haru mutters. Daisuke doesn't listen, keeping his hand at his throat until Haru shoves him off and he relents, sitting back. "Whatever. Let's just finish this, asshole."

"Don't linger too much over the past," Daisuke offers helpfully, but it's not helpful at all and Haru just scowls at him some more, hoping he can transfer all the loathing he has in his body onto this one man. "It's a waste of your time."

"Sure," Haru says, snatching the picture from Daisuke's grasp. Daisuke watches, making sure Haru places it right back in the box and seals the top lid again. He considers moving the box to the disposable pile when Haru wasn't looking. "Bet you could just buy plenty more of that."

"If it was your time you were offering," Daisuke says. "I would double."

Haru ignores him with an infuriating huff, getting back on his knees and crawling through the small shelf space with the dust broom. This is stupid. I should have gone over more case files. Screw this. Screw him. Screw—

“Haru,” Daisuke says behind him. Haru frowns, half turning his head underneath one of the rickety shelves. “Look.”

"If you're going to pull some more stupid shit again—"

Haru’s eyes land on the box of evidence in Daisuke’s hands. The box itself is old, but the contents that’d been sloppily hidden underneath a newspaper are very new and audacious in color—

Haru’s face flushes a bright, cherry red at the porn magazines, coupled even with a box of condoms. “W-W-What the hell?”

“I suppose this room is useful after all,” Daisuke dully observes the untasteful book and cheap brand of condoms. “For someone, at least.”

“I-Idiot!” Haru hisses, face so red its almost shining. Daisuke watches him, radiating lazy amusement. “P-Put that shit down! We’ll just toss it out and—ack!”

Haru’s head smacks into the shelf above him. The metal rungs finally give out, rusty and unused and Haru suddenly finds himself smushed to the floor, the thankfully not too heavy but still blocky enough shelves keeping him pinned to the ground. “Ah, shit!” Stupid old shelves—he’s putting in his own fucking paycheck to get this shit fixed.

Daisuke lazily looks over the top of the porn magazine, casually flipping through it—truly tasteless, as he suspected most officers here were. “You should be more careful.”

“Shut up!” Haru snaps, struggling to unwedge his arms from under the shelves. He’s stuck with his hands stretched out, still holding the dust broom while the shelves press into his back. God damn it.

“What,” Daisuke says, sounding far too pleased behind him. Haru’s almost glad he can’t see his stupid, smug face. Damn bastard. “Need some help?”

“No,” Haru growls. He struggles for another good five minutes while Daisuke watches, hand resting under his chin until Haru’s legs finally give up and the man just flops against the floor, truly stuck under the shelves.

“No,” Haru says again, just because he’s a stubborn bastard. Daisuke smirks behind him, crouching down to Haru’s level and peering around the shelf to get a look at his frustrated scowl and pout.

“Now,” Daisuke says, clicking his tongue. “That’s no way to ask for help.”

Haru bares his teeth at him. Daisuke’s eyes flicker with amusement, tapping his fingers against the side of his cheek as Haru struggles. “I think... damn it, is something stuck?”

Daisuke gives him an inch of mercy, peering underneath the metal rungs to see why Haru can’t get out. He carefully traces one finger down the metal bar, following its path all the way toward where two broken rings have ripped completely through and hooked into Haru’s shirt. Daisuke gives the spot on Haru’s lower back a tap. “Your shirt is caught.”

“Damn it,” Haru says, wiggling some more. Daisuke observes him like a fish out of water. “Ugh. Should I crawl forward?”

“,” Daisuke says, lightly pulling at the rip. “It’s fairly stuck. You might cut yourself.”

Haru sighs in annoyance, letting his chin rest on the floor. “...can you pull it loose?”

“I can,” Daisuke says meaningfully. Haru’s scowl deepens to impossible levels. “But shall I?”

“...yes,” Haru growls out finally. He feels the cool, smug satisfaction coming behind him in waves.

“Haru, is that anyway to ask for a favor?”

Oh, this god damn—

Please,” Haru grinds out. Daisuke smiles, giving Haru’s back a reassuring pat and the man practically hisses at him from the other side of the shelf. “Just pull it loose—“

“We’ll have to take your shirt off.”

“And—w-w-wait, what?” Haru snaps, struggling. Daisuke’s hand warningly presses his back down to the floor, holding him there. “My—it’s just a little rip!”

“It’s stuck,” Daisuke repeats. “If you take it off, you can slide right through and leave the shirt on the rung. I’m sure it wasn’t worth much to begin with, no? Five hundred yen?”

“Bastard,” Haru growls. He’s right, god damn it. Daisuke drums his fingers against Haru’s back and Haru sighs loudly through his nose, wiggling his fingers enough to loosen his tie. “Fine. I think I can get my arms through.”

“Good,” Daisuke says, like praising a well behaved pet. Haru spits obscenities and Daisuke ignores them all, in one ear and out the other.

Haru huffs in annoyance, half-rising up onto his knees. He feels Daisuke beside him on the other side of the shelf while Haru tries to weasel his arms under him to get his buttons. He frowns, shifting his fingers aggressively for a solid three minutes before Daisuke coolly pipes up, “Having trouble taking off your own shirt?”

“Shut up!” Haru barks, cheeks flushing in anger. “This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you were just working quietly!”

“Isn’t it a bit pitiful to blame such circumstance—“

“I can’t get my buttons!” Haru snaps. He starts to pull himself forward by his elbows, tugging the metal dangerously close. “Damn it, I’m just going to crawl forward—worse that happens is a little scratch. I’ve had worse—“

Daisuke’s hands tightly grab his hips, holding him in place. Haru jumps at the contact, the shelves rattling above them. “What the hell—“

“It’ll be a nasty cut,” Daisuke says coolly. “And an utterly foolish injury to get. Hurt from cleaning archive shelves?”

Haru slumps at bit at his words. He huffs again in annoyance, snorting like a bull. Daisuke’s voice comes calmly to his ears, smooth, a velvet lull like someone explaining the simplest option possible. “I’ll help you, is that fine?”

Yeah,” Haru relents, just sick of this whole situation. “Fine.”

Daisuke smiles behind him. Haru can’t see, but he hears it again, that little note of praise in his tone when he says, “Good.”

Haru grumbles, resting his chin on his forearms as he waits. He feels Daisuke’s hands move from his hips and work their way under the shelf, sliding forward, over his shoulders, and then one hand lightly slides underneath his chest, touching the first buttons below his neck.

“Don’t move,” Daisuke says. “I’ll be quick.”

“Sure,” Haru grunts back. He feels Daisuke’s hands move against the first button, smoothly untucking it free.

Daisuke slides one leg over Haru’s back, kneeling above him. Haru stiffens briefly, but relaxes when Daisuke’s hand makes quick work of the next button, slowly undoing his shirt. Daisuke watches with dark eyes through the gaps in the metal rungs of the shelf as Haru shifts beneath him, calmly presses one hand to Haru’s lower stomach, keeping it there to hold him up while his other hand works at the next button, loosening it.

“Stupid closet,” Haru mutters. Daisuke smirks above him. “Stupid coworkers. Stupid billionaires.”

“Is the stupid billionaire not helping you?” Pop. Another button.

Haru just grunts another response. Daisuke’s lids lower, heavy with amusement because he does not expect less from the man beneath him—his technical senior at the work place.


“I like this shirt,” Haru mutters.

“You’re awful chatty today, Haru,” Daisuke says smoothly. Haru harumphs. “Finally warming up to me?”

“When hell freezes over,” Haru snaps. “Just hurry, would you?”

Daisuke tsks behind him. He reaches up with his second hand, sliding it through the opening of Haru’s shirt when he’s deemed enough buttons undone. His cool hand presses lightly to Haru’s bare stomach and Haru stiffens for a split second before remaining still, ignoring the touch.

Daisuke smiles before him, utterly, utterly content as he lazily, purposefully drags both his hands rough up Haru’s chest. His slightly calloused hands pass over his chest and brush up against his nipples, causing Haru to shout in surprise as he jerks, jostling the shelves above him.

Daisuke steadies him by holding his sides as though he hadn’t done a single thing. “Are you alright?”

(Haru’s skin is softer than he expected. Not milky and smooth like a woman’s—but soft.)

“Y-Y—“ Haru bites off his words, shaking his head. Daisuke’s smile widens and inch behind him. “Can you just hurry? I think I’m going to throw up if you have to touch me any longer.”

“That’s not very nice,” Daisuke says, like a rumble of a hum. Haru scowls at the floor, trying not to shiver as Daisuke’s hands start to pull his shirt down. “Arms.”

Haru growls a curse and moves his arms. Daisuke pulls them back with his shirt, slowly pulling the white fabric free. Haru waits, shuddering as he braces his upper body with his arms against the cold floor. Daisuke’s hands are now on the last couple buttons by his lower abdomen, untucking his shirt from his pants.

Haru tries to keep his mind occupied, deciding to work through a game plan of how he’ll clean up and redesign this closet—new shelves first, absolutely. Maybe he’ll hire someone after all to properly clean it up and they can fix the air conditioning in here because it’s stupidly hot even though the floor is freezing—

One of Daisuke’s hands follows the dip of Haru’s hip, ghosting against his skin, following further down the line of his abs and then resting just below the edge of his pants. Haru freezes, blinking rapidly in disbelief, completely stiff. Wait, wait, wait.


One of Daisuke’s hands moved to his bare hip, holding it snug in his grip. His thumb starts to rub light, soothing circles—coaxing—no, no, no, Haru is absolutely, absolutely imagining that—

Daisuke’s right hand dips lower into Haru’s pants, keeping flush against his skin. He pulls the elastic of his briefs and Haru jolts completely, eyes blown wide and cheeks flushing, flailing wildly under the shelves. “Y-You—Kambe, you bastard, watch your fucking hands—“

Daisuke’s fingers push forward through uncharted territory, seeking to claim as they lightly brush the top of Haru’s—Haru’s—Haru squawks, struggling with more force and trying to get a look over the lower shelf. “Hey! Bastard, I just said—“

Haru’s heart almost jumps clean out of his mouth.

Eyes as pitch black-blue as obsidian gaze calmly back at him, unfaltering, collected. Daisuke does not even look fazed, watching Haru the same way he watches him, thin, dark brows settled calmly over his eyes. Haru suddenly feels he really was imagining everything like some kind of freak until, without breaking eye contact, Daisuke’s hand slips further down his pants and sneaks under the elastic of his briefs.

Haru jumps then, enough to shove the shelves heavy above him because by sheer luck the boxes dislodge just right—Daisuke blinks, only mildly surprised as Haru splutters, managing to pull himself completely free, tucking his legs up and under and rolling onto his knees in one smooth motion. His lips move, flustered and floundering as he jerks his head back and gapes at Daisuke and Daisuke, ever prepared, calmly raises his white shirt.

“It was still tucked into your pants,” Daisuke says smoothly, daring him to believe otherwise because either direction Haru choses to go—it was in his benefit.

(Because Haru is a silly mouse running headfirst through a maze Daisuke has directed himself, and the only thing waiting for Haru at the exit is, of course—Daisuke.)

Haru’s lips splutter a bit more, he opens his mouth, closes it, and then tosses a box at Daisuke’s face that Daisuke calmly blocks, grabbing his jacket and shouting—“Going to get help, wait there.”

The closet door shuts roughly behind Haru. Daisuke idly feels the fabric of the shirt between his fingers—cheap and well worn, smelling entirely of softer, sweet and subtle. It was a shame he didn’t get a better look at him without it.

(And Daisuke will willingly take him with open arms.)

The second time happens in less than twenty-four hours of the archive room, so it slides right in with the fourth simply because a little bit of good timing works in Haru's unknowing favor.

The strobe lights of the club scatter across the patrons, moving fast and hard and convoluted against each other. Music pulsates through the entire room, shaking the walls and vibrating off the floors. The air smells heavily of smoke and alcohol and drugs, and while normally Daisuke would never venture anywhere near such low-class entertainment—nicer clubs, better music, better scene and darker rooms are up his alley—business calls.

Haru has taken the back side of the establishment, working his way from the backrooms back to where the two will meet at the center. Daisuke's already picked out several key faces to remember once they leave the scene. They just need some casual, simple proof of the prostitution ring being run illegally here in Shinjuku and they will be done with this nonsense. Daisuke has already decided he will wait until Haru gets to make his way to the front, playing his fun little part of police officer before Daisuke will simply buy this establishment and get all the evidence they need.

So he waits, lazily letting his eyes travel over the scene with the most expensive whiskey this place has to offer in a glass in his hand—it's not bad, he'll give them that. Aged well, perhaps this won't be a useless purchase after all. One of his cigars sits between the fingers of his other hand, rolling smoke up into the establishment.

It only takes him seconds to finally spot Haru's head shifting through the crowd. His lean, scraggly form clearly standing out amidst the colorfully and thinly dressed patrons. He looks like a dog amongst birds of paradise, poorly concealed and stupidly oblivious as he shifts, seemingly following someone toward a small room pushed deeper into the club. Some dancers and club goers litter his path and Daisuke watches in amusement, resting his chin on the knuckles of his hand as he follows Haru's movements, awkwardly bowing to people, politely trying to keep his hands in the air as women with less on in the bedroom dance past him. Daisuke smirks. Perhaps this case wasn't without its fun.

The small room is thinly concealed with curtains, sheer and shimmering. Daisuke turns slightly, watching Haru scan the establishment before he ducks in, sliding onto a velvet plush couch. Daisuke tips his head to the side, watching carefully as a rather bodacious redhead slides in from the other end of the couch. Her garments shimmer, pale gold against the warm tan of her skin. Her chest is full and perky, a voluptuous woman boasting grand curves. Too showy for Daisuke's tastes. The color of her hair does remind him of something though, something that makes the whiskey go down with less flavor.

A witness. Daisuke watches Haru take out his notebook, scribbling the woman's testimony as she speaks, hushed and head bowed close to Haru's ear. Daisuke leans back a bit, expression calm, indifferent, but he watches, zeroing in like a hawk. The woman's plump lips move and she speaks right against Haru's cheek, moving to where his jaw meets his ear. Haru goes stiff, fingers fumbling once on his notebook while a light red starts to color the top of his ears.

Daisuke takes a long, deep drag of his cigar. He holds the smoke there between his lips. A few woman at the bar beside him watch with hooded eyes, dragging up and down his suit.

Haru says something, clearly flustered. The woman pulls back a bit, smiling up at him, blinking long lashes up. Haru shakes his head, lifting his notebook. She responds and he writes something down, stupid, silly Haru who doesn't even notice as the bumbling imp of a woman drags her hand up from Haru's knee to his inner thigh, rubbing soothing circles there. Haru almost drops his notebook, lips parting in shock.

Daisuke exhales. The cloud of smoke shrouds his face, only dark, molten eyes peering through the haze.

Haru touches her hand, stuttering. The woman smiles, looking amused, almost happy. She's clearly enamored, perhaps because a man like Haru seeking her out is not a usual occurrence. A nice gentleman like Haru who doesn't seek her out for her body and that makes him more to desire.

(Because Haru sits like the only pair of shoes ever made in his style on a pretty shelf for price lower then it should be, tempting people with the possibility of having something they think they can afford.)

Haru politely declines her advances, touching her hand. Her eyes grow shinier and she presses her lips to his neck. Haru's eyes go wide and he stumbles, pressed back into the couches, hands flying up as though afraid to touch any part of her showy skin. She peppers his chin with kisses, bringing her lips to his collarbone. One of her painted nails goes up to Haru's tie, working to loosen it while the other reaches down between his legs.

Daisuke puts the cigar out on the ashtray beside him, leaving it behind as he stands. He can feel the crowd part before him like a god, eyes watching him in reverent fear like a king. He's steps past all of them.

(But the reality is that no one can afford Haru.)

Haru's eyes go wide and his entire face flushes red, his lips part and he jerks his head back, brows creasing. She rushes up, moving her lips from his throat, to his chin, lingering just shy of his lips. Daisuke calmly pulls his wallet out of his pocket, thumbing it open and casually leafing through the bills stacked neatly inside, crisp.

Haru turns away from her, apologetic. She still follows, hand moving between his legs while Haru flushes, his breathing a little heavier. Daisuke steps past the sheer, shimmering curtains, ripping one down and discarding it like trash behind him.

Daisuke stands right behind the redhead nymph. The strobing lights cast colorful, looming shadows rapidly across all of them, shadowing half of Daisuke's face. The broken curtain behind them catches light, making Haru's skin look shiny—it shimmers like diamonds, turns his light, faded, drab colored hair to look like its been dipped in thin streaks of gold.

Haru looks up, eyes traveling right over the redhead's curls—ah, Daisuke muses, her hair color is very, very close to the incompetent louse in the First Division—and his expression becomes one of flushed surprise, eyes wide. Haru's lips move, about to form Daisuke's name the same moment the redheaded leech reaches up to press her lips to his.

(No one but him.)

Haru, for a split, split second, feels terrified.

Her lips never make it, of course. How could they possibly when Daisuke hurtles an entire wad of ten thousand yen bills right into the side of her face, exploding into the air and knocking her onto the side of the couch, slipping off Haru's lap and landing on her side with a squeal of surprise. Money scatters into the air and onto the slick, shimmering floor. Haru gawks, jaw going slack, face flushed and eyes blown wide in disbelief as the showgirl touches her cheek in surprise, not even red—Daisuke's thrown money much, much harder.

"K-Kambe!" Haru says, shock plastered over his flustered face. "You—what are you doing?"

Haru moves to help the girl but Daisuke stops him by kicking his foot up onto the couch, shiny loafers digging into the plush velvet right between them. Haru gapes at him in disbelief and the showgirl blinks rapidly.

'W-What the hell—" she stammers, picking up the thick wad of cash and looking at Daisuke in disbelief. "Who the hell are—"

"Leave," Daisuke says.

Her face grows pale at his tone—ice, collected, frigid. It leaves no room for her to even imagine or think otherwise around whatever it is that's spilled out of his mouth. She stumbles, white as a ghost and flees in a trail of glitter and cash behind her. Haru stares after her over the top of Daisuke's leg, blinking and moving his lips like a fish and Daisuke slowly turns his gaze back to him.

Haru's tie is on the floor, the thin, cheap green fabric discarded. His shirt is pulled open around his neck, revealing the smooth column of skin, littered with obscene red lipstick marks all the way up to his ear. His skin is flushed a nice, dark red, coloring his cheeks and making him look positively flustered, the front zipper of his pants undone and opened up. The best part, Daisuke savors, expression dark, eyes half-lidded, is that Haru's covered in cash, littered all around him, sitting in his lap, stuck to the opening of his shirt.

Flustered, disheveled, messy Haru covered in cash—

This, Daisuke decides, feeling his pulse thrum, low and steady against his skin, making his fingers shift at his sides, is a great look on Haru.

"...I," Haru says finally. He coughs awkwardly into his hand, pulling his jacket tighter over himself. "I am not going to thank you for that. That isn't even—do you know how rude that was? Throwing money at someone?"

"She took it, didn't she?"

Haru scowls, rubbing his face in disbelief. Daisuke takes his time bringing his eyes over Haru's body, starting slow at his legs, traveling up his thighs, to his unbuttoned slacks and his messy shirt. He takes all of it.

"And..." Haru grumbles. "I could've handled it."

Daisuke hums, a low rumble of a sound. Haru rubs the back of his neck, trying to stamp the flush on his cheeks. "Well, aside from all of that—she actually did give us some good information. I found out who the leaders of the ring are—" Haru notices Daisuke is hardly paying attention to him, more focused on the lipstick stains on the side of his neck. "Oi! Are you listening? I just said I found out who—"

Haru freezes. Daisuke bends one knee, kneeling between Haru's legs as he leans over him on the couch. Haru blinks rapidly, feeling his heart jump back up into his mouth as one of Daisuke's hands comes down, gripping the back of the couch and boxing Haru's head in. His other hand drifts, lightly skimming up the smooth skin of Haru's collarbone before his gloved fingers sit at the juncture of Haru's neck and ear.

"W-What," Haru starts, hating how his voice falters for a second. "...what are you—"

Daisuke's gloved fingers drag themselves down Haru's neck. They smear the cheap lipstick across his skin, painting the tip of his fingers dark, cherry red. Haru stutters and curses himself for stuttering, reaching up and roughly grabbing Daisuke's hand and pulling it away from his neck, holding it front of his face before he could feel him shiver. "Hey! I'm talking to you, you asshole—"

Haru's words are cut off when Daisuke swipes his finger roughly across Haru's lips. Haru turns his head but Daisuke grips his chin hard between his fingers. Red lipstick is smeared across Haru's lips, making them plump and brighter. Daisuke's eyes lower. Haru snarls, brows creasing in irritation at the treatment, "Kambe, you bastard, what the hell is your..."

Daisuke's eyes threaten to swallow him whole, take each little piece of him apart and for himself, placing them under close inspection under the light. Haru's stomach churns, his throat bobbing as Daisuke gazes down at him and calmly tugs off one of his expensive gloves.

"...problem?" Haru whispers.

"Red," Daisuke says, reaching for Haru with his gloveless hand. "Is a good color on you."

And before those fingers can touch, the bomb at the front entrance of the establishment decides to go off.

Daisuke considers the probability of such ridiculous timing while screams start piercing the air. Haru's eyes go wide, clearing an instant and with the strength of a true workaholic, shoves right past Daisuke, fixing his pants and shirt and shouting quick orders and "Police! This is the police! Everyone calm down and—"

Daisuke tells HEUSC later that night to pull up the surveillance feed and he spends an evening with a glass of Chateau Lafite 1787 and manages to pull up the scene of Haru sprawled out on that velvet couch, disheveled and covered in money—Daisuke's money. It's an image truly worthy of being hung up in an art gallery. Daisuke considers buying one to do just that.

He vaguely decides the night isn't a total loss.


The fifth time Haru gets away is only, only because Daisuke allows it.

And Daisuke Kambe is not the kind of man to regret things.

(But just, just this once—he does not regret, he berates. Because if something belongs to you, you keep it with you, no matter what. It’s yours.)

“Haru,” Daisuke says, calm, collected. His voice is forceful, loud—it’s an order, “Haru. Haru, get up.”

The detective in his arms hardly stirs. There’s an ungodly amount of blood spilling out from his abdomen and Daisuke already has a hand pressed to it, forcing his red handkerchief to turn even more crimson as he forces the wound to close. “Haru.

“,” Haru manages to mumble. Daisuke’s eyes instantly drop to his lips, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He forces his fingers against Haru’s neck, checking his pulse. Low but steady. “...shit... hurts.”

“You were shot,” Daisuke says. “Twice.”

“’now,” Haru slurs. Daisuke forces his head up, forces him to stay awake as he applies more pressure onto his gun wound. It will take the paramedics approximately ten more minutes to arrive. In ten, measly, cheap minutes, Haru will have lost more blood than a man his stature is capable of losing. “Ugh.”

Daisuke calmly plays the scene back, shutter by shutter in his mind. He sees himself staring at Haru’s back, he sees Haru turning, barking out an order—he remembers, very clearly, the faint, idle reluctance to let him do what he wanted, for Daisuke to tell Haru what to do instead—and he feels the very moment he went against his instincts—something he never, ever does, all in favor of playing with the idea of Haru not putting up such a fight.

He sees Haru’s satisfied grin, almost happy. His words, “Maybe this will work, partner.” The nod to him, Haru’s back disappearing around the corner, gun and badge in hand—and then—

Three clean shots. Two hit him, ripping right through his side. Haru never even fired—what Daisuke had forgotten to remember, his one and only mistake—Haru was not the kind of man to fire first.

In two cleaner shots, Daisuke blew out their kneecaps and knocked both of them sideways with his gun, watching blood ooze out from their heads but knowing very, very well that they would survive and go to jail. He smashes the heel of his foot into their stomachs, watching them cough up blood, splattering the expensive leather of his loafers. Daisuke presses the heel of his shoe harder into one of their faces, the one who got Haru clean in his hip. Daisuke spends several tempting seconds deciding whether or not he should just shoot them and say it was a shoot-out, but then Haru coughs, hacking up blood on the floor and Daisuke drops the gun.

If this were Daisuke, this would not have happened.

“This is your fault,” Daisuke says. Haru snorts and coughs up blood. Daisuke roughly wipes it from his mouth, pressing onto his wound harder. Haru winces. “You made the mistake.”

“’od ‘ammit,” Haru mumbles. “I know.... don’t gotta.... ‘mind me. They were gonna... fuck...”

“What,” Daisuke says. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cigar lighter. He runs his thumb across the metal, watching Haru’s face grow paler. With the hand that isn’t trying to keep Haru’s blood from spilling out any more than it already was, he tugs off the platinum gold pin from his tie, holding it between his teeth.

Haru squints up at him through his blood-loss induced haze. Daisuke pushes Haru’s hair out of his eyes, noting how soft it was despite looking so coarse—he took better care of himself than he thought. “What, Haru?”

“...nottin’,” Haru mumbles, and coughs, more blood spilling between Daisuke’s fingers. It's hot and slick and Daisuke orders it to stop. “Ugh. Don’t wanna... bleed out in... your stupid arms.”

“My arms are about to save your life,” Daisuke says. Lower, he orders his butler to pull up the surveillance feed, watching in silence as Haru’s figure appears. Daisuke pushes his lighter up, a wild flame licking outwards as he starts to heat the metal between his teeth, turning it red hot.

“...’m glad you’re okay,” Haru says, barely above a whisper. Daisuke’s grip on his shoulder tightens. His eyes dart down to Haru but Haru’s eyes are fluttering shut. He rudely jostles him back awake. “Stop... it...”

"Stay awake," Daisuke orders. "You can do that much at least."

"Fuck.... ya," Haru groans.

Daisuke watches, following Haru’s back in the camera, observing the way Haru’s head suddenly turns to the second floor, pointing his gun and then—bang! Daisuke pauses, pressing his hand harder into Haru’s wound at the sight of a sniper collapsing to the floor and then he knows he’s seen enough when Haru’s body lurches from the force of the two shots to his stomach, collapsing the video feed and focusing on Haru.

He would have seen the sniper. Haru was a fool.

“Haru,” Daisuke forces his head up onto his knee, moving him in between his legs to rest Haru’s head on his shoulder. Haru hisses at the movement, wincing at Daisuke’s rougher hands pressing into his stomach. Daisuke pulls the metal from between his teeth, ignoring the burn on his fingertips. “This will hurt. Bite onto something.”

Haru looks up at him in a daze, brows furrowing, “Wha...” 

Haru’s eyes shift, slightly panicked before they land on the glowing hot metal between Daisuke’s hands. He balks for a second, sweat dribbling down his brow, “D-Do you even know what you’re doing—“

Daisuke abruptly shoves Haru’s own ugly green tie into his mouth. Haru gags, eyes widening despite the tired lines as he jolts. Daisuke forces Haru to still, forcing him down between his knees. Daisuke gives him a moment to prepare himself, grabbing Haru’s chin and forcing him to look up into Daisuke’s face.

“Remember this face,” Daisuke says coolly. “This is the face of your savior.”

Haru’s face erupts into one of lively anger, hands shooting up to grab Daisuke’s neck—to strangle him, probably. But Daisuke uses that moment to press the burning hot metal down onto Haru’s gun wound. His partner surges between his legs, thrashing for a second as he groans around the gag in his mouth. Daisuke lets Haru’s hand find his hair, gripping it a touch painfully tight, Haru’s other hand grabbing onto the lapel of his suit, clutching it in a knuckle white grip as he trembles between Daisuke’s legs.

Daisuke makes a low sshhh sound by Haru’s ear, pressing his face against the side of Haru’s head as he presses harder. Haru groans around his tie and Daisuke murmurs, clipped and encouraging by his ear as he strokes the top of Haru’s head.

Daisuke presses the hot metal to the flesh, watching it carefully and assuring the wound closes up for now. He drops his hand from Haru’s head to grip Haru’s jaw, making sure the stupid man didn’t bite his own tongue off or worse despite the gag, keeping him as still as possible. Daisuke ignites his lighter again, pressing the flame to the wound directly and Haru’s eyes screw shut in pain, tugging roughly on Daisuke’s hair.

The smell of burning flesh fills the air. A moment, two, and then three pass and Daisuke’s grip on Haru’s jaw softens when he feels the man fall limp in his grip. He burns Haru’s wounds one more time for good measure while he's unconscious, touching the raw, red skin to check for bleeding before he pockets his lighter.

Haru’s hand in his hair slumps downwards and Daisuke catches it, holding it by his face. He holds Haru’s hand, slowly lowering it down—he slips his fingers through his, intertwining them as he shifts Haru to rest more comfortably between his legs.

Daisuke’s free hand settles against Haru’s neck, keeping his fingers pressed to his pulse, counting, always checking.

He offers a million fucking dollars to the first paramedic that shows up.

Daisuke fancies, later that evening, sitting with his feet propped up on a chair as he watches Haru’s steady heart monitor and smokes a cigar in the hospital room against all rules, that Haru wouldn’t look too bad locked up somewhere nice. Perhaps a little villa on a beach—extravagant white sand, great weather. Or perhaps Haru was more of a countryside person—he could pass off as a bumpkin if he wanted without trying too hard, a nice mansion home somewhere with plenty of land.

Then, Daisuke sees, much clearer—the nice little image of Haru stretched out on a velvet black couch made of the highest quality leather, looking out across the Tokyo skyline, wide enough and big enough to make anybody feel like it was theirs. He adds to the image, with Haru sprawled out on a bed far, far too wide for him—satin and silk sheets pooling over his hips, did he have bed hair? He probably did. Haru grumbling about something as he complains about not being able to leave the bedroom or walk. Haru, tucked away in his penthouse city suite—always arguing, always fighting to leave and of course, Daisuke would let him, occasionally.

Because no matter how often cats strayed, they always knew who they really had to return too.

Daisuke exhales a long, deep drag of his cigar out the window beside him. He glances back to Haru’s troubled, sleeping face. He wonders if his partner can sense even in his dreams the kind of plans Daisuke cooks up for him.

Out of pure, sadistic mischief, Daisuke pulls up his chair and casually utters suggestions to Haru’s unconscious ears.

“I’ve thought about tying your hands up with your tie before, but I’m not fond of the material of yours so I’d rather use mine. Or would a gag be nicer? No, then I couldn't hear your voice.”

“You’d look fetching with a collar.”

“I think the second place I’d want to take you is on your desk. The first is my bed. You’d have to work every day and remember I made love to you there.”

“I hope that scars so you never forget.”

“...if you want to have it removed I’ll cover the costs.”

“Have you ever considered filming a sex tape? I think you have a good face for it. I have a private theatre.”

“I’ll treat you to something good when you wake up. I doubt you’ve ever eaten anything more than 5,000 yen in your life.”

“I’ll get you a new tie.”


When Haru finally wakes up, shooting upright in his hospital bed only to see Daisuke sitting at his side, calmly smoking a cigar—he starts to sweat, quickly babbling about how he had nightmares of Daisuke and something about ties and, he flushes and shakes his head.

“God, I even have nightmares about you,” Haru groans.

Daisuke just smirks.

“You think of me that much?”

“Oh, fuck you. God, I’m starving.”

"...what do you want to eat? It's my treat."

Haru stops, looking at Daisuke with wide eyes. They quickly narrow in suspicion though and Haru grumbles. "...will it be poisoned?"

Daisuke exhales a cloud of smoke into Haru’s face, ignoring his horrendous coughing fit, hiding the slow, dangerous smile beneath the smoke.

(He will not let Haru go again.)

Chapter Text


The sixth time Haru slips from Daisuke's fingers is fittingly of course, only because the entire world decides upon a self-imposed last, pitiful hurrah against the Kambe heir.

Just as fittingly, Daisuke accepts—he’s always been the kind of man, after all, who’d gladly watch the world crumple at his feet if suited his fancy.

And if it’s Haru on the other side of the world, well, money makes the world go round, no?

(Because if it’s Haru on the other side, Daisuke will gladly spin the world on his fingertips as many times as it takes. He’d even say it could burn, for all he cared, but since Haru cared about the world, he supposed the world wouldn’t burn just yet.)

“...what is it?” Daisuke asks coolly.

Haru rolls his eyes, waving the item in his hand with a little more purpose. “Well, Mr. Billionaire, maybe you haven’t seen one of these before—but it’s a box.”

The work office is empty for the moment. Kamei and Teppei are off philandering with the first floor secretaries in an attempt to secure easier access to paperwork. Daisuke was made interestingly aware that the secretaries on the first floor are very sweet on Haru, according to Saeki, so Teppei and Kamei have harder times.

Daisuke files this information away for a later date, marking the first floor secretaries as low priority business.

Saeki herself has gone off with Nakamoto to review a set of case files. It’s a fleetingly rare moment where Daisuke has Haru to himself in Haru’s most comfortable habitat, and he fully intends to take full advantage of that.

That was, of course, until Haru decided to approach Daisuke himself.

Daisuke calmly sweeps his eyes over Haru from head to toe, taking his time with it until he finally settles where he prefers the most—Haru’s eyes. Since the bridge up until this day, Daisuke still believes Haru has good eyes. They’re pitifully expressive and earnest, not quite amber in shade. Gold. Perhaps a pale shade of gold.

Haru has eyes like money—a touch ironic, considering his aversion to the material world. Thin cuts of gold that have yet to be polished. They’d shine if they looked more fondly at something, or perhaps a bit wet with tears—the kind that can’t be helped when the rest of Haru’s face is twisted in pleasure.

(Daisuke knows the best way to care for quality goods after all.)

An amused exhale leaves Daisuke’s lips. Haru seems to think it's for him and in some ways Daisuke supposes he isn’t wrong. He turns in his chair to properly face Haru, calmly crossing one leg over the other. Daisuke neatly laces his gloved fingers together, resting them atop his knee.

“No,” Daisuke muses. “It seems I have yet to witness a box of such… caliber.”

Haru scowls, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. The box taps the side of his arm. It’s fairly cheap in quality, Daisuke can see that much, but it does look well-kept, aged. Daisuke does not admit that he does not know what is in the box, but he acquises that he does lack the necessary information to decide on its contents.

He could put on his sunglasses for a scan—but where’s the fun in that?

Daisuke calmly flicks his gaze back up to Haru’s. His brows are scrunched in that fascinating way of theirs, and Daisuke watches the flicker of confliction across Haru’s face, the hint of wariness before it ultimately settles for something resolute. Haru’s eyes turn sideways for a second before they roughly meet Daisuke’s cool expression.

Haru scowls, but there’s something softer on the furrow of his brows. Daisuke pauses, cataloging and filing this expression away. Ah, that’s a grand look on you as well. Haru huffs, shoving the box forward and toward Daisuke. “Here. It’s for you.”

Daisuke’s expression is schooled into one of cool nonchalance, but it takes him approximately seven seconds to properly understand Haru’s words. For you. The cheap, aged looking box outstretched in Haru’s hands is for Daisuke.

For him.

This is… an interesting turn of events.

Haru’s scowl is set and rigid, but his expression isn’t as unforgiving—it waits, quiet and prepared to accept whatever Daisuke’s reaction will be. It’s a very Haru look.

Daisuke reaches up three seconds before Haru considers pulling the box away and muttering forget it. (Daisuke has an uncanny ability to act on just the last second before Haru is pushed to the limit.) He applauds himself on remembering to brush his gloved fingers against Haru’s as he takes the box and carefully holds it over his lap. Haru’s hand hesitates in the air for a second before he quickly drops it down to his side, watching Daisuke watch the box.

Haru shifts on his feet, looking at the box and then Daisuke’s face and quickly back to the box. His furrowed brows are a bit… sheepish, eyes still rough and willing to cut Daisuke down—but it’s there, that quiet little openness.

“...a gift?” Daisuke inquires calmly. His gloved thumb travels down the edge of the box. It’s light. The pale shade of brown reminds him perfectly of Haru’s hair. Daisuke’s fingers curl under it, recalling the feel of Haru’s locks. “My, Haru. If you had a favor to ask of me, such frivolities are unnecessary—”

(Haru could whisper into Daisuke’s ear and ask for a kingdom, a palace—the world and he’d do it with a snap of his fingers.)

“Can it,” Haru snaps. His lips purse for a moment, as though reprimanding himself. Daisuke watches him, riveted by this unexpected display. Haru roughly rubs the back of his neck, “I— urgh. Not a gift. It’s compensation.”

“Compensation,” Daisuke repeats. Haru hates how when the word leaves Daisuke’s lips, it suddenly sounds much more regal.

“Yeah,” Haru sighs, carding his fingers through his hair before resting it on the curve of his neck. Daisuke’s eyes never once leave, tracking the entire motion and landing on Haru’s neck as well. “ Compensation . I’m going to say this now—if you don’t want it, I don’t care. Just toss it out then. I already know it’s practically nothing compared to the cost of the other one or whatever dumb shit you’d end up buying instead, but I’m just giving it to you because it was my fault your other one—hey!”

Daisuke deftly opens the box, interrupting Haru’s rambling explanation. Haru’s cheeks flush briefly, expression souring into reluctant embarrassment. Daisuke silently appraises the item inside, setting the lid of the box onto his desk and carefully picking up the sleek metal.

The tie pin is simple in design, unassuming and sharp. Not unlike the kind Daisuke wore once upon a time ago when matters were a bit simpler, when the money was a little less cold. Smooth silver—nothing expensive in cost, but sturdy in material. It would not bend or break. 

He holds it up to the light, watching the way the silver catches and ripples. Daisuke stares at it in silence for a heartbeat, two, and then he lowers it to look at Haru.

“ didn’t get yourself a new one yet,” Haru says, grumpy and hunched up like an unhappy cat. But his words lack bite. “And don’t forget, I know it’s nothing expensive like the one you had but I’m just doing this for my conscience, so do whatever you want with it.”

Daisuke watches as Haru lightly presses his fingers to his side. He’s struck with the rabid desire to see how Haru’s wound looks now—has it healed well? Did Haru think the scar was unsightly? Did it still hurt?

( Do you see me when you touch it? )

“Compensation,” Haru mutters. The corner of his lip turns upwards, a crooked, wry sort of grin and his brows crease in a soft sort of turn, offering Daisuke a look that isn’t rough or dripping with disdain, the same kind of look Haru seemed to be gracing him with as of late in little cracks of moments. “...thanks, for back then.”

Daisuke deeply hopes that Haru does not equate the value of his own life to a measly little tie pin—this pin, however, in Daisuke’s hand— this pin can stand for Haru’s life. Daisuke will gladly take it, wholly and completely.

“Even though it hurt like fucking hell ,” Haru adds roughly. “Asshole—a little warning next time would help.”

“I did warn you,” Daisuke says calmly. He continues to move his gloved fingers over the tie pin, fascinated by it. “Did I not?”

“T-Then fix that shitty bedside manner,” Haru snaps, crossing his arms with a huff over his chest. “And don’t even think about smoking in a hospital room again.”

“You would do well to remain outside hospital premises then,” Daisuke says smoothly. He follows every groove of the tie pin with his finger, swiftly tugging off one glove and touching the warming metal.

“’s just a pin,” Haru grumbles, growing increasingly embarrassed by Daisuke’s prolonged inspection of the object. He stiffens, making to grab it, “It’s nothing fancy, alright? If you don’t want it then toss it out—”

Daisuke swiftly moves the pin away from Haru’s hand. Haru blinks in surprise, looking at Daisuke with round eyes as the other man keeps the pin fixed between his fingertips.

(It makes the rough, grumpy fluff of Haru’s heart feel a little funny.)

“I’ll graciously accept this… compensation,” Daisuke says calmly. His eyes are dark, they’re always dark to Haru, but there’s something that seems almost...wa— no, no, no way. Absolutely not. “Thank you, Haru.”

Daisuke decides the wise decision of not putting on his new tie pin from Cartier sitting within the confines of his desk at home was one of the best thus far—if all just to see the satisfying way Haru’s ears color red and the light flush creeps up his neck, even when Haru scowls at him.

The one Daisuke holds now between his fingers is the closest he’ll accept to a legally binding contract with the man before him until the future gives fruit to a more appropriate one. Of course he’ll take it.

“You’re welcome,” Haru says grudgingly. His fingers lightly tap his side, skimping over the hidden burn scar beneath his clothes. “...I know it doesn’t match up to what you did, but that’s all you’re getting from—”

“Will you put it on for me?”

Haru blinks, once, then twice. He stares at Daisuke as though he’s suddenly broken out into French again. Daisuke calmly gazes back at him, quietly holding the pin out to Haru with a smooth smile that’s about as harmless as a knife.

( Again , because once before on a particularly aggravating stake-out, Daisuke had looked Haru in the eye and uttered to him in perfect, smooth, rolling French all the filthy, heated promises he’d keep in the bedroom when Haru finally said yes. Haru never understood a single word, of course, angrily hissing that Daisuke must be cursing his name, and Daisuke had simply settled back, glowing in satisfaction.)

Daisuke finds it fascinating that Haru doesn’t even bring up the fact that the only reason he was shot was because he put his own life on the line for Daisuke—utterly unnecessary, if Haru had listened to him to begin with—but an action he took nonetheless. A second after that thought, Daisuke simply feels his lip curl up into a smirk. No, it’s because it is Haru that such information is never mentioned. Haru will warmly take it to his grave.

“Huh?” Haru says intelligently.

“The pin,” Daisuke says patiently. He holds the metal pin out to Haru. “Would you put it on for me?”

Hah ?” Haru raises an incredulous brow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do it yourself! Are you that lazy that you need people to put it on for you?”

I just want you. “It seemed a simple enough request,” Daisuke says cooly. He truly does not expect much from this little bit of trivial fun. Simply another excuse to prolong the interaction. “Compared to cauterizing a wound, at least.”

Haru stiffens, a soft urk leaving his lips. Daisuke spins the pin nimbly across his fingers and smirks, slow and faint. “Perhaps I was mistaken—”

The low pulse in Daisuke’s ears settles into a resounding, deep vibrato as Haru’s fingers brush against his and he swipes the pin from Daisuke’s hand. Daisuke’s eyes carefully travel up to Haru’s, watching the bob of his Adam’s apple to the grumpy red coloring the top of his ears. Haru’s eyes are narrowed, focused on the pin and not on Daisuke.

“Incorrigible bastard,” Haru says, moving to stand in front of Daisuke as he roughly grabs his tie. “What are you, a kid?”

Daisuke’s expression is cool. His heart nestles itself for a moment on his tongue before it settles as well, matching the deep pulse of his blood pushing against his skin, against his fingertips. He feels the light tug of his tie in Haru’s fingers as he lifts the smooth fabric.

Haru smells like the archive room, a soft hint of ink and the heavy cloud of fabric softener, cheap and natural. 

(He thinks the hint of cigar smoke will compliment Haru nicely, coupled with the smell of his sheets and Daisuke’s cologne.)

The dark color of his tie stands out like a swatch of ink against Haru’s fingers. Daisuke can easily see they’re the hands of someone who’s never known a day of rest in his life—calloused and slender but somehow still firm in what they clutch.

( You’d never want for anything with me. )

“Christ,” Haru mutters, grudgingly admiring Daisuke’s tie. He rubs at the frighteningly smooth fabric. “What is this, some kind of super cotton?”

That answer is hopelessly ridiculous.

( Endearing. )

“Silk,” Daisuke says smoothly, his voice a touch thick.

Haru’s expression becomes several times grumpier, but solely due to the cause of his own embarrassment. Daisuke admires the dark red coloring the tip of Haru’s ears as Haru mutters incoherent curses, strings of stupid rich people and stupid silk somewhere amidst them. Haru sighs under his breath, gently thumbing the metal pin open and placing it against the fold of Daisuke’s tie.

The office is silent. The world doesn’t even dare whisper—not in Kambe Daisuke’s presence. His ungloved hand flexes against his thigh as Haru’s brows crease a bit in concentration, losing the little opening of the metal pin and trying to sneak it open again. It’s clearly obvious Haru has never worn a tie bar himself.

Daisuke makes a note to buy one for him. Several. He’ll fasten them for Haru personally .

“Does it hurt?” Daisuke asks.

“Not one bit,” Haru says, a cheeky grin curling up on his lips. Daisuke wants to praise him for knowing what he meant without even asking. He remembers to do so on a later date. Haru almost looks haughty, “Soft rich boys like you probably can’t even take a punch.”

Daisuke himself is rather partial to a good bolo punch, but Haru can witness him in the ring another time. He’s far more focused on the word soft —soft fits Haru much better.

(Rendering Haru’s muscles soft, turning him pliant—)

Haru snorts. The sound draws Daisuke’s dark eyes back to his face, taking in Haru’s amused expression. “Had a nightmare about you buying me a tie.”

He says it offhandedly, as though Haru himself hadn’t even meant to speak. But the words come naturally, they slip out without bark or bite.

It’s nice.

It’s utterly fascinating how Daisuke has yet to even touch his wealth to render this sort of progress. Almost intoxicating.

“A nightmare,” Daisuke says, his bare hand ghosts upwards, reaching for Haru’s side. “Do material things frighten you that badly, Detective Haru?”

“Not the things ,” Haru snips, struggling to open the pin again. “The asshole buying them.”

Daisuke’s lips curl up into a wry smirk, a hint of danger. Haru merely rolls his eyes at him. “That wasn’t even the worst part of the damn dream—”

Haru’s voice abruptly cuts off. He freezes, balking momentarily. In that same moment, Haru’s gifted tie bar finally slides into place against the silk of Daisuke’s tie, fastening. Daisuke calmly turns his eyes upwards.


He’s never been particularly partial to any colors, but red is truly earning his favor.

Daisuke takes his time marveling at the way the pretty crimson touches Haru’s cheeks. The blush is quick, like a splash of color. Haru’s expression quickly adjusts into a more disgruntled look, but the damage has been done.

Haru jumps. His eyes dart down to where Daisuke’s fingers lightly touch his side, splaying across the corner of his abdomen and hip. Haru’s heart lurches, freezing, running, jumping—shifting around all at once with the pounding memory of his medically , it had to be medically induced dream—and he hurriedly looks back to Daisuke.

Those eyes threaten to melt—through metal, through gold, through him .

Haru feels his breath catch in his throat. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his brow. His heart jumps. Wait. Wait. Wait. There’s no jumping going on here, you’re losing it, Haru, you’re —Daisuke. He reminds himself fervently. It’s Daisuke for crying out loud. That’s this guy’s name. That’s this this stupidly rich, ridiculous asshole in front of you who can’t even put this stupid pin on himself who maybe saved your life, who

(—was in a dream like that —)

Daisuke’s fingers lightly push into his side. They’re horribly gentle, the way they land right on top of his newly healed scar. Pinpoint accuracy.

Haru’s always been a man of action, of movement, of taking things in his own hands and barreling headfirst—

So why aren’t you moving?

“About that dream, Haru,” Daisuke says.

If there was a sound for velvet, it was this—Daisuke’s voice. Haru’s throat suddenly feels dry. He feels like he’s sitting on the other side of the examination table and it’s Daisuke who knows all his truths, all his crimes but he’ll still play pretend, like a cat with a mouse.

Daisuke’s tie slips through Haru’s fingers. Haru hears his heart thudding in his ears. Is he imagining Daisuke’s face getting closer?

“What exactly,” Daisuke says, low, like a rumble against his ears. “Was the worst part?”

Haru’s traitorous face flushes red, unbidden by the horrifying rush of memories for not just one, no, he could pretend better than this if it was just one—of fleetingly multiple dreams these past few nights.

Daisuke’s eyes darken. He raises his other hand, reaching for Haru’s.

“See! I told you I could do it! Am I a charmer or what?” the door to the office slams open. Kamei pats his sweatered chest, positively beaming as Teppei trudges with a roll of his eyes right after him. “They gave us the okay in record time with out Katou’s help—”

Kamei blinks curiously at the scene before him. Teppei looks over his shoulder. An easy grin curls over Kamei’s lips and he waves the record book eagerly in the air, “Kambe! Were you just about to take off—oh, is Katou snoozing?”

Daisuke’s gaze quietly swallows the entirety of Haru’s form whole. Haru keeps himself hunched over his desk, papers spread hazardously in his haste to completely bury his face into his arms and pull up the hood of his ratty beige jacket, hiding him from the world.

(Haru could hide from the world as much as he wanted, with the world at Daisuke’s fingertips—he could never hide from him. )

Daisuke keeps his eyes on the tip of Haru’s red ears for a second longer before he calmly adjusts the pin against his tie, sweeping a fond thumb over it. He boredly glances at Kamei and Teppei, swiftly sliding his glove back over his hand with a neat little snap.

“It would appear so.”

Daisuke muses that if this is the best the world has to offer at testing his patience, then the world truly isn’t worth much at all.

These little… detours… well, they’re trivial.

The location of the exit of that maze hasn’t changed.

(Haru only has one way out.)

“Okay, guys! Let’s get this party started!”

Their ragtag group—perhaps Kambe’s ragtag group of officers, because he is anything but ragtag and he sees himself as more of an overseer, watching over this band of misfits in vague amusement and cool nonchalance, a true philanthropist—decides to throw a celebratory celebration over their newly closed case. Snatched right under the First Division’s nose and accomplished through the work of a duo striking fear into the underground world.

Katou and Kambe. Haru and Daisuke.

They promise alcohol and sustainable snacks, but Daisuke still rolls in with his own case of the finest imported whiskey to satiate his own tastes while he watches them all flounder about.

They’ve designated one of the break rooms for the gathering—chairs pulled up and unexpectedly tasteful jazz flooding the room. They’re a small... intimate group, Daisuke supposes, as he reclines in his own chair he brought in himself—finely furnished and not cheap, like everything else here—and he’s gone so far as to loosen his cuffs a bit, just to humor the spirit a touch.

He crosses one leg over the other, allowing—who was it again? Teppei? Yes, Teppei, the man Haru originally wanted to shove him onto instead—chatters about horse racing. Daisuke’s been there and done that, still fancies a bit from time to time out of sheer boredom and he most certainly, always wins.

(Anyone would if you owned the whole track.)

Daisuke brings a glass up to his lips, letting the hot, smooth burn of whiskey slide down his throat while he keeps his eyes focused on one sole figure across the room.

Haru’s ditched the raggedy beige jacket that makes him look bigger than he is, rolling up his dress shirt sleeves over his arms—toned enough, Daisuke remembers idly, to hold himself over the bridge for a fair amount of time before dropping off—while he holds a plate of food in one and a beer in the other. His tie is loosened around his neck, hanging messily the way it always does—Daisuke’s made a mental note to teach Haru very, very closely how to tie a tie just right because a tie can make or break a man after all.

(And a tie can be used to make or break a man in more ways than one.)

The soft green isn’t a horrible color, but Daisuke finds a shade of red matching his own handkerchief could suit the milky tone of Haru’s skin better. He could have that arranged in seconds.

Daisuke thumbs the metal of the tie bar clipped neatly over the silk of his tie.

“If she would just give me a chance, I’d make her the happiest woman in the world!” Kamei wails, well past a few drinks. Daisuke spares him a glance over his glass, only because he’s got an arm thrown over Haru’s shoulder as he half-slobbers over him. “I would!”

Saeki smiles reassuringly, a light glass of beer in her hands as well, standing beside Kiyomizu and Nakamoto. “Don’t worry, Kamei-kun, it all works out for a reason.”

“Yeah, she’d really go for you like that,” Teppei snorts. Daisuke takes another sip of his whiskey, watching Haru roll his eyes at Kamei but fondly ruffles his hand through the blonde’s hair. Daisuke's eyes linger on the touch before he pointedly looks to the side, tracing a circle over the rim of his glass.

“You guys just don’t get it,” Kamei sniffles over his one-sided affection for the security guard that works the street on occasion. “Katou, you bastard—you don’t have a pretty lady either!”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Haru snaps, shoving Kamei off—Daisuke coolly watches as Kamei still returns to his arms though. Haru doesn’t shove him off. “Don’t underestimate our workload—we don’t have time for anything else, dumbass.”

Daisuke smiles at his words behind his glass, amused.

“What workload?” Kamei sniffles. “Finding lost kids?”

“Stopping bombs,” Saeki says helpfully. Haru looks at her with complete appreciation and she beams. Daisuke swirls his glass.

There's a specific type of rapport that exists within their division and Haru. One Daisuke has spent a careful amount of time observing, lightly touching, and ultimately settling upon in cool understanding. Different from the kind of interactions with the young fool in the First, but not unlike a designated first meeting one evening with a paramour's family. Haru's coworkers, and by extension, Daisuke's... office inhabitants, are important to this balance.

(They get a pass. Kamei toes a minimally thin line, however.)

“Still,” Teppei sighs beside Daisuke, leaning back. “Someone to spend the night with... man, it does get lonely, you know?”

“No,” Haru says rigidly at the same time Kamei says, “ Yes .”

“Maybe we can find you a woman who’s just as busy,” Teppei snorts. Haru scowls. “Then it might work out, right?”

Daisuke takes a long sip of whiskey, swirling the ball of ice through his glass once.

“Hardly,” Haru snaps. “I don’t have time for things like that right now. Period. And I don’t do one night stands.”

Daisuke does pause at that, considering Haru’s words with idle curiosity. Hmm. He looks over the top of his glass to where Haru frowns at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck.

(More than one night ought to fix that then.)

“Katou-kun is old fashioned,” Saeki says kindly. Haru flushes at her words. “What kind of girl is your type, Katou-kun, if you had to dream a little?”

“Well—“ Haru starts awkwardly. “I’m… not even looking for anyone right now—“

“Dream a little,” Daisuke says. All eyes turn to him in surprise, the most he’s spoken this evening as he smiles, low and eyes flickering. “ Fantasize .”

Haru scowls at him, eyes narrowing into slits. Daisuke smiles back, a small tug upwards in one corner—more of a smirk than a smile. Haru’s chosen the less beaten path—in favor of still treating Daisuke with the usual bark and bite, but, Daisuke notices, Haru skitters a little more—shifts just out of reach of his hand, seemingly more mindful of his grasp. Haru ponders now, he thinks a bit, frowning at Daisuke from the corner, brows furrowed like he can't quite figure something out.

Daisuke almost wants to give him an award—one day in the near future, he will lavish Haru with an unprecedented amount of luxuries and Haru, being Haru, will never know why.

“I’ll go then!” Kamei shouts. “A beautiful, sweet lady who will take care of me like—“

“Someone like my wife,” Nakamoto says, content.

“Big boobs,” Teppei says. Kamei nods furiously, wildly shaking Haru back and forth and the Haru finally caves, shoving Kamei’s kissy face away from his cheek.

“Someone kind,” Haru bites out, grumpily crossing his arms over his chest. “A good person at heart, even if it doesn’t seem like it at first. I don’t judge at first appearances.” Haru’s face relaxes a bit, a little more dopey as he takes a long sip of beer and adds, “Someone who’d take care of me wouldn’t be too bad.”

Daisuke fills his glass halfway, taking a long, lingering sip.

(There are a number of ways one could “take care” of someone.)

“I have to agree with that,” Kiyomizu says happily. Haru looks at him with raised brows. “Haru-kun needs someone who’ll make sure he doesn’t run himself into the ground. A nice, caring partner stern enough to tell him when to stop!”


“How about you then, hotshot?” Teppei says, nudging Daisuke. Daisuke hardly looks over. “This guy over here who could get any woman he wants—you dog, I bet you’ve seen it all! What do you go for, huh?”

Normally he wouldn’t entertain this kind of banter, but Daisuke decides the humor this time around is more in his favor. Haru sips at his beer, looking over in supposedly easy, content calm, the barest hint of curiosity touching his eyes. Daisuke swirls his glass, smirking as he pretends to consider it for a moment.

“Intelligence is important,” Daisuke says. Though sometimes he doesn’t mind a bit of foolishness—the fools are a little more fun, he’s come to realize. “Someone capable of being independent.” Clingy individuals with no substance were never in his favor. “...a little tired in looks, of course. I find myself a bit fond of stubborn people who are a bit... naïve.”

In most circumstances, Daisuke was not very fond of pushy, stubborn people. He abhorred people who couldn’t read a situation, people with unrealistic ideals they could not uphold.

People with unrealistic ideals they continued to strive toward, however, never relenting, trying to make them reachable... well… such earnestness deserved its rewards.

Daisuke pointedly lowers his glass. He keeps his eyes pinned entirely on the man across the room. Haru takes a moment, eyes shifting before they unwillingly get drawn right back into his pull and Daisuke does not even bat an eye as he continues, smooth as silk, never once breaking their connection.

“People,” Daisuke says. “Who won’t break easily.”

The most authentic gems never broke, after all.

Teppei laughs beside him, going on about his ideal woman and Daisuke’s tastes. Daisuke’s eyes do not stray.

And Haru—Haru who never fails to rise to his challenges or meet his expectations, does not shy away. He keeps his eyes right back on Daisuke, glaring, refusing to be the one who backs down as he purposefully brings his can to his lips and drinks, throat bobbing with each swallow.

Daisuke does watch the trail of amber travel from his chin to his neck though. Haru’s neck is such a blank canvas—it’s quite a shame.

(Daisuke did not mind considering himself an artist. He’d been meaning to dabble in the arts for some time now.)

“Ah! We’re almost out of plates,” Saeki quickly stands, setting her can down. “I’ll go get more.”

“Here, let me,” Haru says quickly, not even giving Daisuke a second glance as he stands, taking his can with him. Saeki smiles in appreciation. “I’ll be right back.”

Daisuke watches Haru leave, slipping out the door. He waits, a minute, two, before finishing his glass in one smooth swing and setting it down on the table top. He stands, slipping past the other detectives, unnoticed, and closes the door shut right after him.

It’s amusingly not very difficult to find Haru—the man is right where Daisuke expects him to be, back in the office by his desk, flipping through a cold case book he’d become rather focused on as of late. His cheeks are dusted a light pink from the buzz of the past couple of drinks, the empty beer can set down beside him. Katou Haru, the kind of detective who would go so far as to try to solve cases people had already given up on years ago. Katou Haru, a man foolish enough to save a criminal from an exploding van—

Truly, Daisuke smirks, limited edition.

He closes the door to the office behind him, quietly turning the lock with a soft click. Daisuke does not miscalculate twice.

Haru looks up, curious for a split second before he recognizes who it is and his face morphs into a grumpy scowl, brows furrowing again in that way Daisuke’s become so transfixed with. Haru lowers the book of cold cases a bit, “What the hell do you want? The party’s in the other room.”

Daisuke’s lip curls up into that half smile, making his way around the other row of desks. He takes his time, letting his fingers drag along the smooth surface, skimming over papers. “I thought you were getting plates?”

Haru looks sheepish for a split second, still scowling as he nods to the stack of paper plates beside him, “I did. I just... I wanted to look over some things before I left.”

Daisuke arches a fine brow, stopping one desk short of Haru, “You’re leaving already?”

Haru snorts, rolling his eyes. “Not all of us can afford to wake up at noon and get here whenever they like.”

“I was led to believe we were supposed to celebrate,” Daisuke leans back against the desk behind him and Haru huffs. “Am I wrong?”

“We are,” Haru says, closing the book. “But I’m still trying to get more work done. These aren’t going to solve themselves.”

Daisuke hums, a low, deep sound. Haru’s a few inches taller, but he’s leaner, smaller without his jacket. Daisuke knows for himself how his weight feels under his hand, against his arm.

(It feels— right .)

Daisuke reaches up, loosening the top of his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt all in one smooth motion. Haru’s a bit at ease, for once, maybe the jovial nature of the night—Daisuke decides it’s all small tips on the scale in his favor.

He considers his next move with particular care, but Haru decides to pull out his chair, taking a seat. Daisuke watches him, faintly curious as Haru flips a bit more through a new book of cases. Daisuke’s eyes skim the cover briefly and he stills.

It’s a new book of cases—solved ones, started up by Haru himself since Daisuke came.

Daisuke feels the steady beat of his heart in his chest, even and low like the thrum and whir of money being counted in droves.

Haru’s expression softens at the book, perhaps eased up by the alcohol, but he leans back into the chair and looks up at Daisuke.

"...Hey," Haru says, grumpy, reluctant, but his voice is soft. "How do you like it here?"

Daisuke pauses.

He is not... baffled. Daisuke Kambe does not become baffled. But he does pause. Temporarily, keeping his eyes fixed on Haru's expression, his own fine brows fixed evenly over his face, not giving anything away. Daisuke's mind whirs, processing at the highest speed possible and clicks like the richest software available.

With the coolest expression possible, Daisuke asks, "Pardon?"

Haru harumphs. He rubs the back of his neck, grumbling as though that were answer enough to his question. Daisuke stares at Haru, transfixed despite the impassiveness of his expression. Haru sighs, crossing his arms over his chest, "Never mind, it was a stupid question. I just—"

Haru ruffles his hair. He looks prepared to bite his own tongue off but he shoots Daisuke a sideways glare that lacks any real malice. Daisuke can't take his eyes off him, fascinated by this strange occurrence happening again.

(And again, and again, and again—all of it, he’ll take it all.)

"I still don't know why someone like you wanted to become a cop," Haru says. Ah, was that what this was about? "You're pretty damn terrible at it, by the way. Paying your way through criminals and running past traffic signs and— and you're deplorable."

If this is the direction their conversation will steer towards, Daisuke would much rather inquire about that dream of Haru’s again. They have some unfinished business to settle.

Haru heaves out an aggravated sigh, sobering up, "...but you still do your job... sometimes . Some. Hardly. And somehow this whole division is still smitten with you. Don't know why. And... you know, they'd be bummed if you left—but we're all ready for it anyway because impulsive bastards like you pull that kind of shit all the time!"

Daisuke feels his pulse thrum against his skin, a quiet, steady thrum. A careful increase. He considers it, carefully, interlocking his fingers together over his lap, the fact that it isn't the same from thickened tension played like taut strings—that it comes from somewhere else. A hum of excitement playing on the tips of his fingers, like pressing piano keys in rapid succession, understanding the song before he even heard it.

(He holds onto it, very tightly. He is not the kind of man who likes to let things go. Not the things he wants.)

And honestly? This, this is much more satisfying.

"...ah, fuck it," Haru mutters, slumping forward and resting his chin on the stack of cold cases. "Who do I think I'm talking to? I'm just - ugh - saying... we... maybe appreciate your work—"

"And you?"

Haru grunts. "What about me?"

"Are you smitten as well?" Daisuke asks coolly, turning to face Haru.

Haru blinks back at him. Daisuke's eyes are unreadable, the same way they almost always are—like one-sided glass. But they're bright, Haru realizes. Brighter than he's ever really seen them before, maybe. They flicker, deceptively warm, just barely concealing the heat the bubbles under surface temperature. Daisuke lays one hand on the desk, leaning forward a bit, waiting.

"Smi— me ?" Haru squawks. "Hell no! Crazy, egotistical asshole. What do you—"

"Would you be disappointed as well?" Daisuke prods. "If I left?"

"N-No, of course not!" Haru snaps stubbornly, standing up. "I mean—well, we don't want you to leave but if you did, to hell with it! I'd throw my own little celebration and I wouldn't even think twice—hah! Ten more years of my life I won't lose to stress."

"Stress," Daisuke says. He looks utterly, utterly amused. Having the time of his life. Grander than any ball, more luxurious than any experience. His lips curl up at the corner, a faint smirk, "You're implying I'm the reason for your stress?"

"I'm telling it right to your face," Haru snaps. "My reports are double their length because of you."

Haru's brows do that fascinating thing they do—creasing inwards in a manner that's both frustrated and soft at the same time. They ease up, signaling the spot right between Haru's eyes like a target for Daisuke's fingers to ease or his lips to touch before they make their way everywhere else across his body.

Haru sighs, like it's the hardest thing he's ever done, having to talk to Daisuke without throttling him. Haru's hands drift down without him realizing it, lightly resting over the burn scar now healed right over his hip and stomach. 

"A lot of great things have happened to our division now because of you," Haru mutters. It’s why they’re celebrating. These cases, the success—Haru has never felt… more right , then now, and here, working like this—with him —argh. Daisuke Kambe may not be the type of man willing to lower himself to apologies or thankfulness, but Haru was raised right. He'd pay his dues. "So thanks for that."

Daisuke tilts his head to the side. He turns an entirely innocent gesture into one that feels dangerously loaded. Haru squints at him.

"I should take responsibility for that," Daisuke says smoothly. "How would you like me to make up for it?"

"Make up for it? The stress?" Haru repeats. He considers Daisuke's words and scowls, turning to him with his arms crossed firmly over his chest. "Damn it, that's exactly what I'm talking about. Stop fishing out your wallet for—"

Haru's voice catches, staring at Daisuke's hand wound carefully through the thin fabric of his green tie. Daisuke holds it over his fingers, lightly stroking it with his thumb. Haru blinks, once, twice, and then he looks up at Daisuke, blinking several more times.

Daisuke's eyes meet his gaze, heavy despite the way they still shine a bit with intent. It makes him look... younger , almost. Not a multi-millionaire scion untouchable by common hands, just... someone right here. Haru’s eyes land on Daisuke’s tie pin—not changed out with some newer, more expensive thing—the tie pin Haru got for him.

(Haru suddenly doesn't know how he feels about that.)

He also doesn't really know how to feel when Daisuke's other hand comes up, tickling the back of his neck. Those searing fingers lightly thread through the soft ends of Haru's hair, against the nape of his neck.

They settle there, pressing like little hot iron tips into his skin as Daisuke calmly guides Haru forward, never once taking his eyes off Haru's.

Daisuke’s eyes are dark, always dark and blue—like gunmetal. Just as cold and lethal.

(But they’re not cold, they—they burn .)

"I have a suggestion," Daisuke says, voice thick as wine.

Haru feels time slow, down to the deafening, unbelievable second where Daisuke's eyes slide shut first and the hot, tickling feeling of his breath ghosts over Haru's lips. He smells like cigars and whiskey. Cologne.

And then Daisuke seals his lips across Haru's, as natural as breathing.

Haru's lips are soft enough—the kind of soft that comes from someone who puts on lip balm as an afterthought. Daisuke can taste the lingering hint of beer on his lips, overpowered by the sweet touch of the chocolates Saeki had brought in.

He eases his grip on Haru's tie in favor of drifting his hand to Haru's chin, lightly skimming his fingers up the smooth column of his neck before cupping his cheek while he keeps his fingers pressed to the back of Haru's neck—enough pressure to push, but not enough to force.

(Run if you’d like. As far as you’d like. He’d be willing to wait, to chase.)

Haru’s lips move weakly against Daisuke, like he can't quite figure out what's happening. Daisuke presses his lips against Haru’s, firm, moving them in the only way Haru can understand exists just for him.

This is yours, Daisuke’s kiss says. Yours.

Haru’s heart does something funny, he’s pretty sure this is how it feels to explode from the inside out.

Daisuke resists the urge to turn Haru over and press him back into the desk—there's a chance for that later. An infinite amount of chances for that later. He presses his lips harder to Haru’s to make up for it, swiping his tongue against Haru’s lips and nipping sharply at Haru’s bottom lip.

It takes Haru a few seconds to realize how warm he feels, like scotch pouring right down into his stomach, flooding his chest. It takes him another few more seconds to understand the sound he hears in his ears is his own heartbeat, thundering like a drum, hammering through his chest like his feet on concrete when he's chasing down a criminal. Except this time Haru isn't chasing. 

(He's being chased.)

It takes him maybe one more second to realize it's Kambe Daisuke who's been chasing him.

Haru's eyes go round in disbelief. His heart lodges itself right into his throat. His lips move, coaxed to follow Daisuke's lead and Daisuke pulls away for all but a few seconds to look at Haru, eyes dark and full of promises Haru's never seen before and then Daisuke presses his lips to his once more, harder, with more insistence this time.

Hot air escapes the thin gaps where their lips don’t press. Haru makes a small noise in the back of his throat, hand fisting the curve of Daisuke’s suit.

Daisuke leans over Haru, dropping his hand from his chin to his lower back. He snakes his arm around Haru’s hips, tugging him closer, pushing him back into his arm. Haru bends, eyes squeezed shut and Daisuke follows, lips moving like he's trying to map out every possible way Haru's lips could feel against his own. Haru's heart stutters, breath catching in his throat and he quickly reaches up, grabbing the lower half of Daisuke's face with his hand, prying the two of them apart with a soft but heavy pop .

Daisuke licks his lips with purpose, lids lowered as he takes in Haru's stunned, doe-eyed look.

"If that wasn't adequate," Daisuke says, low, husky. "I have other suggestions."

In some hysterically calm part of Haru's mind that's processing things at rapid fire speed, he almost laughs because only someone who dripped confidence like Daisuke could ever even suggest a kiss from him was compensation for anything.

Daisuke reaches up to hold Haru's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it as he presses a kiss to Haru's fingertips, to the spot between his thumb and index, to his palm and then his wrist where he lightly nips the sensitive skin.


Daisuke relishes watching the flurry of emotions scatter across Haru’s face. The confusion, first, the disbelief, the little clicks and whirs going on in his brain as he tries to piece together what Daisuke has just said to him, and in perfect Japanese, no less, so there is no error in translation—and then finally, the realization.

Red, Daisuke decides, really is a good color on Haru. It colors his skin so, so well.

Haru’s cheeks color red, it flushes up the smooth column of his neck, painting it and then the tips of his ears. He splutters, clearly because the poor, naïve man has never once considered Daisuke wanting him, seeking him out in such a manner.

In the same instant, Haru's mind starts to whir like an old computer turning on, showing him past images in rapid succession of each other, slightly tinted now through a different set of lenses.

The stupid, over-the-top touches that had Haru squinting at him, the fucking bedroom eyes, the fact that Daisuke was the first person he woke up to in that hospital room, the lack of a hospital bill, the food, so much damn food Haru's been doing his best to pretend he isn't even interested in and the fact that he wasn't crazy after all, Daisuke really had been picking up the slack in paper work even though he still was shit at doing paperwork and Haru had to correct each page.

Daisuke, humoring him in the dark light of his stupidly expensive car as he shows Haru how HEUSC operates and granting him full control of his funds, offering to install it with a wicked gleam in his eyes as he touches Haru’s ear. Haru, spending over fifteen minutes trying to explain to the stupidly rich asshole how he was supposed to fold seaweed over his rice ball—rice balls Haru had made for them, he realizes weakly, for their lunch as they poured over a case. 

The dreams—the pin—Haru’s own feelings— feelings?

Haru staggers a step back, chair clattering behind him. His face flushes as red as Daisuke's handkerchief and Daisuke calmly forces one hand to curl into a fist, pressing them with force into the desk so he isn't tempted otherwise. He keeps the other on the small of Haru’s back, keeping them close but giving Haru the room to run, if that’s what he wants.

Daisuke regards Haru with cool nonchalance, giving the man a moment to gather his bearings—he knows, to be kissed by him isn't an easy feat for anyone to wrap their head around, it's Daisuke.

"I," Haru says intelligently. He points to himself and then to Daisuke, "You—" he cuts himself off again, touching his beautifully swollen lips and staring at Daisuke with wide eyes. "I—"

"We," Daisuke offers helpfully.

Haru defaults to his easiest and most trusted emotion—he bares his teeth at Daisuke, eyes flashing in hot warning, actually daring a step closer. Daisuke relishes the close press of their bodies. "If that was some kind of fucking joke—"

"I don't mind proving to you," Daisuke says, and even though his voice is light his eyes are dark. "That it was certainly not a joke. Not to me."

Because Daisuke's come to realize something amidst stolen touches and tension pulled taut like a bow. He can pull and pull and wind it back as much as he wants, and Haru will bend but he will never break.

(And to break Haru is not what he wants.)

Haru does not break nor does he deserve to be broken—in the bedroom is a different story—he's made of the finest quality. Because just as Daisuke said, Haru sits on that shelf, like a gem or a pair of limited edition shoes, for a price lower than people would expect even though he's made of a quality so fine, if treated right, it could last a lifetime.

But it's not a matter of affording Haru. Daisuke can go down that path, easy and rampant, but the gilded road is the one Haru can open for him. The one where Haru simply waits behind the counter for anyone willing to ask about those shoes, without worry of the cost, to be willing to buy them without the intent to return them or exchange them for anyone else.

It's not the conventional road Daisuke is used to. It's not the road he's walked when countless bodies press and seek for something above the line of his wallet that Daisuke can not find because it is hollow and without substance. Unsatisfying.

But he's never been the kind of man to shy away from a challenge.

(He'll take the receipt and burn it to ash.)

With Haru—he never feels satisfied, he wants. Constantly wants. And that, in its own right, is utter satisfaction.

And, because it's Haru, Daisuke forces every muscle in his body not to lunge, to grab ( I'm very tired of letting you go, you know ) when Haru's face flushes so hard he presses a hand to his mouth. He flexes his fingers against the small of Haru’s back.

“What was that?” Haru barely manages to garble out. 

“It’s not a joke,” Daisuke repeats smoothly, calmly. He focuses all his intention on Haru and watches the man’s throat bob with a nervous swallow. Daisuke’s lids lower, “I am being completely serious, Haru.”

Daisuke raises his free hand, carefully tracing the bright red of Haru’s swollen lips. Daisuke smiles, like humoring a child, “Why else do we kiss people, Detective Haru?”

Haru suddenly sees a mini-version of himself, a dumb, five-year-old Haru frowning as his mother beams at him and says, “Well, Haru, the reason mommy and daddy kiss is because—”

Haru goes rigid, flushing an even darker shade. His lips move, fumbling, stumbling. Daisuke considers gracing him with another kiss to drive the point home, but Haru’s hand slaps against the lower half of his face, forcing him back an inch as he stutters. Daisuke waits with godly patience.

His brows furrow briefly and Daisuke’s eyes languidly drift downwards. His arm around Haru’s waist tightens and Daisuke considers the sight that greets him for a moment before he shuts his eyes and exhales, slow and as calming as he can possibly muster.

Haru. Daisuke’s eyes slide open, heated. You make this a challenge, even for me.

(Daisuke can push his own luck, can’t he?)

Haru’s eyes bulge like a fish as he blurts, “B-But that means—you—all this stuff—that time—”

Haru .”

Haru freezes. His heart lodges in his mouth at the feel of Daisuke’s fingers smoothly gliding over his own, slipping through the gaps of Haru’s fingers and lacing through as he gently tugs Haru’s hand away from his mouth. Daisuke settles their joined hands onto the desk beside them, never taking those dark, stupidly hungry eyes off Haru.

Haru suddenly has the vague, nerve-wracking sense that he’s in an entirely different ballpark now.

He becomes hyper aware of the arm Daisuke has curved against his back. Haru’s eyes dart from Daisuke’s eyes to his mouth, to their joined hands. “W-What is it?”

Haru feels all of his blood rush to his face when Daisuke leans into him, close— too close! Too fucking close, Haru, get a hold of yourself —and suddenly all Haru smells is cologne worth more than anything he could ever own and the wisp of cigars.

“Haru,” Daisuke says, voice low but it rips with the faint hint of a growl. His lips ghost over Haru’s ear. Haru’s entire body feels like a live wire. “All I’ve done is kiss you.”


Haru rapidly blinks. Daisuke pulls away from his ear to meet Haru’s hopelessly confused gaze again. A smirk slowly curls over Daisuke’s lips and his eyes take their time traveling down to the space between them. Haru’s eyes follow his descent.

Haru stares at the noticeable bulge pressing against his slacks. Haru’s slacks. Haru dully realizes the tightness in his own pants. His pants. His… pants…

Haru’s eyes pop from his head.


This is how Katou Haru will meet his end, that’s what this is. Any moment now his heart will give because the human body is not built to withstand such events. The human body is not built to withstand the mental and physical and emotional onslaught of (1) one Kambe Daisuke and the velvet words that leave his pretty mouth and the human mind is not stable enough to withstand two critical realization in one day—

“All I did was kiss you.”

Mortification sinks its claws into Haru, inch by inch. Like a robot, Haru’s head slowly and rigidly cranes back up to meet Daisuke’s gaze.

Daisuke offers him a polite smile, eyes half-lidded.

(Polite—no, not polite—that smile, that smile is arrogant and dangerous and ravenous and… happy?)


T-T-T-This is a perfectly normal reaction, you bastard! ” Haru shouts, flailing their carefully interlocked hands along with his free one. Daisuke regards him with lazy amusement, smile crawling up into a ferocious smirk. Haru can’t even see anymore through the mortification. “This—it’s been a long time, you know? I’m just—this is all—this is—”

Haru’s voice breaks off into a disbelieving, fearful wheeze as Daisuke’s knee comes up and carefully, purposefully grinds once upwards into the bulge between Haru’s legs. A sharp jolt of pleasure races up Haru’s spine, coiling in the pit of his stomach. Haru’s mouth opens and closes like a fish and Daisuke lets out a calm hum, slipping one hand below Haru’s chin and tipping his flushed face back up to meet his.

“This is evidence,” Daisuke says smoothly. “Isn’t it, Detective?”

“T-This isn’t—not what it looks—we’re—I—you—” Haru babbles, eyes spinning. This has to be a dream, this has to be just another dream. This isn’t happening—not to him, not with Daisuke Kambe , not with the screeching, sudden realization that the careful, traitorous thoughts Haru’s been keeping under lock and key are now spilling out like—

Daisuke lets Haru’s words go in one ear and out the other as he normally does, “If it helps your brain, because I do know it works slower than mine, then think of it like this—perhaps this is a good way to relieve tension?”

“Tension?” Haru crows, kicking his leg out. Daisuke stops the foot aimed for his side, grabbing Haru’s knee and bending it to the side and over the desk—it’s beautifully compliant with the stretch and Daisuke confirms his suspicions that Haru is much more flexible than he seems.

Wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Exquisite.

Daisuke considers grabbing one of his legs and hiking it over his shoulder but he’d risk his grip on Haru’s hand and he’d rather not take a black eye from the man he’s trying to coax into his bed. “Tension? The only tension here is the one I’m about to smack into your god damn fa— ayce?

Daisuke calmly presses his knee with more force between Haru’s legs, forcing him further up onto his leg and the desk. He shifts it, slowly grinding upwards, a light tease filled with promised intentions.

Haru’s face goes even redder. His eyes threaten to bulge from his head, dropping shaky eyes down in disbelief. “W-W-W—“

Daisuke lightly tugs Haru’s tie, “I’d rather use my hands—can I trust you not to punch me?”

“Hands?” Haru squawks. “Hands—what are you talking about— s-shit!

Daisuke drops his tie and cups him through his pants, stroking him. “Hngh!”

Haru’s breath hitches, eyes going wide as he jerks his head back. Daisuke calmly grinds his knee up into his crotch, moving up and down, and pressing with just enough force as he attentively watches every shift on Haru’s face. “You—argh—bastard—“

“Daisuke,” Daisuke says, low and pulling, like a teacher. “Call me Daisuke.”

“Daisuke!” Haru gasps out, roughly squeezing Daisuke’s hand intertwined with his. Daisuke’s half-lidded eyes flicker over to their joined hands, marveling at the sight for a moment before Haru’s free hand shakily grabs at the collar of his shirt. “We—this is the office! We can’t here—wait, no, I mean, even if it wasn’t here, we wouldn’t be—”

“Since I was the cause of your stress and this ,” Daisuke says, calm and collected even though he roughly strokes Haru through the fabric of his pants, watching Haru with eyes hot enough to melt. Haru’s breath hitches and he tries, tries very hard to ignore the pleasure surging up his spine, at the want coiling in the pit of his stomach over the disbelief and the shock and everything else. “I’ll take care of it, alright?”

“N-Not alright!” Haru splutters. Daisuke’s hand halts, cupping Haru through his pants and Haru’s breath hitches. “T-This isn’t— is this really happening?

Firm fingers take Haru’s chin and turn his face once more. Haru’s breath catches, his heart lurches, and he’s sure this is really, really where he has to meet his end. 

Daisuke takes all of his expressions—every last blink and flutter and breath and he keeps them greedily, ready to extract more and more because he’s a man used to having an unlimited balance—

“Yes,” Daisuke says, cool and husky and promising. “This is really happening.”

And because he knows Haru really is just a touch slower on the uptake and a less eloquent with his words in such a frenzy, Daisuke does him a favor and seals their lips together, roughly pressing forward and pushing Haru’s back into the desk as a low moan echoes into their joined lips.

( Not enough. Not nearly enough.)

Daisuke’s tongue pushes past Haru’s wet lips when he groans at Daisuke’s hand rubbing tight circles between his legs. He gets a deeper taste of the chocolate and light tang of beer, slotting his lips perfectly against Haru’s. Daisuke’s tongue is hot in Haru’s mouth, heated like the taste of whiskey and bitter cigars—his tongue sweeps against his, pressing and mapping every inch of Haru’s mouth for himself.

Daisuke can hear Haru’s heartbeat, a staccato pounding against the low thrum of his own—it makes an adequate enough symphony, Daisuke muses.

“Daisuke,” Haru gasps out, hot against the side of Daisuke’s face. “ Fuck. Wait—”

Daisuke’s fingers make quick work of the buttons on Haru’s pants and sharply tug down his zipper. Haru jumps, jerking back from the kiss and ducking his head when Daisuke chases after him. Daisuke drops his mouth to latch onto the corner of Haru’s jaw instead. Daisuke slips his hand down his briefs, pulling them to Haru’s hips. “W-Wait—“ 

Haru’s voice cuts off, a low, shaky moan of surprise when Daisuke’s fingers wrap smoothly around his cock. Daisuke’s calloused fingers start to move, gathering the heavy precum at the tip and stroking Haru—he’s got a pretty cock, nice in shape and pink at the head—Daisuke swipes his thumb over the sensitive slit and Haru lurches, legs trembling. “Y-You—ah— fuck .”

Haru’s face is flushed red, all the way up his neck and Daisuke watches every shift and twitch, hungrily taking in all the creases— ah, that’s it. Why he liked that furrow between Haru’s brows—he always thought it’d look much nicer creased in pleasure instead of anger. Daisuke wants to be the source of both. Of all of Haru’s expressions.

(This—this is all Daisuke wants.)

Every other luxury pales in comparison.

“Haru,” Daisuke’s voice is hot against the skin of Haru’s neck, liquid gold. “Haru—you’re perfect.”

(And luxury once tried becomes a necessity .)

A startled moan slips past Haru’s lips. Daisuke drinks in the sound, eyes devouring every inch of Haru’s creased brows, his disheveled hair, the swollen lips and shiny eyes— there’s the gold. Haru’s hands fly to his shoulder, fisting his suit and tugging roughly on his collar.

“But y-you—“ Haru hitches, shifting beneath him, wriggling. Daisuke strokes his cock, smoother, twisting his fingers around him and alternating between rubbing the sensitive tip and stroking his length completely. “Ah, god damn it ! You—but you don’t even— argh like me!”

Daisuke tightens his grip at the base of Haru’s cock. The detective’s eyes go wide, breath choking in surprise as Daisuke regards him coolly, unable to temper the heat pooling in his eyes, molten. The look sends shudders down Haru’s spine, shaking everything he’s tried so hard to know and his chest flutters as Daisuke leans down, brushing his nose with Haru’s.

“Haru,” Daisuke says, like dark velvet and Haru shudders again. “I would not—“ Stroke. Fuck!

 Haru’s eyes go wide and he jolts, scrambling at Daisuke’s suit. “Be doing—“ Stroke. “This—“ Daisuke fisted Haru’s cock tight, jerking upwards in firm, rapid strokes and Haru cries out, eyes shaking, legs skittering across the floor. Daisuke keeps his hips pressed firmly to his, holding him in place. “If I was not—“

Daisuke tightens his fingers just below the head of Haru’s cock this time. Haru keens, breathing heavily, eyes hazy as Daisuke’s lips move over his, close enough to touch as he says, smooth as silk, “ Fond of you.”

Haru’s lips blubber, eyes struggling to stay clear and brows furrowing and Daisuke smiles down at him like one would a child. His cheeks are hopelessly red and Haru’s eyes swirl, brows furrowing in grumpy defiance but Daisuke has an eye for things—he finds exactly what he needs.

(Even just an ounce of the way he looks at Haru reflected right back at him.)

And without mercy, Daisuke’s hand moves, jerking Haru’s cock in rough, vicious strokes. Haru’s eyes widen, legs trembling as his back arches and Daisuke lowers his lips to his chin, nipping the skin there, pressing a kiss below his ear as he jerks him off harder, faster, twisting and shifting his fingers in a mind-numbing mess of pleasure that has Haru crying out before he can even realize it.

No way, no way, no way. Haru’s mind blurs, his senses sharpen and it feels like all he knows and can think is suddenly him and Daisuke and Daisuke and him and— “This is happening.”

“Shit,” Haru groans, head snapping back. Daisuke’s lips feverishly press to his neck, biting down on his collarbone. “Daisuke! S-Shit —ah-ah—”

“Haru,” Daisuke’s voice is like a rumble against his neck, traveling throughout his body. Haru’s moan stutters when Daisuke twists his hand up his cock, sliding his thumb against his slit and back. “ Haru.

White hot heat coils in the pit of Haru’s stomach, winding tighter and tighter—Daisuke watches his face, never once leaving or taking those hungry eyes off him. Haru pants, biting his lip, shaking his head from side to side as his hips tremble and Daisuke forces him past the breaking point—

 “Haru,” Daisuke says thickly against his throat, peering up at him through dark lashes. “ Come .”

Stars explode behind his eyes. Daisuke’s hand roughly presses to the tip of Haru’s cock, curving a fist and working him through his high. Cum splatters against Daisuke’s palm, rolling down his fingers and filling the office with the obscene schlick schlick of flesh on flesh.

Haru’s lips part in a low, heated groan that Daisuke quickly swallows with his lips pressed roughly to his. A weak jolt surges through Haru’s body, legs twitching on either side of Daisuke’s hips where the man is pressed as close to him as possible.

Haru feels sweat drip down his brow, panting with his head pressed to Daisuke’s shoulder, eyes dewy and wide in disbelief. Daisuke keeps one hand wrapped possessively around his hip, the other still dragging frighteningly intentional fingers up and down Haru’s now overly sensitive cock, rubbing his thumb against the weeping head. Haru’s breath hitches.

“If you’re still stressed,” Daisuke’s lips move against the side of Haru’s temple, low and husky. “I will assist you with that as well.”

Haru blinks through the mind-numbing blur when Daisuke lightly presses his lips to Haru’s temple, tightening his fingers again around Haru’s cock with an experimental squeeze.

The pleasurable haze breaks with thin clarity. Haru’s eyes bulge, head snapping upwards so fast he almost clips Daisuke in the chin had the other not moved an inch. Haru’s hand quickly fumbles between them, half-zipping up his pants grabbing Daisuke’s wrist and jerking it away and up into the air like a criminal. Daisuke calmly allows Haru to do so, watching him with languidly half-lidded eyes as Haru's mouth opens and closes and opens and closes.

Haru’s stomach sinks in realization the same moment he feels his traitorous heart soar.

“Oh, fuck,” Haru says eloquently.

“...that is the eventual intention,” Daisuke says, honeyed. 

“O-Okay!” Haru blurts, head spinning. “Okay, that—that didn’t just happen—” Daisuke’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits at him and Haru quickly amends, “That did just happen—we just… you feel...god damn it, Daisuke!”

Daisuke arches an amused brow. Haru fishes for his words, cheeks still flushed, still looking delectably ravaged and all Daisuke had done was touch him— Haru you’re marvelous. “Haru, perhaps you’re… overthinking this.”

“I don’t think you’re thinking enough!” Haru retorts. Daisuke’s glad he seems to be getting his bearings again. “T-There’s an order to these things, asshole! We need to talk about this—we have to think about it with our heads clear and, and we need to…”

Daisuke’s eyes lazily stray to where Haru holds his wrist in the air, half-listening. He watches, eyes heavy as pearl white drips down his fingers, curving over his palm and against Haru’s fingers.

“Oi!” Haru barks. “Are you listening to me—”

 Haru’s eyes follow Daisuke’s heady gaze. He blinks at their joined hands, at the white rivulets traveling down their joined fingers and the wet, hot press of their hands.

Haru’s face explodes into crimson. His soul flies out of his mouth.

“...Haru,” Daisuke says, cool and dangerous . His hand moves from Haru’s hip, inching back to his pants. “I believe—”

The door to the office gently rattles behind them. Haru’s eyes go round and Daisuke pauses, brows furrowing in cool irritation as he lazily glances over his shoulder. “Huh? It’s locked?”

Haru’s face goes pale, gawking at Saeki’s voice from the other side. Daisuke’s lips press into a thin line, considering their options—it is locked, perhaps he can coax Haru to—

“Oh, that’s right!” Saeki chirps from the other side. “I’ve got the other key…”

Haru’s soul rushes back into his body and he promptly snaps forward. “Oh, shit—oh, shit!

Daisuke grunts as Haru roughly pulls his hand to the side, whispering fierce shit, shit, shits and Kambe you bastard under his breath.

Haru hurriedly grabs at the box of tissues from Kamei’s desk. Daisuke sighs through his nose, watching like a bored child as Haru roughly wipes both their hands clean and for good measure he even tears open his drawer, fishing around until he procures hand sanitizer and aggressively lathers it over Daisuke and his hands.

The door rattles behind them. Saeki’s pleasant hum floats over as the lock clicks.

Daisuke simply watches in lazy amusement, letting it color over instead of the dull irritation still likcing at his heels. Haru scrambles, fixing his pants and he shoots Daisuke a brief look, scowling in anger when he realizes Daisuke doesn’t even look like anything’s happened to him—cool and impeccable as usual.

(Except the furious thrum of his pulse against his skin. Except the hot, coiling pressure that presses, threatening to explode. Except the creases in his suit where Haru grabbed and the hot flush against the back of his neck Haru cannot see—)

Haru fumbles for the collar of his shirt, prodding his neck. “Did you leave marks, you bastard?”

Daisuke considers a few pretty red blossoms against Haru’s neck. “No.”

Haru gives Daisuke his fiercest glare, but it fails when Haru tightly squeezes Daisuke’s hand and flusteredly barks out, “W-We talk about this later!”

Daisuke’s eyes flicker in interest and he smiles at Haru, as gentle as a lion. “I’ll hold you to it, Haru.”

“Ahah, got it!” Saeki promptly swings the door open with a bright smile. “They should be—oh!”

Saeki blinks in surprise at the sight before her, smiling at Daisuke’s cool expression and Haru’s poorly executed nonchalance, a stack of paper plates bundled in Haru’s hands against his chest. “I didn’t know you two were in here! Ah, Katou-kun you found the plates. We were all wondering where you went—”

Saeki’s eyes go round, glancing back to the door, “Oh, no, did the door lock on you two?”

Daisuke’s visage drips in dark amusement. Haru aggressively jabs his elbow into Daisuke’s side—the man doesn’t flinch but he’ll remember that later for the bedroom— “Yeah! We were looking for the key just now! S-Sorry we took so long, hahaha.”

“I knew we needed a new lock,” Saeki says with a worried frown. “Thank you so much for getting the plates—ah, and thank you for helping, Kambe-kun.”

“Of course,” Daisuke says smoothly. He keeps his eyes on Haru, “I was glad to help.”

Haru bares his teeth at him and Daisuke smirks. Haru gathers up the plates with a meaningful glaare Daisuke’s way and practically stomps to the door, smiling flusteredly at Saeki’s pleasant, beaming expression. “I’ll bring these to the others!”

“Thank you, Katou-kun…” Saeki trails off, brows creasing curiously as Haru steps out the door beside her. “Katou-kun, you’ve got something on your neck—oh!”

Haru squawks, feet catching on the door ledge and nearly toppling over onto the ground. Saeki gasps, bracing a hand against his back. “Oh, be careful! Are you okay—”

“Fine!” Haru shouts. He shoots Daisuke a glare deadly enough to kill. Daisuke simply smirks back at him. “I’m going to the restroom!”

“... I hope he’s alright,” Saeki mumbles, touching her chin before she turns to Daisuke with a small smile. “Kambe-kun, are you headed back to the…”

Daisuke glances over to her when Saeki’s words trail off. She has a hand pressed to her lips, blinking at him with curiously round eyes.

“Kambe-kun,” Saeki says cheerfully. “Did something good happen? You seem so cheerful all of a sudden. Ah, wait, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“Yes,” Daisuke says evenly. Saeki perks up and he leaves her with a wide, satisfied smirk. “This has just been a wonderful party.”

“Yay! I’m so glad! Katou-kun and everyone else really wanted you to have a great time,” Saeki turns. “I’ll see you back in the break room!”

Daisuke hums in acknowledgement. He waits a few moments before he calmly adjusts his belt. He doesn't even entertain the idea of the faint tightness in his pants or that it was drawn out simply by getting to kiss Haru, because he expects more kisses to come, he ought to savor it.

(Don’t worry, Haru.)

Daisuke coolly runs a hand back over his hair, pulling out his cigar case, thumbing the latch open and sliding one into his mouth as he shuffles for his lighter.

Katou Haru will arguably be the end of him. Daisuke plays with the idea of leaving behind his entire will to the man after settling all other accounts and seeing that Suzue was fine—it would be the greatest upset the world has ever seen and Haru would probably lose his mind, left to be haunted by him till the end of his days.

It's not entirely a bad way to go, to be honest.

(There will be no exchanges or returns.)