Sometimes Misaki counts his knives.

He doesn’t touch them, Saruhiko notices, just drops his head down to note them under a piece of furniture or gently shakes the harness out of the laundry, numbers mouthed noiselessly. If a knife is missing, he shakes the uniform again.

It’s not that Misaki wasn’t there, didn’t know Saruhiko always had knives, or even that he didn’t benefit when they faced down an enemy together.

Sometimes, his fingers rub over a scar just below his right shoulder, something noiseless on his lips.

Saruhiko leans over, glad that Misaki allows him to kiss it away.