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The silence of Kuwabara and Urameshi’s room isn’t as comforting as it should be.
You’d think it’d be a welcome change of pace, after hours of nothing but deafening screams and earth-shattering explosions echoing endlessly throughout the tournament stadium, but no. The quiet does little but make the nagging, anxious voice in Kuwabara’s head grow louder.
Sleeping has become a herculean task for the redhead. He tosses and turns throughout the night, eyes snapping open at every little sound as he sweats from sheer paranoia. To his credit, nerves are only natural, given his group’s circumstances. After all, tomorrow, they finally take on Team Toguro after what feels like years of nerve-wracking build-up.
If Kuwabara thinks about that for any longer than that, though, he sincerely believes he’ll heave. And yet, despite his valiant attempts to control his racing thoughts, his mind still wanders back to that fact no matter how hard he tries.
His only reprieve from his internal spiral is the gentle pattering of water hitting linoleum from the shower, where Urameshi currently resides. Whether the comfort it provides comes from the noise itself, or simply the knowledge that the other boy is close by, Kuwabara can’t say, but he finds himself clinging to the former. Not that it matters much, as even that small comfort disappears with time.
For a good, long while, it’s just Kuwabara and the clock on the wall, ticking on and on as the seconds roll by like molasses. He sighs, opting to squeeze his eyes shut and simply pray for rest. It almost works, but of course, his rough approximation of peace is eventually interrupted by an annoying finger poking at his nose.
“Oi.”
His expression sours, but he stubbornly keeps his eyes shut, hoping futilely that if he stays limp, he’ll be left alone.
“Kuwabara…” Urameshi intones again, jabbing more insistently. The teen in question grits his teeth, willing himself not to react with every fiber of his self-control.
He hears an annoyed huff from the detective, who finally stops jamming his index finger directly on the button of Kuwabara’s nose. For a brief moment, the redhead thinks he’s won. That is until he’s being yanked forward by the shoulder and shaken about like a magic 8-ball. “Kuwabara!”
“Gosh darn it, Urameshi, what?!” The teen in question shoves the other back as hard as he can, tired eyes wide as he heaves livid breaths. Urameshi, irritatingly, recovers quickly. Of course, he does.
“There you go! I knew you weren’t asleep.” He laughs with a simper, leaning over his rival with his arms tucked behind his back.
“I was, jerk.” Kuwabara snips, to which the other teen scoffs, waving him off carelessly. “Whatever. You’re awake now, right?”
The other boy’s hair is down after his shower, bangs falling into his eyes just slightly and giving him an overall softer look that Kuwabara, much to his chagrin, finds he can’t stay annoyed at for long. His glare softens into more of a pout, prompting Urameshi to grin ear to ear, a mischievous titter escaping from his lips as he pulls out a large glass bottle from behind him. “Check it!”
Kuwabara blinks slowly, bleary-eyed as he stares at the object presented to him, barely able to process what it is through the darkness. “...Liquor?”
“Gin, actually. I got it from Chu a while back. Pretty sweet, right?” He proudly informs. Kuwabara watches, stupefied as Urameshi takes the cap between his teeth and attempts to pry it off instead of getting a proper opener.
“Ah t’ought we coul’ kno’ a cou’le ‘ack ‘fore da ‘ig day,” Urameshi slobbers on the cap, words muffled beyond recognition due to his efforts.
“...I don’t drink that sorta stuff.” Kuwabara scrunches his nose in disgust.
"Well, you do tonight!” The detective boldly presents the fruits of his labor after somehow managing to rip off the lid. He spits the metal cap into his palm, and while he may have simply been imagining it, Kuwabara swears its trajectory leaves small traces of blood on Urameshi’s hand.
“Nah, I’ll pass.” He dismisses, turning away from the other to tuck himself back in.
“Like hell, you will!” Urameshi protests, annoyance seeping into his casual demeanor. “Buzz off! If you wanna show up to the match tomorrow hungover, be my guest, but don’t go draggin’ me into it.’ Kuwabara whips his head back around to face the detective with a huff, utterly unable to back down from a challenge.
“C’ mo~n, ma~n, loosen up! Tomorrow’s a big day! Quit being a dork and have some fun!” The teen saunters over to the light switch and flicks it on, causing his rival to cover his eyes with a hiss.
“I’m saving you from being a lame-o forever. No one wants to die before they’ve had their first drink, right?” Urameshi snickers, turning to lean casually against the wall. His words are light, familiar in the way he lets a cheeky grin spread across his face, but they speak to a cold and harsh reality that makes Kuwabara’s breath catch in his throat.
There’s something about his expression that feels… off. Unnatural. It could be the way his enthusiasm fell flat somewhere around the end of his sentence, or simply his morbid sense of humor getting under Kuwabara’s skin again. Maybe it’s the flippant, almost harebrained reminder of their mortality. Whatever the reason, it makes him concede to Urameshi’s point, albeit reluctantly. “Fine.”
“Is that a yes?” He asks, tipping his head to the side. For once, it sounds like a genuine question.
The redhead looks down at his comforter for a moment, before he nods wordlessly. In turn, Urameshi’s face lights up, and he laughs, “That’s more like it.” Kuwabara huffs, but can’t find it in himself to feel much ire when faced with the detective’s expression.
He pushes off the wall, waltzing over to where his duffel bag sits on the coffee table, which sits between a pair of couches, and pulls out two glasses from it. Both look far too nice to be anything but stolen.
The redhead blanches as Urameshi fills one of the cups nearly to the brim– the one Kuwabara can only pray isn’t his. Urameshi goes to fill the other glass, too, but hesitates just as he’s about to pour. There’s barely enough time for confusion to set in on Kuwabara’s end, before the other boy shrugs and takes a swig straight from the bottle. Then, with his head still tilted back, he plops down onto one of the couches with his back facing the beds.
Kuwabara’s more impressed by the display than he really should be.
The detective turns around and silently beckons Kuwabara to join him, gesturing to the other with the glass’ rim held loosely by the pads of his fingers. The teen in question hesitates, but then Urameshi flashes his signature lazy, cocksure grin, and like the sucker he is, Kuwabara caves.
He shuffles out of bed and walks over to where Urameshi sits, vexed at what he knows is a smug expression plastered across his friend’s face, even without looking. As soon as Kuwabara sits on the couch parallel to him, Urameshi sticks the cup out. “Take it.”
Kuwabara grasps it with both hands, gingerly, as if it’ll bite him if he’s not careful. As their fingers make contact, he can’t help but note how warm Urameshi’s hands are, much unlike the cold glass beneath his palms. Well, all except for the rim.
As he pulls the drink towards himself, the redhead pauses to stare into his wobbly reflection, ambivalent as he watches the gin slosh around inside his glass.
He can feel the other’s eyes raking over him like hot coals, scrutinizing him with the neck of that large bottle held loosely in hand. It’s with a great squirming in his gut that he realizes Urameshi’s waiting on him.
Kuwabara wonders when he’d become so spineless; when he stopped being able to say no to the detective. No one wants to die before they’ve had their first drink, his mind echoes, and it almost sounds like mockery.
Throwing caution into the wind, Kuwabara squeezes his eyes shut and takes a giant gulp, knocking back half the drink in one go. He regrets that decision immediately. The alcohol burns like liquid fire going down his throat, eyes watering as the sensation settles painfully in his chest and simmers there. He barely suppresses a full-body shudder, trying hard to save face even as his cheeks tingle with warmth from that one swig alone. Unfortunately, even sheer determination can’t stop a tiny, strangled cough from escaping.
Slightly embarrassed and thoroughly humbled, Kuwabara risks a glance at Urameshi. He finds his rival with one arm slung casually behind the couch, the other raising the bottle aloft, tipping his head further and further back while he chugs its contents. Initially, the display makes Kuwabara feel exceedingly childish, but as the seconds stretch on, it starts to look progressively less cool. More indulgent. It’s not long before that uneasy feeling from before returns, feeling more akin to concern this time around, gnawing at his subconscious.
Just before Kuwabara’s thoughts can become words, however, Urameshi finally lowers the gin. He wipes off his mouth, where a thin line of alcohol had spilled out of his mouth and began rolling down his cheek, and chuckles. The redhead can’t help but notice how the mirth doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Jeez,” Kuwabara mumbles without meaning to. His face drops as Urameshi lights up with amusement, cracking up as the other trips over himself trying to fumble for an explanation. “Crud, my bad, I didn’t–!”
“Nah man, you’re good. This is just one of my many talents,” Urameshi drawls, shoulders occasionally shuddering with gaiety, “A gift passed unto me from mother to son.” He hums, leaning back as he tips the bottle forward slightly. It’s supposed to be funny, just as it is every time he says something like that, but the joke never seems to land the way Urameshi wants it to.
Kuwabara chooses his next words carefully, returning to staring into his glass, albeit this time, with no intention of drinking from it. “How is your mom doing?” He finally settles on, the question unexpectedly sobering.
Urameshi clicks his tongue after taking another swig– Although, not nearly as long as his previous one. “Ah, dunno. Knowin’ her, she’s prob’ly drinking herself into a coma at home. That, or kicking it at the bar. One of the two.” He answers, lingering on his vowels a touch longer than necessary. “Seriously?” Kuwabara balks, incredulously.
“Yeah, seriously.” The other parrots with more than a little bite. “What’s it to you?”
Kuwabara instantly shuts his mouth, guilt washing over him like a tsunami. Nice going, jackass. “My bad.”
Urameshi’s furrowed brow softens at his expression, and his eyes flicker to stare at the wall beside him. “It’s fine,” is all he offers in reply. That is until he decides to fire off a question of his own. “What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Your mom. I don’t hear about her like, ever. How’s she doing?”
“Oh.” Kuwabara feels a familiar tension lay upon his shoulders, awkwardly rocking his knees to and fro. It’s not a subject he’d really like to approach– He’s never been the type to dwell much on his personal life, after all– But he supposes he owes it to Urameshi, after his prior offense.
“She’s, uh…” He fumbles, unsure of how to phrase it delicately. Every time he talks about this, it feels more like he has to be mindful of other’s emotions, rather than his own. “Not… around anymore.”
Expectedly, the detective’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Oh.”
Urameshi stumbles over himself as he attempts to amend his blunder, after a beat of uncomfortable silence. “Shit, um. Sorry, man, I didn’t… Damn.” Kuwabara raises a hand, waving the air as if trying to physically waft away the awkwardness that had overtaken the room. “It’s cool, it’s cool. It was a long time ago.”
He hopes the response will satisfy Urameshi, but his expression says otherwise. His eyes trail off, lips pursing in a way that the redhead can immediately recognize as contemplative thought. When his fingers begin to drum against the glass of the bottle, Kuwabara can't help but sigh. “Dude, just spit it out.”
“Well, fuck me for trying to be mindful, I guess.” Urameshi rolls his eyes, raising his hands in surrender. Nevertheless, he continues. “...What was she like?”
Kuwabara leans back, letting out a breath as he racks his memory for details. Truthfully, he can't remember much. It used to make him feel guilty, but he understands why now. “She was nice, I think. Pretty in photos. Shizuru says she was smart.” He mumbles, absentmindedly thumbing along the rim of his glass. “Don’t really know anythin’ else. She died when I was real little.”
Urameshi takes a moment to respond, mulling over Kuwabara’s words with surprising consideration. “Do you miss her?” He asked, his voice lowered to a hush and unexpectedly somber.
“There ain’t much to miss, but… Yeah, sometimes,” Kuwabara answers honestly, “If I think about it for too long.”
The statement feels far more vulnerable coming out of his mouth than in his head. Urameshi goes quiet again, and Kuwabara’s heart races in all the wrong ways. He doesn’t want to think about what that could mean– doesn’t want to give the admittance any room to breathe– so he swallows the growing lump in his throat and quickly shifts gears. “So, what’re you gonna do, once this is all over?”
“Me?” Urameshi snorts, thankfully, taking the swift change of subject in stride, “I’m gonna set up camp outside the arcade and do nothin’ but play video games for a week straight.”
“Then what? Get your butt kicked for the gazillionth time?” The redhead can’t help but jab, to which the other reaches over and socks him hard in the arm. “Shove it up your ass, I’m getting better at Goblin City!” He huffs. “I’ll win it one of these days, dicknips, then I’ll show you who’s boss!”
In truth, the dig at Urameshi’s gaming prowess was a shot in the dark, but Kuwabara’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Good luck with that,” He chuckles with a cheeky grin instead, rubbing his throbbing bicep. The detective scoffs, kicking back in his seat and scratching his nose in place of a response. His pointed lack of retort only makes Kuwabara laugh even harder, much to his companion’s irritation.
“Man,” The redhead sighs after a bit more bickering, sure he’ll have a nasty bruise the next day, “It really does feel like forever since I’ve been there, though. Even before we left, I was so busy training that I barely had the time. I miss it.” He laments.
“I feel you there, bud,” Urameshi nods in turn. “It’s been way too long since I’ve been able to get my hands on a pachinko machine.”
“I miss the guys,” Kuwabara adds, his gaze downcast.
“And crushing bozos into powder.”
“Eikichi…”
A moment of silence passes between the two, both lost in thought.
I miss home.
It goes unsaid, but the blank space in its place speaks volumes. Kuwabara’s sure he and Urameshi are on the same page, but when he gets a good look at the boy, he finds his face blank. He seems contemplative, yes, but not quite sad.
Kuwabara’s reminded of his fight with Chu. How he’d never seen the boy look so alive as he did in the ring that day, eyes shining with every sluggish yet powerful blow to his jaw. He remembered how he’d been so sure, in that moment, that Urameshi was right where he belonged. It was like he was finally home.
Kuwabara wishes he could say that was what the detective was thinking about too, wishes he knew intuitively all the other’s thoughts and pains, but he can’t identify a single emotion in Urameshi’s expression. His face is utterly unreadable with distant, unseeing eyes.
All Kuwabara can be sure of is that, mentally, Urameshi was far, far away from their room, from Hotel Kubikukuri, from Hanging Neck Island, from Ningenkai itself. He feels unreachable, that familiar glint in his eyes replaced with something indiscernible, unknown. It’s like he’s an entire universe away from Kuwabara, rather than a mere coffee table being the one thing separating them.
His gut fills with that horrible, sticky dread once more, crawling up the back of his neck and making his hair stand on end. In that moment, he finally knows exactly what this feeling is.
For all that he’s roughed him up in the past, Kuwabara’s never been wary of Urameshi. And yet, the redhead realizes that he feels afraid. Whether that fear is of, or for Urameshi, he can’t say, but all he knows is he wants to run as far away from this topic as he possibly can. Even the subtle ticking of the wall clock feels impossibly loud.
“Good thing we don’t gotta wait much longer, then.” Kuwabara laughs, and it feels as forced as it sounds. “When you beat Toguro, it’s gonna be smooth sailing!”
Despite his efforts, Urameshi remains reticent, staring down at the floor with a blank expression. Kuwabara's enthusiasm falters, his smile twitching into more of a grimace.
“Urameshi?” He mumbles, voice wavering just slightly. There’s a part of him that desperately hopes the detective won’t reply.
“When,” Urameshi mutters anyway. Kuwabara’s heart drops.
“Yeah, when.” He insists, “Cuz you’re gonna win." He knows it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than Urameshi, but he can’t find it in him to care at the moment.
Urameshi doesn’t confirm nor deny his words, instead tipping his head back and polishing off the remainder of the bottle without so much as another word. Kuwabara can only watch helplessly, unblinking, suddenly overcome by nausea.
He wants, needs to look away, more badly than he does to breathe, but he can’t make his body move. It feels voyeuristic to stare, like he’s witnessing something no one was ever meant to see, but he’s paralyzed. It’s like there’s a car crash happening right in front of him.
After swallowing the last of his drink, Urameshi looks blankly into the bottle in his hands, swaying slightly. He still has that far-off look in his eyes, rubbing his thumb along the label with his jaw screwed tight..
Then Urameshi smiles, lips stretched taut and trembling, just slightly. Kuwabara feels a strange chill bloom along the nape of his neck, hairs standing on end, as he begins to chuckle.
Kuwabara isn’t sure when the atmosphere of the room became so suffocatingly tense, not sure if Urameshi had always bore his teeth so tightly when he grinned.
He watches the mindless movements of the other boy’s hands intently, his reason for which unknown even to himself. He doesn’t dare move from his place on the couch, his motivations for which, perhaps a touch more selfish than he’d ever admit to himself. The last thing he wants is to be alone right now. Despite everything, Urameshi’s presence is still his anchor.
“You wanna hear somethin’ stupid?” Urameshi asks, after a while. Kuwabara takes a beat too long to respond before cursing his hesitation. He nods, brows knit tightly. The detective doesn’t even look up to confirm his assent.
“I’m scared.” Urameshi confesses, voice low and yet, booming when juxtaposed with the quiet stillness of the room. Again, all Kuwabara can hear is the ticking of the clock, reverberating around his mind in a maddening echo.
The sentence hangs heavy in the air like toxic smog, ripping the air from Kuwabara’s lungs and suffocating him. It’s simple, even expected given their situation, but the lips from which those two words escape give them crushing weight.
Perhaps it makes Kuwabara naive, that the first thing he feels upon hearing Urameshi’s words was surprise. It shouldn’t have been, given the heaps of pressure placed onto his friend’s shoulders since this whole spirit detective business began, but it still catches the redhead off guard. Afterward, though, Kuwabara feels a sick rush of relief. He’s repulsed by it, utterly ashamed by such a notion, but the feeling remains nonetheless.
For all they’d endured together, there’s always been a part of him that’s believed Urameshi is utterly untouchable; born from the days when the most pain Kuwabara’d ever felt was the other boy’s fist breaking his ribs.
The thought that he could be afraid of anything, even something as harrowing as this makes Urameshi feel more human, ridiculous as that may sound. That assurance that at least on this level, he and Urameshi are equals, may very well be the source of his consolation.
Soon, Kuwabara comes back down to earth, remembers himself, and his heart settles on a crude fusion of dread and panic. He has the instinct to comfort the other, to provide any support he can, but inevitably falls short. Fortunately, (or perhaps, unfortunately,) for him, Urameshi resumes talking, despite the prolonged silence.
“I know, pretty freakin’ dumb, right?” He snorts without any mirth. “It’s not like I’m afraid of dying or anything either. I’ve died before, I know what it’s like. I know where I’ll go, who’ll be there to judge me— and really, I don’t give a rat’s ass if I’m damned to Hell or not. But still, I’m scared.”
Urameshi’s been pretty drunk for a while now. His motor skills are shot, as he fiddles uselessly with the label slapped onto the empty bottle of gin. He slurs his way through his confession, but his eyes are as sober as Kuwabara’s ever seen them. “Thing is, though, I don’t think I’m afraid of Toguro killing me. I think I’m just scared of everythin’ I’ll leave behind.
“No one’s gonna be around to make sure Ma doesn’t choke on her own vomit in her sleep after a bender. ‘cept maybe Keiko, but I don’t want her doing all that.” He scoffs. “The old hag wouldn’t let me live it down if I croaked, anyway. She’d prob’ly bitch at me for putting all her hard work to waste, lettin’ her down again.” Urameshi’s voice is a bit thick, as he says that, and he wipes his free hand across his face. “It’s not like it’d be the first time.”
He goes quiet, then, his hand moving from his face to his mouth as he just stares, gaze going on for miles. Through Kuwabara, through the hotel walls, through the stadium itself, and into an abyss of nothing. His eyes are wide, unblinking, the hand over his mouth tightening to grip his jaw. Again, there’s something unspoken lingering in the air, something haunted. Urameshi glances down at the empty bottle in his hand again, and curses at the sight of it.
“It’s no fair,” He spits, voice cracking with what could be misery or rage, depending on how you look at it. His grip on the gin grows tighter, and Kuwabara feels a rush of anxiety flood through him as he hears the glass begin to crack. “Just when things are finally starting to get good, I kick the bucket right when you guys need me the most. You could all die, all because I’m not strong enough– What kind of bullshit is that? Everyone’s counting on me now, and I can’t even …” Urameshi trails off, bowing his head as his shoulders begin to tremble. “It’s not fuckin’ fair.”
In truth, Kuwabara’s scared, too. He fears living and dying in equal measure. He’s afraid of leaving Shizuru by herself, grieving with no one caring nor alive to support her; afraid of leaving Yukina with no one to show her the beauty of the world. He’s afraid of never getting to see his future. His family, his career, his very life, all gone in an instant.
But most of all, he’s afraid of living when Urameshi won’t, leaving Kuwabara alone with no light to follow, no beacon leading him home.
Losing Urameshi wouldn’t be so much losing a limb as it would be losing his senses altogether. Lost and without direction, bereft and broken. Incomplete. Like sheet music with no instrument to play it, a book without words. It makes him feel cowardly, like he’s somehow failed as a teammate, a rival, a partner, a man, to look death in the eyes and shiver.
There’s a part of Kuwabara that wants to fall to his knees and cry like the child he knows deep down he is, to punch at the very foundation of this hellish tournament until it and the bastards running it all turn to dust, then cry some more. But Kuwabara knows Urameshi.
He knows that if he says any of this, letting his fear spill from his lips like revolting bile to pool at his friend’s feet, Urameshi will hide. He’ll build back up whatever stupid wall he keeps between himself and his deeper emotions, and this moment, rare and precious as gold, will slip right between the redhead’s fingers.
Kuwabara’s never been one to hide his emotions, but he knows that if the brave face he’s been keeping cracks even slightly, he’ll become little more than another person Urameshi must protect; must shield from the monsters outside their door and, most dangerous of all to the young spirit detective, Urameshi himself.
Because for quite a while now, Urameshi hasn’t had the privilege of being a simple punk. Neither of them has. That, above all, is what Kuwabara finds the most unfair.
For as long as he’s known him, Kuwabara has wanted nothing more than Urameshi’s respect. For the other boy to look him in the eyes and recognize him as an equal. He wishes, desperately, to give Urameshi any comfort or guidance he can muster. To prove that he can count on Kuwabara to pull through for him. Kuwabara yearns, impossibly, to make all of Urameshi’s worries go away with a wave of his hand.
He wants adulation, he wants to save the day, he wants to be the anchor, he wants to prove himself, he wants to move mountains, he wants Urameshi to acknowledge him and he wants to earn that.
He wants many things, but right now, what he wants most of all is for the other boy to look at him.
“That’s not gonna happen, Urameshi,” He says, placing a fist over his heart, “I’ll make sure of it. It’s a man’s promise.”
The statement is overly grandiose, naive, and bordering on childish. He can’t even really guarantee it, but the impassioned sincerity oozing from each syllable may just be enough to convince Kuwabara it’s true.
For once, Urameshi doesn’t laugh at him for such a declaration. For a while, he doesn’t respond at all.
He glances up at Kuwabara from where he sits, hunched over, and scans his face. Urameshi likes to play dumb— hell, maybe he is— but Kuwabara can never buy into that in moments like this, when his gaze cuts into Kuwabara’s very soul with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
Finally, Yusuke lowers his gaze back onto the coffee table, and nods. Doesn’t fire off a sarcastic quip, or even a playful punch. Just nods.
For the first time since the night began, Kuwabara feels compelled to grab the still-full glass of gin in his hand and take a swig.
And so, he does.
It burns just as much going down the second time as it did the first, but the pleasant tingle in his mind makes up for the sting.
When he looks back at Urameshi again, he can’t help but take note of his eyes, tired and almost hollow. The tension in his shoulders. The only term he could use to describe Urameshi’s demeanor is shell-shocked. He sits silently, eerily calm, expression blank with someone screaming behind it.
Urameshi’s emotions are a raging flood straining against a rickety wall of aging wood, barely suppressing the unforgiving tide. Kuwabara doesn’t know if he can handle seeing that dam break, a testament to his own dependence.
He speaks before he can think better of it. “Stay with me tonight.”
It‘s not an offer, but not quite a plea. It’s spoken like a demand, blunt and unquestionable, yet somehow more fragile than a request. It’s vague, but somehow he’s certain Urameshi knows exactly what he means.
Honestly, he’s not sure exactly why he said such a thing. Maybe it’s the alcohol softening his inhibitions. Maybe the dread which looms over them creates a sense of urgency that warrants such impulsivity. Perhaps it’s born of something else entirely, something neither boy knows how to properly articulate.
No matter the reason, Urameshi sets the bottle down on the table and nods again. Kuwabara mirrors the action wordlessly, and it's not long before Urameshi has stumbled over and tucked himself into the redhead’s bed. The other boy immediately stealing Kuwabara’s pillow would have started an argument any other day, but as it stands, the familiarity provides solace. Still, that doesn’t make Kuwabara immune to cold feet.
Once Kuwabara turns back to face the bed after flicking off the lights, he pauses. He’s greeted by the sight of the other boy snugly under his covers, not even looking in his direction. For some reason, it catches Kuwabara by surprise, leaves him strangely self-conscious, hyper-aware of every step he takes, every intake of breath. When he awkwardly shuffles to lay with Urameshi, he’s turned with his back towards the other boy, his front facing the door.
It’s immediately awkward, leaving the redhead to curse his incompetence. It’s not long before he hears a frustrated huff from behind him, and suddenly he’s being manhandled, body twisted roughly to turn on his side. He squawks, landing awkwardly as he gracelessly flops back onto the bed, but any protests die on his tongue once his nose grazes soft black hair.
Urameshi pulls Kuwabara closer, arms wrapped around his middle just a hair too tight as he presses his cheek to the redhead’s chest, ear nestled over his heart. The contact is immediately far more vulnerable than Kuwabara ever bargained for, leaving him tense with his pulse jackhammering in his ears. Though as time passes, he relaxes, soothed by the gentle rise and fall of Urameshi’s chest in tandem with his breathing. He slings his arm around the other boy, holding him close. He finds himself unable to be embarrassed by the gesture, in this private moment.
He begins to notice things about Urameshi, things he hadn’t had the opportunity to properly reflect on, before. How his hair– fluffy, ink-black locks the redhead can barely resist the urge to run his hands through– tickles Kuwabara’s nose just slightly, smelling of the hotel’s shampoo with just the faintest traces of pomade. How his tanned skin seems to glow under the watchful eye of the moon, bathed in ethereal, serene shades of blue.
He notes, as well, how Urameshi grips the back of Kuwabara’s shirt, how his breaths feel ever so slightly shaky under his palm, coming a touch too quick to be relaxed. How he can’t gauge the detective’s expression even now, the boy stubbornly avoiding his gaze. Kuwabara can’t force Urameshi to look at him, and frankly, he doesn’t want to. He’s not sure if he’d be able to take it. Instead, he lets himself bury his nose into the crown of his friend’s head, giving into desire just this once.
He feels Urameshi’s shoulders untense in response, and Kuwabara can’t help a small, secret smile. Even if only for this one fleeting moment, Kuwabara is safe. He can feel death, and pain, and undescribable agony just outside, clawing at their door, but he tries with all his might to let that melt away. In Urameshi’s arms, Kuwabara lets himself feel at ease.
“G’night.” He whispers into the detective’s hair, not expecting a reply.
“Night,” Urameshi mumbles into Kuwabara’s chest anyway, undoubtedly hearing the redhead’s heart skip a beat at the words. He scoots closer to the redhead, burying his head further into the other’s sternum as if chasing the sound of his heartbeat. Kuwabara wonders if it comforts him.
They don’t speak again that night, but neither sleeps for a long, long time. For who knows how long, Kuwabara lays still, holding his friend close and listening to him breathe. He clings to the other boy tightly, as if he were a lifeboat in the middle of turbulent waters.
If Urameshi cried, Kuwabara tuned it out.
If Kuwabara cried, Urameshi didn’t mention it.