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“Don’t fuck anything up, Yagami,” Higashi snaps through the phone and hangs up without waiting for a reply. It’s funny; even though it’s Yagami’s own voice he’s speaking through, it’s impossible to mistake Higashi’s cadence. Especially the one he falls into when he feels Yagami has wronged him in some way - which, come to think of it, is most of the time.
But really, Yagami hardly feels like he can be blamed for this one. Whatever caused Higashi and him to wake up in each other’s bodies, Yagami’s certain it wasn’t anything he’d done.
Not that he’ll be the one getting to the bottom of this particular mystery. No, Higashi had decreed that instead of applying his multiple years’ worth of valuable expertise to their unusual situation, Yagami should twiddle his thumbs at a fucking arcade for the sake of keeping up appearances, because apparently Higashi doesn’t know how to take a sick day like a normal person. And, worse, Higashi also evidently thinks that puppeting Yagami’s body around somehow gives him dibs on all the detective work.
It’s a stupid idea that Yagami would never have agreed to had it not been for Kaito promising he’d keep an eye on Higashi - and Yagami’s body - for him. Even now, he has half a mind to call off this ridiculous plan. But he thinks about traipsing all over Kamurocho looking for clues to a puzzle he can’t even begin to solve, and compares it to a day of mundanity broken up by the occasional gaming break, and thinks he may be getting the better deal here.
He’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any big clients scheduled for today anyway, so it’s probably fine to let Higashi handle things. Maybe when he turns up empty-handed, Yagami can say “I told you so” and get the benefits of a day off and bragging rights. Frankly, it doesn’t sound like a half bad plan to him.
~~
By 11:00 a.m., Yagami is willing to admit that Higashi’s job may not be as cushy as he’d assumed. By mid-afternoon, he considers burning down Charles with himself inside.
He resists the siren song of sweet fiery release, but only just barely. His herculean restraint keeps him alive through lunch, somehow. At about half past two, he’s just thinking he might make it through today unscathed when the little bells above the door cheerfully announce the arrival of not another screaming toddler or harried babysitter, but none other than Hamura fucking Kyohei.
The thing his brain gets stuck on, for some reason, is the tracksuit. It’s so jarring to see Hamura in anything other than this year’s version of the same white suit he’s been wearing for decades that Yagami can’t do anything but stare. Then he gets past the hurdle, and all he can wonder is why in the world Hamura is here.
From the way Higashi tells it, Yagami wouldn’t have imagined he’d done anything to rise in the family’s esteem enough to catch the attention of its captain. But he must have, if Hamura’s deigning to visit the shitty arcade front personally rather than sending one of his lieutenants along in his stead. Or, more likely, calling for Higashi and making him scramble to reach the office before his patience runs out. Kaito’s bitched about that particular move enough times that even Yagami knows it’s a Hamura special.
For whatever reason, the lack of a proper greeting from chinpira to captain doesn’t draw so much as a raised eyebrow. Yagami’s gawping fish look would probably do more to give his real identity away if Hamura saw it; instead, he stalks past the counter without so much as turning his head. He doesn’t say a word, either, not so much as a “Honey, I’m home” for as familiar as he’s being with a place Yagami is well aware Higashi is typically fairly territorial of.
It’s enough to draw Yagami’s interest. He’s always had a good nose for when there’s something unusual going on, and he’s always lacked the good sense to keep said nose out of other people’s business. Whatever’s brought Hamura to Charles, it definitely qualifies as something unusual.
Hamura doesn’t even deign to toss a "Follow me" his way - no, just the simple gesture of pointing to the office door with two lazy fingers, then slipping inside without a backward glance. Like he doesn’t have to wait to see if Higashi will follow his instructions. Like it’s already a given that he will.
Yagami drums his fingers on the countertop. Yeah, there’s something fishy going on here, alright. What the hell has Higashi gotten himself involved in now?
“Let me take over for you, boss.”
The sudden arrival at his elbow nearly makes Yagami jump. He recovers and turns to see that guy who seems to be Charles’ only other employee, the one whose name Yagami can’t ask without drawing suspicion. He hovers behind the counter, gaze darting between Yagami and the door Hamura’s disappeared behind, a pinch between his brows that to Yagami’s eye reads as concern. Quietly kept, not expressed in any way loud enough to draw the ire of his usually prickly boss, but there nonetheless.
Yagami’s earlier picture starts slowly rearranging itself. “Yeah,” he says absently, already sliding out from behind the counter. There’s more to learn here, and though it’s only ever gotten him into trouble, Yagami is as hopeless at resisting the tug of his detective’s instincts as ever.
He reminds himself that this is just like going undercover on any other case. Act like you’re meant to be there, let your target lead the conversation, and don’t say anything stupid. Yagami’s just wearing a better disguise than usual.
The office door opens with hardly a sound. It clicks shut behind him with a deafening finality.
Hamura crushes his cigarette in the spotless ashtray. “You kept me waiting.”
It’s hardly been a minute, as evidenced by the accordion folds of crumpled cigarette paper and the lack of smoke in the room. By Yagami’s estimate, Hamura hardly had time to light up and take a single drag, maybe two, before he’d had to ruin his smoke break just to play at impatience. Though, he supposes, when you have the kind of money Hamura pulls in for the clan it’s not such a crime to sacrifice a cigarette or two for the sake of aesthetics. Yagami, on the other hand, has to suppress his distaste at the waste.
There’s nothing for it but to weather Hamura’s impatience. What would Higashi say? He musters up a contrite tone. “Sorry, Captain.”
Hamura puffs an approximation of a laugh. “Fuck, that’s cute. I guess I could find it in my heart to let it go if you do an especially good job today, yeah?” A lazy sweep of his leg pushes the table aside and leaves his thighs splayed, and, well. It doesn’t take a detective to guess what he’s insinuating.
Yagami very rapidly rewrites his understanding of the situation. Hamura’s arrival is not, as he’d previously assumed, because Higashi’s doing well for himself in the clan. This is not a visit motivated by respect or even business. Hamura’s appearance serves one purpose, unchanged from when a younger Yagami had watched him prowl around the Matsugane offices like he owned the place: to remind his underlings of his right to intrude where he pleases when he pleases. With or without their consent.
Yagami tells himself that he is not, in fact, actually Higashi. Whatever arrangement he and Hamura have, Yagami isn’t beholden to it. And whatever consequences leaving might have - and Yagami doesn’t doubt that there will be consequences - there’s every likelihood that by the time they’re doled out, Yagami will be back in his own body. Hamura wouldn’t strike right away, he thinks. He likes to play with his food.
On the other hand, there are a number of reasons to go along with it.
For one, there’s Higashi, who had been very clear about Yagami not drawing any suspicion today. If he’s meant to be acting in character, fleeing from Hamura certainly doesn’t fit. Of course, surely when Higashi had told him to “treat it like one of your stupid cases,” he hadn’t meant “suck off my boss in the back room of my business.” But even if Higashi could forgive Yagami for not keeping up the act given the circumstances, that doesn’t mean Yagami feels great about consigning Higashi to whatever trouble he may face later down the line if Yagami walks out.
His other reason is a little more selfish, and a lot more idiotic. And it largely boils down to Yagami’s shitty taste in men.
He’s always been drawn to people he knows are no good for him. Call it his troubled childhood, call it his daddy issues, call it the effects of spending a decent chunk of his puberty in the Matsugane offices surrounded by an atmosphere of swaggering machismo and caustic dickishness demanded by a small-time yakuza family struggling to prove itself in an increasingly competitive clan.
Maybe he was always predisposed to be into assholes and older men, or maybe he’d had one too many hormone spikes while watching the captain ream Kaito out and it’d altered the trajectory of his libido forever. Whatever the reason, he’d spent more frustrated nights than he’d care to admit cranking one out while thinking about the then-lieutenant pressing a heavy hand into the small of his back. In a way, the current proposition is something of an old fantasy pulled straight from his most regrettable wet dreams.
It’s a little embarrassing that Hamura’s sleazy vibe still works on him all these years later. But not embarrassing enough to make him leave. If it was, he’d probably never have come back here in the first place.
Now that he’s here, what is there to do but obediently slide to his knees between Hamura’s legs?
Hamura, of course, doesn’t seem surprised in the least by this development. He’s obviously been expecting total obedience this whole time. He doesn’t even lift a finger to undress himself, simply leaning back and leaving it to Yagami to shift the band of his pants and underwear down enough to free his dick. It’s a rare occasion that Yagami makes it this far with someone and they’re totally flaccid - usually there’s a good deal more groping and grinding before this point, but he guesses that’s not exactly Hamura’s style.
A shame. He’d kind of like to know what the captain looks like when he’s desperate. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, he’ll get to find out.
He starts with a few dry tugs, noting Hamura’s grunt with some satisfaction. Before he can piss him off any further, he spits into his hand and resumes his work. He doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere, and he’s about to employ more drastic measures - teasing flicks of his tongue, batting his eyelashes, breathy moans that he’s sure Higashi’s never debased himself into making - when Hamura starts talking.
“You’ve always been obedient, haven’t you Higashi? So fucking eager to please. You act like I’m twisting your arm every damn time, but we both know how much you love getting on your knees.” Amazingly, this seems to be doing more for Hamura than anything Yagami’s done so far. “It’s a real shame I haven’t had time to fuck you in a while.” He feels the cock in his hand stiffen alongside Hamura’s breathy growl of, “Tell me, do you still scream like a whore?”
He should have known. Hamura loves nothing so much as he loves the sound of his own voice.
“Ah, don’t get your panties in a twist,” Hamura says, misreading whatever expression Yagami must be making. “I’ve got too much shit to do today. So let’s move this along.” He tilts his hips up, his dick now jutting out enough that it bumps Yagami’s cheek and leaves a wet smear. “Well? You don’t want me to get bored, do you?” There’s an edge to his words that suggests it isn’t a good idea to make him wait any longer.
Yagami’s not planning on it, though. He sticks out his tongue, letting the head rest on top. He has enough time to register the weight, the smell of stale sweat trapped inside of a tracksuit and couch leather hitting his nose, sour-sweet blooming across his tastebuds, before Hamura drops a hand on the back of his head and shoves him down, down, down.
He tenses, expecting to gag, but the gut lurch never comes. His throat - Higashi’s throat - relaxes as if through muscle memory, hardly the slightest flutter as Hamura hilts himself between his lips. He doesn’t even bother to move his hips, instead dragging Yagami up and down by the hair like a sex toy. After a few times, he pushes Yagami back down all the way again, holding him there until his lungs spasm and survival instinct gives him the strength he needs to tug himself free of Hamura’s fingers.
He sputters and sucks in air, getting another not-quite-laugh for his trouble. “God, you’re fucking pouty today.”
Yagami can only imagine the picture he makes, glaring up at Hamura through his lashes. Kneeling on the floor with his palms spread to catch him, heaving in breaths, spit drooling from his lips in long strings broken by a wet cough. Higashi’s glasses are jammed against the bridge of his nose, left askew by Hamura’s rough treatment. He takes a second to resettle them, which leaves him too blind to notice Hamura’s leg until it’s kicked up between his own.
He grunts as Hamura’s ankle presses under his balls, unable to stop himself from rutting against his shin. This, finally, drags a sharp-toothed smile out of Hamura. “Hard from just sucking me off this time? You’re a riot, kid.” Yagami’s cheeks burn, but it’s pointless to waste precious breath denying incontrovertible evidence. He is, despite his better judgment, far more into Hamura’s careless handling than he’d admit to under oath.
He’s saved from the indignity of having to come up with a response by the agony of Hamura removing his leg and the mercy of being dragged back onto his cock. With his mouth full, at least he isn’t expected to say anything. It’s getting harder and harder to stay in character as his understanding of Higashi’s relationship with his superior unravels faster by the second.
Hamura does more than enough talking for the both of them. “Fuck. Look at you. Pretty lips spread nice and wide.” His free hand thumbs at the corner of Yagami’s mouth, wedging his lips even wider and letting spit leak down his nail. He wipes it off on Yagami’s cheek, then follows up with two conciliatory pats. “How’d you ever get into the yakuza with lips like those? Matsugane should’ve kept you chained under his desk. Hell, that’s what I’ll do when I’m in charge.”
Yeah right, Yagami thinks derisively. Matsugane won’t roll over and cede control to someone like Hamura anytime soon. Surely things can’t be getting so bad in the family that Hamura thinks he really has a chance of coming out on top. It’s delusions of grandeur from a petty, greedy man.
“There won’t be a soul in that office who doesn’t know who you belong to. Doesn’t that-” he cuts himself off with a groan, “-doesn’t that sound nice?” Hamura’s breath hitches with every tug of Yagami’s hair now, cheeks flushed, eyes swimming. He’d be easy to mistake for drunk if Yagami didn’t know better. Then again, he doubts he looks much different. His dick is painfully hard against his thigh despite the woeful lack of attention, and each word out of Hamura’s mouth pushes them both closer to the edge.
“Finally- hah- finally found something you’re good at, huh? Being a hole. Just a useless fu- fucking hole, shit-”
Hamura is loud when he comes. He moans and curses as the first spurt of come hits Yagami in the back of the throat, then pulls out to smear the rest against his face, across his cheeks and over his glasses and against his parted, panting lips. It’s bad enough that Yagami wonders how soundproof the room is and whether Charles’ other employee can hear enough to figure out what’s going on. The idea isn’t as off-putting as it probably should be.
“Fuck, that’s a nice picture,” Hamura says as the tap finally runs out. He grabs Yagami’s chin, turning it this way and that to admire his handiwork. “You look good like that, Higashi. It suits you.” He laughs, an ugly thing. “I keep telling you to man up, but maybe this is more your speed.”
Yagami doesn’t care what insults he throws at him or Higashi right now. He’s too turned on to parse them for clues. He just wants relief, and he’s not above demeaning himself even further for it. “Captain, please.” It comes out as a rough croak, his abused throat unable to handle the weight of the words.
“You always did beg real pretty.” But when he releases Yagami’s chin, it’s not to grab his crotch or fold him over the arm of the couch but to tuck himself away and zip up his pants. “Shame I don’t have time when you’re so eager today.”
No, that’s not fair! “Captain, wait-”
“See you around, Higashi.”
And then he’s gone, and Yagami’s left alone, hard and unsatisfied.
Yagami swears. He considers relieving himself - it surely wouldn’t take long - but the back office feels unfamiliar and oddly sterile now that he’s its only inhabitant. It’s a reminder that he’s not supposed to be here, not in Charles and not in this body, and it stills his hand before it can offer any relief. It feels ridiculous to decide that jerking off in Higashi’s body is a bridge too far after everything else, but somehow it feels like a greater boundary to cross, more personal than what had come before.
Instead, he shuffles on his knees over to where Hamura had kicked the table. He fishes the cigarette out of the ashtray, stroking the paper between two fingers to smooth out its crumpled sides and shaking off the bits of loose tobacco. When it’s in decent shape, he sticks the filter between his lips and fishes around in Higashi’s pocket for a lighter. The backs of his knuckles bump against a perfectly good carton of cigarettes tucked into Higashi’s jacket alongside a matchbook.
Right. Yeah. Of course Higashi would have his own smokes.
Well, fuck it. He’s already got Hamura’s spit between his teeth, and it’s hardly the worst bodily fluid the Matsugane Captain has shared with him today. Yagami shakes out a match, settling his back against the table as he relights the crooked end.
When the buzzing in his head finally calms down enough for rational thought, he becomes keenly aware that he’s still slumped on the floor with come on his face, gradually softening in unfamiliar pants, smoking someone else’s cigarette. He always figures his life can’t get any weirder, and yet it always manages to somehow prove him wrong.
His gaze catches on the glint of something shoved underneath the couch. After a few more drags, he motivates himself to reach under and scrounge for it, and comes back with a hand mirror, the kind women use to fix their makeup or powder their noses or whatever Mafuyu had done when she was sick of strained silences. Behind the mirror is a little pack of pocket tissues, half empty. Tucked next to that, a comb and a travel-sized bottle of hair gel.
Yagami can only bow his head to his chest and laugh into Higashi’s suit. How many times has Higashi been in this exact position? Enough that he’s left supplies tucked where Hamura can’t find them. And of course, of course, even like this, Higashi is vain enough that his appearance is his biggest concern.
When he’s recovered, he flips the mirror open, grimacing at the face that stares back at him. Hamura’s left him in quite the state. He sets the glasses aside first, popping open the pocket tissues and mopping at the blurry version of his face in the mirror’s dull reflection. Then he wipes off the lenses, perching them back on his face so he can see well enough to straighten his hair into a rough approximation of Higashi’s usual slicked-back style.
He imagines the real Higashi going through the same motions. He imagines there’s probably a good deal more cursing and hissing involved when he does it. Still, Yagami’s rarely felt more connected to him than he does now.
When his cigarette’s burned down to nothing and there isn’t a trace of Hamura’s presence left behind save for in Yagami’s memory and that of the kid at the counter outside, he decides he’s spent long enough back here. There’s probably some brat with their hand caught in a machine or something that needs his attention. He stands up, brushes himself off, and tries to act the way someone who hasn’t just been run over by the Tokaido Shinkansen might act.
He really hopes Higashi and Kaito are making out better than he is today.
~~
“Being in your body sucked.”
It’s almost strange to look at Higashi’s body in anything other than a mirror. It’d taken Yagami an hour to get used to seeing his own face in his reflection. He keeps thinking it’ll change back, and between one blink and the next he’ll be staring at Higashi’s sharp cheekbones again.
“Your clients are fucking annoying,” Higashi continues, his oxfords pacing agitated lines into the office’s already worn wooden floors. “I mean, who hires a P.I. to hunt down a missing wig? And you’re so behind on rent I had your landlady breathing down my neck every time I got within 10 meters of this place. Her cooking is terrible, by the way. How was I supposed to get any work done when she nearly gave me food poisoning?”
In the end, Yagami’s not sure Higashi and Kaito really did much to swap them back. He’d gone to sleep and simply woken up back in the right body, greeted by the familiar feeling of couch springs digging into his back. As a detective, Yagami would prefer to know why something so completely out of the realm of possibility happened, and why it happened to him and Higashi of all people. But after yesterday, he thinks he’ll just settle for it never happening again.
“And the jeans - why is your whole closet skinny jeans? They’re so hard to get out of-” Higashi interrupts his own tirade, maybe thinking of some embarrassing experience because his hands curl and the faintest shade of red enters his cheeks. Yagami would pry about whatever Higashi might have done in his body if he wasn’t so distracted by trying not to offer any hint as to what he got up to yesterday. Still, he wonders if Higashi can tell. Is his throat still sore? Maybe he thinks he’s coming down with a cold.
Maybe he’s so used to the feeling he doesn’t even notice it.
“But I have to admit I was wrong. Your life isn’t as easy as I thought.” Higashi’s face twists into a sour lemon pucker like the admission causes him physical pain. Yagami wonders if he’d looked the same when Hamura had covered that same face in streaks of come, or if that’s a look only the real Higashi can pull off.
He wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans. “...Yeah. Yours, either.”