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“Oh? I didn’t know you had a son.”
Kyouji smiles at her, the kind of expression he used to direct at Satomi back when they were hardly more than strangers.
“He’s my nephew,” His hand comes down heavy on Satomi’s shoulder. “My sister’s kid.”
Satomi’s still looking up at him, but Kyouji only stares straight ahead, so he can’t even ask with his eyes what he could mean by this pretense. Polite instinct takes over, and Satomi bows his head slightly in acknowledgment.
“…Nice to meet you.”
“Shy, isn’t he.” The woman takes another drag on her cigarette, and he feels Kyouji’s grip tighten fractionally.
He’d had no problem telling his coworkers that Satomi is his “teacher.” Maybe he simply doesn’t want to get into the details with this person, which he can sort of understand. But it leaves him with a strange feeling that he can’t shake, even after the requisite pleasantries have been exchanged and Kyouji hurries them away.
Satomi has increasingly considered the four walls of their karaoke room as a protective shell, one dry spot in the storm. From the instant he buckles into the passenger seat, it’s just him and Kyouji, and the only problem he has to contend with is Kyouji’s strange personality. Only now does he consider the ways those walls prevent anyone from intruding, not just the people Satomi is running from.
Maybe to that woman, they really did seem like uncle and nephew.
Satomi pays even less attention than normal to Kyouji’s singing that night, the thought returning to him again and again like a pebble in his shoe.
He almost can’t help the words that come tumbling out as Kyouji takes a break, chugging his now-cold coffee.
“So should I start calling you Uncle Kyouji?”
Kyouji exhales a laugh, setting the cup back on the table, then running a hand through over his hair, which has started to fall down a little over his forehead.
“You’re still thinking about that? Just didn’t want to get into the group’s business, her being a civilian and all—”
“I’m a civilian.” And Satomi had gotten the distinct feeling that the woman was far more involved in Kyouji’s side of business than Satomi will ever be.
“But that’s different, ‘cause you’re helping me out.”
Kyouji is decidedly not like either of his actual uncles. Frankly, teacher and student isn’t it, either. He wouldn’t call him his friend.
“Annoying” is the word he’s always most strongly associated with him, but even that is missing the crucial noun.
“Do you really have a sister?”
“Mmhmm. And an older brother, just like you.” Before he gets a chance to ask him how he knows that, Kyouji continues: “Hey, you can order dessert if you want, don’t be shy.”
Satomi’s eyes drop to the menu where Kyouji’s fingers are resting conveniently over the words “chocolate parfait.” If Kyouji already has nieces and nephews, which he probably does, then it makes even less sense why he’d want to pretend they’re related.
Dutifully, Satomi stands to go place the order, which he knows Kyouji really wants, not him, though he’ll only eat 1/4th and offer the rest to Satomi anyway.
When he turns around, Kyouji’s looking at him with an unusually serious expression. Then it’s gone so quickly, Satomi wonders if he only imagined it.
“You should sing something next, Satomi-kun.”
“No thanks.”
“What if it was a duet?”
“That’s even worse,” Satomi says, returning to his seat.
The employee who brings the parfait says nothing, as usual. Satomi recognizes her, so she must be used to them by now. But then, she’d never said anything at the beginning, either. Does she see them as uncle and nephew? Father and son? That unbalanced feeling only intensifies as he watches Kyouji tuck in.
Kyouji scoops his way bite-by-bite through all of the whipped cream on top, barely scraping into the first layer of chocolate mousse before pausing, pushing the glass towards Satomi’s side of the table.
“Here, you can have the rest.” Like clockwork.
Satomi reaches out to take the spoon from him, but before he can, Kyouji scoops up another bite, proffering it.
“Say ah~”
That feeling from before sparks, flames up, burns at his guts.
Satomi doesn’t pull away, though, actually leans in a bit like he might accept the gesture, but closes his mouth just as the spoon makes it to his lips, smearing mousse and cream everywhere.
“Satomi-kun,” Kyouji laughs, scolding, slightly shocked. “What did you do that for?”
Without answering, Satomi moves to wipe his mouth, but Kyouji beats him to it, tucking a few fingers under Satomi’s chin and swiping with his thumb. Like he’s a three-year-old, like a baby who lacks the motor skills to eat without making a complete mess.
That feeling inside reaches a fever pitch, but what can he do? Even if he pulled away from him, it’d only reinforce that immature image. He hates this, being all but helpless in front of him, forever dragged along by his current.
Impulsively, he opens his mouth, licks Kyouji’s thumb, taking it between his lips for a moment and sucking the syrup off.
The hand is gone almost instantly. There’s space between them that wasn’t there a moment ago. And Satomi’s mouth feels sticky.
“Uh,” Kyouji stutters, laughs again for no reason, wiping his fingers on a napkin. Satomi didn’t think it was possible to surprise him like that, but it feels good. That nagging feeling is replaced by satisfaction, at least for the moment.
“I can feed myself,” Satomi says, nonchalant, though he’s still watching Kyouji carefully.
“Yeah, of course you can,” he agrees, but Kyouji’s already fiddling with the tablet again, eyes cast downward. He looks flushed, a little sweaty, though it doesn’t seem that warm in here to Satomi.
“Hey, I really wanted to try this song last time,” Kyouji says, queuing it up, standing. Satomi reaches for the parfait, then, raising the spoon to his mouth and taking a bite.