Work Text:
“You take the bed,” is the first thing Nanami says, only one foot over the threshold, his voice brooking no argument.
Higuruma, still in the hallway, takes a moment to deduce the logic behind this. All the same, he reserves his answer until they’re both well within the confines of the hotel room – average at best, thoroughly cleaned but unable to hide the marks of long-term use from a series of rotating guests over the years, but relatively comfortable for the purposes of a single occupant.
Unfortunately, there’s two of them.
“No,” he answers. It's his best courtroom voice, authoritative and clear. Six months ago it would have worked on Nanami, just starting and inexperienced, eager to learn and even more eager to make a good impression. Now, with more working hours than what ought to fit in six months under his belt, it doesn't faze him.
Not much seems to faze Nanami, granted; it’d taken Higuruma five months to see his polite facade crack with more than the appropriate amount of empathy for a witness or client, and even that was accidental, the result of a late night that had him coming out of the office while Nanami had a heated phone conversation just outside, taking shelter from the rain.
From that, Higuruma gathered three pieces of information, two of them important: That Nanami has a friend named Gojo with whom he has a complicated if not outright strained relationship with; that under the rain, Nanami’s hair darkened in a way that made him half-carved of amber under the yellow streetlight; and that Nanami has a soulmate, who he’s at least met before. Nanami had noticed him before he could glean anything else and changed tack to a terse, ‘Goodnight, Higuruma-san,’ that signalled the end of a conversation Higuruma hadn’t even been a part of, really.
It’s one of Nanami’s habits that Higuruma likes the least, if he allows himself to have any real opinion of Nanami’s habits in a non-professional manner. He’s doing it even now, making decisions, closing doors easily, without quite realizing it. Higuruma half-wants it to come bite him in the ass one day; it will, if it hasn’t yet, since Nanami is only in his twenties despite how much older he seems sometimes.
Certainly, he’s nonplussed by Higuruma’s refusal of his – statement, not offer.
“You should take the bed,” he repeats. He doesn’t falter, which Higuruma finds as admirable as it is frustrating. “I can sleep on the couch.”
“Can you?” Higuruma casts the couch in question a dubious look. It stares right back, dejected and dingy, its worn-out upholstery even sadder in the warm yellow lights of the hotel room. It can barely fit Higuruma, and he’s almost twenty centimeters shorter than Nanami.
“I can.” Nanami’s voice doesn’t brook challenge. A shame, since Higuruma doesn’t care about that.
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you try to sleep on that, you’ll be useless tomorrow at best, or need to go to a doctor at worst. We’ll share the bed,” Higuruma tells him. It’s the most logical solution; Nanami will respond to that.
“What?”
Respond with surprise, apparently. Higuruma relishes the shock, given how rare it is to catch Nanami off-guard, despite the fact that this will be rather complicated for him as well. There’s no ulterior motives, he knows; if it were Shimizu, he’d offer the same thing – though he’d likely have more success bullying her into taking the bed and letting him have the couch. But it’s Nanami, and despite how circumspect Higuruma has been about his interest and not letting it affect their professional relationship, he’s not in the habit of lying to himself.
After all, if he’s already taken the step from wondering if Nanami’s interested, to wondering about the probability of Nanami being his soulmate, then there’s no point in denial.
“We’ll share the bed. It might be only marginally better than the couch, but it’s big enough for us unless you’re a restless sleeper. I don’t move around much in the night,” he adds, glossing over it with a layer of practicality. “And I prefer the left side, generally speaking.”
“No. No, I don’t move much either,” Nanami says slowly. Higuruma ducks his head to hide the way his mouth curls; victory in the admission, with Nanami too distracted to protest properly.
“Then there’s no problem. You can have the bathroom first.” A peace offering, so Higuruma gentles his voice. “I need to look over some of the case files anyway for tomorrow.”
Nanami levels him with an unimpressed look, but merely nods in agreement.
“Fine. I won’t take long, we should get to sleep soon. We have an early start tomorrow, after all,” he says. He kneels on the carpet next to his small suitcase, and Higuruma settles in at the small desk slotted against one wall of the room, opposite the bathroom door and across from the bed. He’d not brought a suitcase, just crammed a change of clothes into his briefcase along with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some cologne, trusting the hotel to have everything else he needed. And trusting that he’d be able to buy anything the hotel didn’t have, if it were small enough. Of course, Nanami’s clothes are meticulously folded, and he takes out his toiletries (in their own individual bag), and a pair of soft sweatpants and a short-sleeved shirt to sleep in.
The surprise is when he picks out a laptop charger and walks over to leave it on the desk by Higuruma, almost pointedly.
“You always forget to bring yours,” is all Nanami says in explanation. “And you always overestimate how much battery you have left.”
“I see Shimizu got to you,” Higuruma says, half-joking. She worries about him too much, never mind that he returns the favor in spades.
Nanami’s mouth ticks up in a smile.
“Something like that,” he agrees. “Like I said, I won’t be long.”
And just like that, he turns and vanishes into the bathroom.
Obligingly, Higuruma gets his laptop from his bag and plugs it in, watching the light blink until he hears the shower turn on, and has to confront the reality of what he’s suggested.
Nanami, him, in a bed.
He isn’t planning on doing anything, of course. Nanami’s interest is difficult to define; Shimizu swears it exists, but despite searching for proof, Higuruma’s yet to find it. He wonders if Nanami’s met his soulmate already, if he likes them. If it could be him.
That possibility is equally difficult to deal with; Higuruma’s had practice ignoring it, though, for everyone he’s been interested in. The problem with such generic words is that anyone could’ve said them, and that has a way of grinding out romanticism quickly. He’s heard ‘Nice to meet you, Higuruma-san,’ more times than he can count, and from very few people he’s likely to find himself attracted to. Thankfully, not one of them has mentioned having his words on their skin, and it’s a tic of his now that he always responds with a variation on the expected, polite thing. Just in case. It’d make his life easier, after all; he’s willing to help someone else either find him or rule him out.
At least his soulmark is scrawled across his left thigh in neat, precise handwriting, a place that’s easy to hide. Higuruma’s never seen his own scrawl on anyone else, though there’s plenty of people with marks on their arms, their necks, even across their fingers. Kanji and kana, and in rare cases, scripts of other languages.
He doesn’t know where Nanami’s soulmark is. He’s never seen more skin exposed than what his work shirts allow for, barring the rare late night where he’ll roll his sleeves up to expose his forearms, and Higuruma’s mouth might go a little dry in response. Short-sleeves tonight, though, he remembers, with something less than neutrality.
Higuruma has to drag his attention back to the case files at hand. Printed out, since he prefers it this way – no need for an unreliable laptop battery to get in the way of his work. And annotated too; this isn’t the first time he’s looked at them, and won’t be the last. Truth be told, he could probably recite them by heart now, but another reread before their witness interviews won’t hurt.
It gives him something else to focus on that isn’t the juvenile awareness of Nanami naked in the next room over, showering, in a bathroom where Higuruma too will be naked in a short amount of time. He’s not a teenager, he’s beyond this, but it’s more distracting than it has any right to be. They’d had dinner on the way to the hotel, and Higuruma doesn’t drink when he’s working, but he finds himself craving an excuse to step out. To go to a bar maybe, steel himself for what he’s just signed up for. Work will do just fine as a compensation.
He doesn’t quite lose himself to it, but the next thing he knows, the bathroom door is creaking open and with it a damp rush of warm air and the scent of what he now knows is Nanami’s soap.
“The bathroom is free,” Nanami tells him, and Higuruma hums vaguely, gripped by a sudden and pathological fear of turning around and seeing Nanami ready for bed. Not Nanami at work, but Nanami as he might look at home, on his own; it’s an aberration, an anomaly, a fact forced by circumstance rather than earned.
Nanami must read this as a reluctance to stop working – which Higuruma admits wouldn’t be entirely out of character for him, if he’d been able to focus properly – because the sandalwood scent of his soap or moisturizer or whatever it is intensifies, and then a hand splays pointedly on the papers in front of him, obscuring his view.
“You should shower.” It’s not a suggestion, more an order.
“Only a few hours away from the office and you’re bossing me around now?” Higuruma asks, wry. He finally turns to face Nanami, noting only that his arms are bare before he meets his gaze.
To his horror, Nanami’s mouth curves into a smile.
“Shimizu asked specifically that I make sure you not work too much tonight.” Nanami pauses, adds, “I’d have done it anyway. Go shower, Higuruma-san. I'll review the files.”
Higuruma wants to protest that it isn't quite the same – he's no psychic, if Nanami goes through the files, the knowledge won't simply manifest in Higuruma's head. It doesn't save time or effort, only delays the inevitable.
Nanami is still smiling, still almost towering over him in a facsimile of intimacy. Like a dutiful wife trying to coax her husband to bed more than a concerned coworker.
That thought alone is enough to convince Higuruma that he'd better shower, and fast, if only to have space to scrape together something vaguely resembling professionalism. He stands, and Nanami doesn't move back so he has to shuffle back and around the other side of the chair, undignified, only for Nanami to sink down into it and pick up right where he left off.
Higuruma doesn't flee, but only because he knows better. He gathers his things in a normal, controlled manner, and makes his way to the bathroom.
The shower is nice, made nicer by the lingering scent of Nanami’s soap, albeit strange by dint of not being his own. It’s not the kind of thing Higuruma pays too much attention to normally, but caught off-kilter as he is right now, it only makes him feel more out of place.
He’s being ridiculous. He strips down, doesn’t stare at his soulmark, and steps in. Turns the water on, just a shade off lukewarm the way he prefers, and then after a second’s consideration turns the temperature right down to freezing. It makes him flinch and shudder, but serves to keep his mind off anything ridiculous, like entertaining fantasies about Nanami, or thinking about casually starting a conversation about soulmarks, or asking to borrow his soap. The hotel soap is fine for the cold discomfort he’s inflicted upon himself, and the combination shampoo and conditioner.
Higuruma is thoroughly chilled and thoroughly distracted by the time he cuts the water off, though the first abates as he dries off and then gets dressed.
A problem presents itself immediately. Higuruma hadn't packed sleeping pants, just a worn pair of shorts that are only barely long enough to cover his soulmark. He'd assumed in what was clearly a fit of poorly structured sensibility, that they'd have separate rooms, and hotel duvets are always too warm anyway. He regrets it now, but the only way to cover his legs entirely is to put on a pair of slacks, and he suspects Nanami will have something to say about that.
He tugs at the hem of the shorts, lets them ride lower on his hips than usual, and decides that’ll have to do. All the same, he takes a little longer than usual brushing his teeth, unwilling to face Nanami just yet even if the man is probably lying in bed or simply sitting at the desk reading the files as promised.
He manages to dither for what feels like a small eternity but proves to only be a handful of extra minutes when he eventually exits the bathroom, mouth now minty-fresh, to find Nanami sitting on the bed with one steaming cup of tea, the other sitting innocuous on the desk.
“It’s chamomile,” is all he says, which isn’t an explanation.
Higuruma knows full well that this hotel would not have chamomile tea included in the little coffee station it provides. He takes the tea anyway, stepping forward and pretending not to be too aware of Nanami’s gaze on him, almost searching. Almost appreciative, if he wants to indulge himself, which he doesn’t.
“This seems unnecessary,” Higuruma observes. He has a sip of the tea anyway. It’s – fine, really. He doesn’t have much of a palate for such things.
“I don’t think it is. This has been a difficult case,” Nanami admits. “Not just for you, but for me. And you’ve been working hard. Is it so wrong that I’d prefer you at your best tomorrow?”
“Wrong, no. But you’re going about it in an interesting way.”
“Am I?”
“For one, you seem to have put all my files away somewhere, and I assume you have no plans on telling me where that is.”
“They’re in the safe,” Nanami answers promptly. “But I won’t tell you the password.”
“I could guess it.” Nanami strikes him as the sentimental type; Higuruma probably could guess it, if he knew enough about Nanami to have options.
“Lucky for me that you aren’t a safecracker. Have some tea,” he repeats.
“I want it noted down that I’m doing this under protest,” Higuruma says. He has another sip anyway.
“I’m sure it’s a real hardship,” Nanami answers, voice dripping sympathy that somehow fails to ring false. His gaze isn’t challenging but Higuruma reads one there anyway – and maybe that’s why he sits on the opposite side of the bed, facing Nanami. This feels dangerously intimate, even with the hotel impersonal around them.
It would be easy to get lulled into a false sense of security. It is easy.
“And yet I endure. Shimizu's less bossy than you, you know.”
Nanami only shrugs. He's not drinking his tea, mostly staring at it, but Higuruma isn't sure he's seen him have tea before. Always coffee, often with a grimace if it's from their office kitchenette.
“She's nicer about it, you mean. I've never been accused of being nice.”
It’s not incorrect, precisely; Higuruma has always found Nanami to be unflinchingly polite, and surprisingly kind when dealing with clients, particularly the type Higuruma himself sometimes struggles to get to open up to him. But there has always been something closed off and aloof about him, unreadable even on his best days. ‘Nice’ doesn’t fit.
“I’m not either,” Higuruma confesses instead. Easy, soft. He wants to keep this going, to see what this more relaxed Nanami will say. To see what secrets might be pried from him – or better yet, earned.
“You lean into the lawyer stereotype too much.” Nanami sounds like he’s scolding him. “When we both know that you’re not like that.”
“I could be. I could be as cutthroat as the best of them. We went to the same university, after all, learned the same things.” Higuruma doesn’t tell Nanami that lately, he’s been more jealous of those classmates. That fleeting feelings of envy have been coming more often; they’re successful, the best of them rich enough to have retired and to have second homes and lavish vacations and Tokyo apartments larger than five of Higurma’s put together. To have wives, and perhaps mistresses too, if not soulmates.
He wants to, a little. But he doesn’t.
“You don’t have it in you,” Nanami says plainly. Cutting to the heart of things like always.
“You sound sure about that.”
“I’m not usually wrong about people,” he admits. “And I used to know enough people who were in it just for themselves to know when someone’s not like that.”
Earned, just so.
“You talk about it like it’s another life.”
“It was. I was – different. Young and idealistic, maybe,” Nanami says with the air of someone choosing his words carefully. “Less so than some. Reality caught up fast. But this is a good career for me, I think. Better than the alternative, and better than slaving away as a salaryman with nothing to show for it. I still get to help people, and to take care of them. And my coworkers are much, much more tolerable.”
Higuruma laughs at that, the sound rusty in his throat. “I’d hope so, though if you were hoping for better hours, I’m sure you’re disappointed.”
Same hours, worse pay, but still better than that mysterious alternative. Higuruma doesn’t ask about that, instinct telling him not to pry if he wants this to continue. And he does.
Higuruma’s tea is almost gone, and in its place sits warmth blooming in his stomach. He stretches out, content, and doesn’t push at that closed door.
“Sometimes I think I’m still trying to outrun it,” Higuruma offers in turn. A wound for a wound; he understands how these things work.
He expects an answer, but all he gets is silence. Frowning, he looks at Nanami, and then freezes.
Nanami’s eyes are on his leg.
Right where the hem of his shorts have slid up, and his soulmark is on display.
He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes widen in shock, and that alone is enough to spark an absurd hope in Higuruma’s chest. Nanami would, of course, not care about anyone’s soulmark, has offered only nonchalance when faced with them. Some of their clients have them on their arms, their necks; he knows Nanami has seen Shimizu’s, heard them talking quietly about it – hers is on her ankle, and the story of Nanami’s chivalry after a broken heel at an office party has made its rounds enough that the sting of jealousy faded quickly – and he’d not lingered on it at all.
For him to be paying attention to Higuruma’s means something.
His heart starts to beat faster, the chamomile tea doing shit all in the way of calm.
“Nanami,” Higuruma starts. Stops, then, as he wracks his brain for any scrap of memory that means he doesn't have to ask for confirmation. A signature on documents means very little; Higuruma's own looks nothing like his usual writing. But an office card, a gift, notes on his desk, anything, would be helpful, only Higuruma comes up blank. Nanami's desk is uncluttered; he uses an electronic calendar and an arcane system of electronic reminders connected to it; he hasn't even been here for White Day and the obligatory office chocolates. There has only been one card, for maternity leave, since Nanami's joined. Nanami had brought it to him, and presumably then signed it himself.
Which brings his train of thought to a screeching halt. Higuruma may not have known, but surely, Nanami would.
Soulmarks are reciprocal, but it's a trend rather than a rule, a much less grey area than the type of important someone might be to you, to necessitate a physical mark. Higuruma has always believed that you get to choose it, to some degree, only now he's realizing that he's already decided what he wants Nanami to be to him, without quite allowing himself to think of the possibility.
“Is that your handwriting?” He has to ask.
Nanami, to his credit, doesn't equivocate. “Yes.”
“You didn’t say anything,” Higuruma says. His mouth is dry.
“I’ve been told that I was dragging my feet about it.” Nanami looks away; Higuruma is startled and then fond to register it as embarrassment. It suits him, it’s almost cute.
“It’s been months.”
“Yes.”
“And you knew.”
“I –,”
“Knew, because you know what my handwriting looks like,” Higuruma says firmly.
“Are you upset with me? You didn’t figure it out either.” Embarrassment, it turns out, makes Nanami a little defensive. Wrong-footed for the first time tonight, meaning that Higuruma is in good company.
“I haven't seen your handwriting, just your signature and that never matches up,” Higuruma says. “You type everything.”
“It's policy,” Nanami points out. He sounds too amused. “We aren't all technophobes.”
“You didn't tell me.” He can't bring himself to add ‘does that mean you don't want me?’, but the unspoken words linger in the air.
“And don't say you were getting around to it,” Higuruma adds. “I don’t like being lied to.”
Nanami's thin brows draw together as he answers, “And I wouldn’t lie to you. I was thinking it over.”
“Hm.”
“It’d complicate our working relationship.”
“It’s already complicated.” The closest Higuruma will get to admitting anything without more given in return, but of course Nanami catches it, eyes darting up to meet his with something that looks like hope.
“Fine, then. I didn’t want to say anything until I made a decision about what I wanted from this. From you,” he adds, belatedly.
“And have you?”
“I’ve learned plenty working with you,” Nanami says, dry. “But I don’t think you’ve changed the course of my life by coaching me through witness interviews.”
“I could have. These are valuable skills, Nanami,” Higuruma chides him. Just because he can, secure now in where this is going.
“And I’ve had my fill of platonic soulmarks,” he continues, a turn of phrase that has Higuruma cocking an eyebrow, expectant, but Nanami offers no elaboration.
No, apparently he considers this explanation enough because he’s taking Higuruma’s mug from his hands and then kissing him.
It takes entirely too long for him to register this and kiss back, one hand resting at the nape of Nanami’s neck to keep him close and make up for it. His lips are a little chapped, he tastes like chamomile tea, and the heady scent of his body wash fills Higuruma’s nose yet again, only this time there’s no need to pretend he doesn’t like it.
It’s been a long time since he’s done this – not out of any desire to save himself for Nanami, rather, his dry spell had started before they’d even met with Higuruma’s work hours and exhaustion eroding at both interest and physical desire. Right now, both are making themselves known.
Nanami is a good kisser, gentle at first and then thorough as his tongue slides into Higuruma’s mouth, and greedy hands drag him even closer. It should feel juvenile, but all Higuruma gets is the thrill of being close – of wanting, and being wanted in turn. They break for air, and then Nanami drags him back down before he’s had a few lungfuls, like he’s starving for it now that he’s had a taste. That’s the kind of man Nanami is, though, not quite as practiced in filing the edges off his desires while he tells himself they’re out of reach.
When he pulls back, lips comfortably worn, Higuruma splays a hand on Nanami’s chest to make him pause. This is good. But he wants more too, his entire body electric with it. He wants – he can’t even think of it, beyond seeing Nanami, beyond taking care of him, piecing together what he likes and the best way to make him fall apart.
“Clothes off,” Higuruma demands in the kind of petulance he’s meant to have long outgrown.
“You want to see where your mark is,” Nanami deduces. He’s touching over his, on Higuruma’s thigh, tracing the words.
“A good thing you’re on this side of the legal field, rather than in a police station,” Higuruma answers. Nanami rolls his eyes but leans back, expertly removing his shirt, then less expertly wriggling out of his pajama pants and boxers. Higuruma stares, unashamed; Nanami is in better shape than he might have imagined, under those clothes. The vanity of the youth, maybe, or the obsessive nature of a man dedicated nolt just to his own health, but that of those around him.
He’s only a little self-conscious about stripping as well, reminding himself he’s long past the years of needing to be ashamed of his body. He looks fine, slim rather than tending to the beer-bloat plenty of men his age are establishing. Not cut, nor toned, he’ll never be on a magazine cover, but he looks good. And Nanami’s eyes are drawn to the sole ink on his skin, Nanami’s handwriting neat and curving around his thigh, just high enough for him to get an eyeful of nearly anything else.
It’s gratifying, and Higuruma takes his turn to look his fill. Nanami’s not covered in soulmarks, precisely; he has two other legible ones in addition to Higuruma’s, and a third that’s nothing but a smudge of ink, words blacked out by a careless brushstroke. The legible phrases read like utter nonsense; he can’t imagine Nanami being close to the type of people who’d say things like that.
But then again, he’s proved full of surprises.
They have time, he reminds himself. He can ask about them later.
For now, he kisses his way down to his handwriting bold on Nanami’s skin, across sharp collarbones and the curve of muscle, still evident under a thin layer of fat, until he reaches Nanami’s side just above his hip.
He kisses at the words, every single one, like he can taste the ink rather than just the salt of Nanami’s sweat.
“You like that,” he says, allowing himself to state the obvious if not touch the evidence.
“Obviously,” Nanami says. A strain to his voice now. “This wasn’t what I planned for tonight.”
“Me neither,” Higuruma admits. “It’s better though.”
“I was meant to take care of you,” Nanami tells him, long-suffering. “Tea, bed at a reasonable hour, a good dinner.”
“Two out of three isn’t that bad. And plans change.”
“I could still take care of you,” he offers, voice low.
Higuruma considers that, the slow fire it ignites in him. Then the late hour, the work waiting the next day, the knowledge that he’d rather Nanami take his time , in a bed that’s theirs. This will suit as a first of some kind, but it’s not enough for everything.
He runs his tongue against the words again, then further, until he can bite at the sharp jut of Nanami's hip, savoring.
“And if I want to blow you?”
Nanami makes a noise, punched-out, a little surprised.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“You like to turn an argument on its head, don’t you,” Nanami murmurs. His fingers slide into Higuruma’s hair, a screaming ‘yes’ if Higuruma’s ever heard one.
“I like this too,” he admits. “I’m – out of practice, but I like it.”
Nanami is still all gentle handling as Higuruma gets one hand on his cock, holding it steady so he can mouth at the head, then along the underside. Just to feel out what Nanami likes for now, to see what makes his breath hitch and his hips buck up to try and get more . The answer, gained after a few minutes of leisurely teasing, turns out to be attention to the head of his cock, now dripping pre, and more friction than just his tongue’s been providing.
But he wants to draw this out now that he has Nanami here, only takes him into his mouth properly to move slow all over again. Nanami is bigger than he’s used to, thicker around than anyone else Higuruma’s been with, and he knows his jaw will ache tomorrow and he’ll think of this, think of the stretch that comes with sliding his lips down Nanami’s cock, and the satisfaction of hearing him curse and his voice break.
He strokes what doesn’t fit, unwilling to risk a hoarse voice for work despite the sudden urge to do it, to see if he can swallow Nanami whole and to see if that’ll be enough to get him to shake apart. Nanami’s fingers tighten in his hair but don’t do much else, another example of that iron control that he shows only pieces of, and that Higuruma’s always wanted to mess up, just a little. He’s achieving that in spades now; with each quiet groan, each bitten-off cry of his name as Nanami rocks eagerly into his mouth, his hand. Not enough to make him gag, though it comes close, makes him wonder if he’ll let Nanami properly fuck his face one day.
It’s enough to make him start to jerk himself off, not frantic but clumsier than he’s been since he was a teenager, driven on by Nanami’s reactions and the corresponding spike of pleasure in his gut like there’s a wire running between them, a feedback loop made physical.
Nanami manages to gasp out a warning – ever polite – but Higuruma presses on, refusing to make a mess, refusing to do anything but savor this. He wants to get Nanami off, wants to taste him and let that linger, yet another mark of belonging between them. And for once, Higuruma gets what he wants; Nanami’s come fills his mouth in bitter spurts, and he’ll never forget how Nanami says his name in that moment, something reverent, something desperate.
He swallows, takes care to wait until Nanami’s done to ease off despite how on edge he is. Higuruma comes into his own hand with a stuttered gasp afterwards, forehead pressed to Nanami’s soulmark – his words –, and the afterglow leaves him in such a daze that he doesn’t register Nanami cleaning them both off and settling them under the thick duvet until it’s already happened and satisfaction bleeds into exhaustion and tugs at his eyelids.
Nanami's thumb rubs against his thigh, gentle, and it’s the last thing Higuruma feels before he slips into sleep.