Rhezerë is not pleased. There’s a niggling sensation, warm through his entire mind, of someone who’s supposed to be there, and nobody told him a new sync would feel like this.
Some things they don’t talk about.
They talk about battle plans and mission parameters. They talk about each other’s bad taste in clothes and vehicles and extracurricular activities, like trying to get oneself killed. They talk about video games and bets and how the other ought to get themselves killed.
They don’t talk about moments like this, washing each other’s wounds, unwrapping and rewrapping bandages because they don’t trust anyone else to do it, lying down on the same bed until morning because they’re partners. It’s as good an excuse as any.
Chuuya never asks why Dazai holds so tight.
Fushimi was surrounded by idiots.
“I’m not in love with Yata Misaki,” he stated, enunciating each word carefully for the two clan members exchanging glances in front of his desk. “I’m not flirting with Yata Misaki.”
They had been joking about cutting the sexual tension with a knife, literally, and if there was a worse pun to use, Fushimi didn’t want to know, but it was a fact of life that Misaki was physically incapable of experiencing sexual tension without blushing, running into a wall, or falling on his face.
They looked unconvinced. He thought he was getting a headache.