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Inexplicably, Ouma is still awake when his phone rings, tracing over the same sketch for the hundredth time with his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. When his phone does go off, Ouma stares at it for a fraction of a second in disbelief before glancing at his desk clock. Indeed, it is well past three in the morning, and not a reasonable time for anybody to be calling him for any reason.
Which means odds are it’s an emergency. Ouma leaps for his phone, managing to snatch it off his nightstand but landing in a heap at the side of his bed with the momentum. He gets a bruise on his knee for his troubles and massages it as he checks caller ID. He’s expecting it to be a DICE member, or maybe one of his minions—Gonta has called him before for help getting out of a sticky situation—but instead Ouma is greeted with the billion heart emojis he slotted in place of Saihara’s contact name.
He answers the phone immediately and slots it against his ear. “Well, if it isn’t my beloved Saihara-chan! I knew you’d come calling eventually!” He keeps his voice light and airy, not wanting to come off like he thinks something is the matter, but because he’s in the privacy of his own room he lets his brow furrow, his foot tapping against the ground. The hand he’d been using to rub his leg fists in the fabric of his pyjama pants, pulling it taut.
“Ouma-kun,” comes Saihara’s response, quiet even through the phone. It’s hard to tell, but Ouma thinks his voice sounds a little thick, as if he’s been crying. “Um, you sound… chipper. Did I wake you up?”
“As a matter of fact, you did! From a several decades-long slumber! It was getting to a point where I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive true love’s phone call—what luck!”
Saihara’s end of the line is silent, save for the sound of whistling wind and a faint sniffle. Ouma pushes himself upright and lowers his voice.
“But really, Saihara-chan, what’s the matter?”
“Th-The matter? Um, nothing is… well…” Saihara breathes out. Ouma hears rustling, like he’s moving. “I suppose… something is the matter. I’m sorry for disturbing you, even if you were awake, I just didn’t want to call Akamatsu-san or Momota-kun and I…”
Ouma thinks, privately, that even if Saihara didn’t want to disturb one of his buddies—which is reasonable—that there are several people he probably could have called first. Harukawa, perhaps—or if Saihara is gunning for someone who won’t put his life at risk, then Hoshi, Gonta, Kiibo, even Amami if he’s in town… There were options. But he chose Ouma. The thought shouldn’t make him happy, because Saihara is clearly upset, but there’s a bit of a pep in his step as he pulls himself to his feet nonetheless.
“Say no more! What do you need? I’ll let you know now that any services I provide will come at the cost of one of your organs, but you won’t mind that, right? Saihara-chan has always been a fair person!”
A few months ago, Ouma imagines Saihara might have responded to that with shock. Now he just sighs.
“Whatever you need, Ouma-kun. If it isn’t too much trouble… I can send you my location. My car broke down and if you could come pick me up…”
Ouma scratches his cheek as he picks a pair of pants off the floor of his room, sniffs them, and decides they’re suitable. What is Saihara doing out at this hour, anyway? Working a case, maybe? But he’s not really the type to run off and confront a culprit directly. Saihara is a strong proponent of leaving that kind of work to the professionals. Beyond that, he sounds upset, like something must have happened… Maybe he and his uncle had a fight. What a lousy time for his car to break down.
“Sure, sure! You’ll cover my gas, won’t you?”
“A-Ah, of course, Ouma-kun,” Saihara stutters, “I’m sorry for the tr—”
“Hey,” Ouma interrupts. “That was a lie. I’m not going to make you pay me back. Sit tight, okay? I’ll be right there.”
Saihara is silent again. Oume doesn’t hang up, switching his pants one-handed and finding a sweatshirt to pull over his tank top. The quiet lasts so long that Ouma has almost forgotten he’s on a call until he’s at the door and grabbing his car keys, the phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder.
When Saihara finally speaks again, it’s in a whisper, almost impossible to make out. “Alright. Thank you. I’ll send you my location now.”
“Please do!” Ouma singsongs. The line goes dead, Ouma’s phone buzzing with a text message moments later. Ouma doesn’t bother to check it until he’s in the car and pulling out of his driveway, pulling it up on his map. It’s a longer drive away than he’d like, but he doesn’t complain, shooting off a quick response to Saihara to let him know he’s on the way before he puts both hands on the wheel.
Saihara is easy to pick out when Ouma pulls up, leaned against his car with his arms drawn close to his body. He’s dressed like he left the house in a hurry in long pyjama pants and a sweater, and his hair looks a little messy. It’s too dark for Ouma to make out what his eyes look like, though.
He pulls up alongside Saihara’s car and rolls down his window. “No tow service?”
“Not until morning,” Saihara responds, sounding miserable. He rubs his eye with one sleeve, casting a baleful look back at his car. “Too far out. I should have thought before driving all the way out here at this hour, but I just…”
Ouma scrutinises his expression, the way his lower lip tugs between his teeth. He pops the doors unlocked and gestures for Saihara to get inside.
“You don’t need to explain, y’know. It’s not really my business.”
“You’re doing me a pretty big favour, though,” Saihara points out in a mumble. He walks around the front of Ouma’s car and gets in, continuing as he buckles his seatbelt. “Don’t I owe you an explanation, at least?”
Rolling his window back up, Ouma shrugs. “You can give me one if you wanna, but if you wanna make it up to me, I take sweets as offerings. Alternatively, you can pick off one of the names on my personal hit list.”
“Um, no.”
“Tch. Well, whatever. I stated my terms, Saihara-chan.” Ouma peels off the curb and starts towards the highway again, casting a sidelong glance at Saihara once they come up to a stoplight. It’s easier to make out his expression now, the way his jaw is clenched and his lower lip is trembling. As Ouma had suspected, his eyes are puffy and slightly red-tinted, and he keeps swiping his sleeve under his nose, gaze flitting about the car.
Ouma reaches past him to pop open the glove box, gesturing wordlessly at the tissues he keeps.
“On the other hand, if you want to talk about it, I guess I won’t ignore you.”
Saihara shakes his head, pulling out a couple tissues and blowing his nose. Grody. But he’s in a bad way right now, so Ouma leaves it alone. Neither of them speaks as he pulls onto the highway, taking them away from this weird far-off location Saihara somehow ended up in.
When they’re well on their way, it’s Ouma who breaks the silence again. “Where am I taking you? Home?”
“Um, I…” Saihara trails off, thumbing the edge of his tissue and looking troubled. He shakes his head, shoulders curling in towards his ears. “S-Sorry. I guess I didn’t think that far. I don’t… um, I don’t want to go home right now. I can call Momota-kun and—”
“You can do that if you want to,” Ouma shrugs, “but I have a perfectly nice couch you can use too, y’know.”
“I-I couldn’t ask you to do that after—”
“Why not? I’m already here, y’know?” Ouma raises an eyebrow. “Besides, are you saying you wouldn’t offer me your couch if I showed up at your door sopping wet and in shambles?”
Brow furrowing, Saihara mouths sopping wet before giving a quick shake of his head. “Well… of course I would, if you wanted that, but I…”
His lower lip is trembling again, threatening more tears. It’s not like Saihara is an unemotional person, but Ouma has never seen him outright crying before, and it kind of hurts, in a way that tempts Ouma to tell him to stop making such an ugly face. He gets the sense that that would kind of make things worse, though, and that’s the last thing he wants—at least while Saihara is so fragile.
Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ouma asks, “You mind if we make a stop first?”
“Ah—no problem.” Saihara wipes his eyes again. “There’s no hurry, um, whatever you need.”
Ouma pulls off the highway at the exit before his. There’s a little 24 hour drive through café not too far from the exit. At the window, he orders two hot chocolates, one white and one dark, and parks the car once he’s gotten them so he can take a moment to drink.
Saihara stares down at his own like he is not entirely sure what to make of it.
“It’s not too sweet if you’re worried about that,” Ouma tells him. “I got dark to accommodate your freakish tastebuds.”
“That isn’t—” Saihara lets out an amused exhalation. “I wasn’t worried about that.”
“No? Then drink. Did your mommy ever tell you your face would stick like that if you kept making that look?”
Saihara rubs between his eyebrows, lower lip jutting out. It’s a little cute. “I just, I didn’t… I don’t really understand.”
“...It’s hot chocolate, Saihara-chan. You make it by steaming milk and—”
“No, not the—” Saihara sighs. “Not the hot chocolate. I mean, I don’t understand why you’re being so nice to me.”
That’s a question without a good answer. Not because Ouma doesn’t have one, but because it’s embarrassing. He’s more than happy to be flippant about his emotions during the daytime, when Saihara is more likely to brush him off, but the energy right now is quiet and sombre and Saihara looks like he could genuinely accept anything Ouma tries to tell him. Which makes it a terrible setting to confess his feelings—not just because he’s scared to commit, but because it would absolutely put Saihara in an awful position if he admitted to a crush while he’s this vulnerable.
Ouma swallows his mouthful of chocolate and shrugs. “You’re a powerful guy to have owe me.”
“That’s… a lie, isn’t it?” Saihara presses. “If you wanted a favour from me, you’d find a way to get it. I was surprised you even picked up the phone so late. It isn’t like we’re… I mean, we haven’t ever said we’re…”
He trails off, suddenly looking overwhelmingly sad. Ouma can’t help but reach over and pinch his cheek, stretching it out until Saihara lets out a disgruntled laugh and pulls away.
“Do you ever really get anything out of doing that?” Ouma complains. “The overanalysis shit? Take life as it comes, Saihara-chan, that’s what I always say!”
“I really doubt that is a philosophy of yours.”
“Okay, well, y’got me.” Ouma shrugs again. “Maybe I don’t have any ulterior motives, y’know? Maybe I just wanted to do this. What would you do then?”
Saihara doesn’t answer. His gaze darts from Ouma’s face to his cup, almost bashful for a moment before he takes a sip of his drink. Ouma can’t look for too long lest he get distracted by the way Saihara’s eyelashes glitter in the street lights, and that would just be downright embarrassing to explain if he got caught staring.
They don’t talk again until Ouma has parked his car in his driveway. Actually, they don’t really say anything as they get out of the car, nor as they climb the stairs in front of his house. Saihara doesn’t even speak when they’re in front of the door, instead silently touching Ouma’s shoulder with two fingers, so lightly it’s like he barely wants to be noticed at all.
Ouma has always been really good at noticing Saihara, though, so he turns and raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side in silent question. Their eyes meet, and Saihara’s are pearlescent in the dark, and that’s the only warning Ouma gets before Saihara is embracing him.
Embarrassing but true: Ouma freezes up like a statue and makes a sort of strangled gasp-squawk, not unlike a sea bird. Saihara doesn’t let go of him, hands fisting in the hood of his sweatshirt.
“Thank you,” Saihara whispers. He’s bent over to tuck his face into Ouma’s shoulder, mumbling into his neck. “Really, I… thank you.”
Ouma puts one stiff, stiff hand on Saihara’s back and rubs. His heart is racing. Saihara smells like cinnamon. It’s a ridiculously addictive smell and Ouma can not think about it because if he does he is never going to fucking move ever again.
“Your kidney,” Ouma chokes out. “You owe me your kidney, remember?”
“Sure thing, Ouma-kun,” Saihara murmurs, and a little giggle escapes him on the back end. It makes Ouma’s heart do flips. “Whatever you want.”
You can’t say that, Ouma thinks. He closes his eyes and hugs Saihara back properly, breathing a sigh. If it’s what Saihara wants, then he isn’t taking advantage, he reckons. He can enjoy this while it’s happening. No rule against that, right? No matter the way it makes his chest feel like it’s full of cotton.
Yeah, if it helps Saihara, there’s nothing wrong with that.