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It was warm in the bar, the air oppressive despite the open window. It was like that outside, too, the atmosphere hanging thick and heavy over Ijincho. They were due a storm soon, if the stiffness of his scars was any indication.
The knot of tissue above his collarbone ached fiercely, and he rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relax.
Leaning on the other side of the bar, Adachi was watching him. “…Problem?”
“No, just… some old scars.” He offered a hint of a smile.
He felt Adachi’s dark eyes on him, and could feel him weighing up whether to press the question. “Anything you want to talk about?” Adachi said after a long moment of silence.
Now he was the one weighing things up. With the tip of one finger, he pushed his glasses firmly up the bridge of his nose, a pointless motion that bought him just a second more to think. “I was shot. A number of times.” It was only half of the story, but he’d never met a person who needed to hear tales from hospitals.
“Osamu…”
It had been his own choice to go by his given name, but to hear it spoken with such warmth and worry made his chest ache.
He drew in a deep breath. “When I survived, I made the decision to move on.” The words, intended to cut off any discussion of the details, came out gentler than he might have feared.
The sultry saxophone record on the player twined its notes around them both as they stood in the heavy, heated air, looking at each other. Adachi leaned forward just a little, his bare forearms braced against the bar. Slowly, he lifted a hand, and Kashiwagi felt the touch of smooth leather and callused skin against his face.
The warm aroma of Adachi’s worn leather driving gloves reached his nose, the scent grounding him with its earthiness. Adachi’s expression was uncertain again, but as they watched each other Kashiwagi could see a kind of determination in the set of his jaw.
Slowly, Adachi leaned in closer, until their lips met.
And for all the time he’d spent here reading everyone who came through the door, Kashiwagi was lost. For a fractured second, he thought back through the time since the two of them had met, but nothing stood out as leading to this.
This moment, this feeling, someone else touching him – really touching him – for the first time in so long. The scent of whiskey, leather, cologne. The sensation of lips, soft, gentle, barely moving against his.
He reacted as if he were in a dream, returning just a little of the delicate pressure, drawing out the moment of sensitive skin brushing over sensitive skin. There was the tiniest hint of a tremor in Adachi’s hand where it cradled his cheek, and he understood. This hadn’t been in his plans, but here it was; he could feel the return of the old fires.
After a long, long moment, they drew apart, and once again they were looking at each other over the bar. There was a slight flush in Adachi’s face, like the times when he’d had too much whiskey, and his lips were parted, his gaze all at once intense and unsure. Kashiwagi felt that gaze like a touch.
He moved now, stepping out from behind the bar and walking to the door. It was like wading through treacle, the air in the room thick with the impending storm and now with something else, something new. Hastily, he pulled his keys from his belt and locked the door. Stiff bundles of scar tissue protested every move, but he barely noticed.
When he turned back, Adachi had turned to watch him, half-standing from his barstool, his greying brows a line of tension over the intensity of his eyes. Kashiwagi swallowed and let his feet take him back across the room, until they stood face to face.
This time, he reached out, resting his hand on Adachi’s upper arm, feeling the strength of his bicep through his pushed-up sleeve. It was a touch of acceptance, of invitation in turn.
Adachi didn’t take his eyes off him. “You know… I used to be a detective.”
“Makes sense.” It did. “I used to be Tojo.”
“Makes sense.” A shadow of a smile raised the corners of Adachi’s mouth, and he closed the gap between them to rest his hands at Kashiwagi’s waist.
The feeling of Adachi’s big, warm hands spanning his hips sparked an ache in his skin that had nothing to do with the scars. And when he leaned in to press their lips together again, the hot little puff of Adachi’s breath against his skin in response made him shiver.
It was enough for him to relax into the safety of Adachi’s body: his barrel-broad chest, his thick arms, the familiarity of his presence. Adachi’s arms wrapped around him, and the sense of security he hadn’t even been looking for made his legs weak.
Adachi kissed like a man sure of himself, firm and gentle, calm in spite of the racing heartbeat Kashiwagi could feel where they clung tight together. His tongue whispered over the apex of Kashiwagi’s lower lip in invitation, and the bartender parted his lips willingly.
Thunder crashed suddenly overhead, and Kashiwagi started. A half-memory invaded his mind, but more urgently still, the pain in his body returned full-force.
“Those scars giving you trouble?” Adachi’s voice was husky and full of concern.
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate; the situation was obvious enough, from the grimace he could feel on his own face to the fact Adachi was more or less holding him upright.
“You live close? You should get home and get some rest.” Adachi’s brows were furrowed. “No one else’ll be coming in with this weather.”
“Don’t care if they do.” He took a few deep breaths. It wasn’t too bad. Gently, he detached himself from Adachi’s embrace and went to close the window. “And yes.”
“Let me walk you?”
He nodded stiffly, and mustered a small smile. Adachi stopped the record player, he unlocked the door, and out they stepped, into pouring rain.
With a sigh, he turned his face upward. The rain soaked through his shirt and cooled his skin, making it easier to breathe. Adachi’s hand brushed his back, and he lowered his head to see him smiling. “Where to?”
He locked the door and pocketed the keys. “This way.”