Title: Of Tea and Men
Rating: R
Pairings/Characters: Higuchi/Namikawa; Namikawa, Higuchi, mentions of the rest of Yotsuba and an OC.
Warnings: Language and sexual content. Namikawa being a prissy schoolboy.
Word Count: 3,088
Author's Note: Prepare for crack. Or something.

"Talk about shitty luck."

Namikawa thanked the waitress for his cup of tea, cut his eyes across to his co-worker—and he used that term in its loosest form possible—to see if he would thank her. But no, he was just staring at her exposed leg, probably wondering some lewd thing like how it would feel wrapped around his waist. Namikawa cleared his throat. Unwrapped the napkin on the table and placed it onto his lap.

"What is it, Higuchi?" he deadpanned.

Higuchi looked at him, but Namikawa got the feeling he wasn't really looking at him. He sighed exasperatedly. (Let me guess, Higuchi, you're wondering how long it would take you to pummel that woman into your mattress.) "What did Midou say on the phone?" he clarified shortly.

"Oh. That."—Namikawa placed a finger against his temple, wondered how a dunderhead like Higuchi Kyosuke who had the attention span of a squirrel had become the head of the Technology Department of Yotsuba—"He got caught up at his fencing class, so he'll be late. Ooi flaked out, something about his arm bein' sore. Isn't he heading into his mid-forties?—bet it's arthritis, the old geiser. I think he needs to retire. He's not cut out for the job anymore."

Namikawa dropped two sugar cubes into his tea and stirred them in thoughtfully. "And the rest?" he asked quietly. "Shimura is usually very prompt. This is unlike him."

"Kida wouldn't pick up. I didn't bother calling Takahashi—the idiot probably forgot we were coming here in the first place. Shimura's caught in traffic." Higuchi snickered. "Can you imagine him?" he asked in a low voice. "I bet he's shitting in his pants as we speak, thinking Kira's going to kill him for being late."

Namikawa set down his spoon and brought the cup to his lips. "You're a riot," he remarked dryly.

Higuchi clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "You know, Namikawa, real men don't drink tea."

He placed the cup into the saucer with a dignified clink. Namikawa smiled tightly, trying to make himself appear less annoyed than he truly was; he didn't want to give Higuchi that satisfaction.

"You know, Higuchi, I don't recall asking you."

Higuchi snorted and leaned back in his chair. Took a swig from his mug of coffee. (No, Higuchi did not just wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.) Namikawa felt his fingers twitch underneath the table.

"What the hell has your panties in a bunch?" Higuchi asked offhandedly, flicking something caught under his fingernail onto the table. Namikawa forced himself not to look. "Couldn't cajole your secretary to your place last night?" he asked lightly. "Did the feminine charm not work, Reiji?"

"This might come as somewhat of a shock to you, but not all men are sex-addicts," Namikawa pointed out matter-of-factly, taking another sip of his tea. Higuchi shot him a glare. He smirked over the rim of the cup, pleased to be an annoyance to him. "Most of us don't go around fucking our secretaries in the back seats of our cars. It's a surprise, I know."

Higuchi suddenly chuckled.

Namikawa raised a flawlessly plucked eyebrow. "What?"

He grinned, displaying a row of dreadfully discolored teeth. "I didn't know you cussed, Namikawa," he said. (Did he look impressed?) "I thought you were too refined."

Namikawa realized he was smirking again—and it wasn't forced this time. "Perhaps I caught that infectious disease of yours, Higuchi. You clearly need to get that checked out. It might be a new form of rabies."

"You're changing the subject," Higuchi said.

"What? Are you that fascinated by my sex life?" Namikawa asked him smoothly.

Higuchi leaned across the table, suddenly and uncomfortably close. Namikawa thought he saw a nose hair that needed to be plucked. "I had no idea you had one," he said silkily. "I thought you swung the other way, if y'catch my drift. You sure do doll up that pretty face."

Namikawa sat back in his chair to put some distance between them, contemplated if his coffee was spiked with alcohol. "You think I have a pretty face, Higuchi?" he asked, keeping his voice casual. "And you think that I swing the other way?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret," he muttered, like he hadn't heard a thing Namikawa had just said. "I thought you were transsexual when I first met you."

"Oh?" Namikawa stirred his tea reflexively and crossed his legs under the table. The corner of his mouth twitched and he tried to keep from laughing. This wasn't bothering him as much as it should have. "What about now? Have I proved your theory wrong?"

"Now I think you're metrosexual," Higuchi stated, finally drawing back. "You act really, really dainty though. Just sayin'."

This time Namikawa did laugh. Higuchi blinked at him, looking like he had just gone mad. He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. Higuchi pointed at him and sputtered, "See? That's what I meant. You're so friggin'…girly. It's hard not to think of you as a chick sometimes."

"Most women find men who take care of their appearance attractive," he murmured. "Of course you wouldn't know, Higuchi." He smiled, rested his chin on his hand, looked thoughtfully at the oaf of a man sitting across from him. "You're absolutely vulgar."

"Some chicks like it rough," Higuchi said flatly.

"Is that so?" Namikawa asked slowly. "Well, let's see."

He craned his head around until he saw the waitress from before. "Excuse me, please," he called politely. He watched as she adjusted her skirt and came over to them, her heels tapping the floor with a flirtatious cadence that Namikawa knew all too well. He resisted the urge to glance over at Higuchi with an I-told-you-so look.

"Can I get you something?" she asked him.

He undid the top button of his shirt to relax the collar a bit, lifted his eyes to meet her expectant gaze. "Could you get me a few more sugar cubes, please?" He deliberately smiled at her, offering a view of his brilliantly white teeth. "I hope it's not too much trouble…"

She promptly turned a bright shade of pink. "Oh, no, no! It's no problem!" Her hands fluttered around helplessly, like she wanted to fix something but could find nothing that needed fixing. "I'll get those for you right away. While I'm at it, why don't I warm up your tea? It will just take a moment."

"Thank you," he told her, pushing the cup in her direction. "That's very sweet of you."

It was only when she had left that Namikawa looked over at Higuchi, whose face was scrunched up like a petulant child who was about to throw a tantrum.

Namikawa laughed quietly. "You thought I was lying?"

"I never knew you were so full of yourself, Namikawa."

"I'm not full of it," he insisted. "I was simply proving a point—"

"—by flaunting what you've got, like that pretty face," Higuchi finished.

Again with the pretty face thing. Namikawa shifted in his chair just as the waitress arrived with his tea and a dish stacked high with an absurd amount of sugar cubes. She placed the sugar cubes in front of him, and (purposely) leaned all the way across the table to set down the tea. He glanced at Higuchi, who was ogling the waitress's chest where her neckline cut dangerously low. She frowned when she looked at Namikawa and found that he wasn't doing the same.

He nodded a thank you and dropped another sugar cube into his teacup. His ring clanked against rim of the teacup and he frowned, bracing himself for what Higuchi was undoubtedly going to say. (3...2...1...)

"Dude,"—Higuchi was staring at the ring with such an intense amount of concentration that Namikawa hoped he didn't hurt himself—"You're engaged?"

Namikawa nearly choked on his tea. He gingerly wiped his mouth with a napkin. "It's not an engagement ring." He raised his left hand as a testament, suppressed the tempting urge to flip Higuchi off while he had the chance. "It's on my middle finger, you idiot."

Higuchi squinted his eyes and peered at his finger. "Is that a…"—he abruptly leaped forward, grabbed his hand and yanked it towards himself for a better look. Namikawa steadied himself and shot Higuchi a glare, revolted at how callous and dry Higuchi's fingers felt against his palm. He tried convincing himself that, no, that wasn't dead skin, but failed miserably. Namikawa gritted his teeth together.

"What the fuck is up with that?" he asked—demanded, even. "There's a heart on it."

Namikawa pulled his hand away and stared at him. "Yes."

"If you wanted some bling, you could've gotten shit that…y'know…was more manlier," Higuchi pointed out.

Namikawa felt a muscle in his jaw tighten and untighten. He refrained from correcting his grammar only because he wanted this meaningless conversation over and done with. "I could have," he agreed, lifting the teacup to his mouth, blowing the tea to cool it. With the way Higuchi gaped at him—how his eyes bulged and how his jaw fell agape and how he began sputtering incoherently (okay, so maybe the latter wasn't so unheard of)—Namikawa was half-expecting to be asked whether or not he was wearing lip gloss.

"What are you, some kinda pimp?"

(I am not a prostitute's lawyer, stupid.) He sighed exasperatedly and shook his head. "What are you blabbering about?" he asked weakly.

"That"—and Higuchi pointed at his saucer, at the little piece of paper that had numbers scribbled onto it; clearly, a phone number—"She gave you her number!"

"I see," he deadpanned. Again.

Higuchi leaned over to grab the scrap of paper just as Namikawa set down his teacup. He didn't have a chance to avoid the clumsy, intruding hand, and before he had the presence of mind to push his chair back, the teacup and its contents had tumbled into his lap.

Meaning he was now wearing his tea more than drinking it.

He slammed the teacup onto the table. "Damn it, Higuchi," Namikawa hissed, pushing back his chair with such force that it banged against the wall and made a portrait teeter precariously. stood up and tried to mop up the mess; he gave up when he realized it was just getting worse. "You moron," he muttered. Namikawa didn't bother excusing himself to the restroom, or looking at Higuchi and seeing that inevitably hideous grin on his barbaric face.

Fortunately for him, the restroom was not too far off and no one was inside. He placed his blazer on the paper towel dispenser—he had brought it along with him to hide the stain from plain view—and untucked his shirt. Turned on the faucet. Ran the hem of his shirt underneath the water. He scrubbed fiercely but thoroughly, trying to wash away all traces of the green tea from his white shirt. At the very least, the tea hadn't seeped through his pants; the napkin had managed to catch most of it. Still, he would have to get everything dry-cleaned because Higuchi fucking Kyosuke had acted too carelessly, too stupidly as usual. If Kira had killed Hatori, why couldn't he kill someone as power-hungry and morally corrupt and delusional and moronic as Higuchi? (Unless…)

The door flew open with an intrusive bang. Higuchi walked in. Namikawa wasn't surprised. He had been half expecting him to intrude; it was like one of those cliché horror films where Higuchi was the villain, and he was the male protagonist trying to save his life and protect everything that was near and dear to him—which, at the moment, meant his sanity.

"Midou's here," Higuchi said gruffly. "He can't stay long. 'Asked me if I could get you."

Namikawa didn't take his eyes off his shirt. "Well, I suppose he'll just have to wait," he said shrilly. "Did you tell him that you knocked over tea like a complete and utter jackass?"

Higuchi snorted. "Sorry I made you wet, princess."

Namikawa forced himself not to read between the lines, disgusted. He turned off the faucet and inspected his shirt critically; the stain was by no means invisible, but it would have to do. Maybe if he tucked it back in and put on his blazer no one would notice. He wiped his hands with a paper towel glanced askance at Higuchi, who was still there.

"Are you waiting to escort me out of the restroom?" he asked sarcastically. "I can find my way back, you know."

Higuchi was staring at him fixatedly. "Let me guess," he said suddenly. "Your boxers are made of silk, too, aren't they?"

Namikawa tilted his head and regarded him carefully. He tried to find an apt response to that—because really, why did he care?—and settled on: "Are you so inclined to find out?" He regretted the words the moment he had said them; even to his ears they had sounded far too flirtatious, too evocative.

And suddenly, before he had a chance to take in just what the hell was happening, he was pushed up against the wall with Higuchi towering over him—which was disconcerting, since he was a good four inches taller than Higuchi.

Namikawa could smell the scent of coffee on Higuchi's breath. "You really want me to answer that?" he asked him hoarsely. The warm breath tickled his throat. He wished he hadn't undone the top button of his shirt.

Namikawa was determined to maintain his composure, even as Higuchi's hand slipped beneath his shirt. "So you swing both ways," he remarked softly.

"You count as both," Higuchi said evasively.

Namikawa wasn't sure what to make of this—he should have been insulted, but he wasn't—or of Higuchi, who by now had his mouth pressed greedily against his collarbone. No, Namikawa shouldn't have been condoning this. He should have been prying Higuchi off and calling him a disgusting oaf, but instead he was letting this leech touch him in ways that were anything but conventional. He had seen sexually appealing men before, and Higuchi Kyosuke was not one of them. If anything, he should have been revolted.

He should have been.

But Namikawa had to admit that Higuchi was strangely skilled at this, and if he didn't look and act so repulsive, maybe he would actually be enjoying this to its full extent.

"Relax," Higuchi muttered against his skin—which could very well have been the most perceptive thing he had said all evening. "I'm not a rapist or anything." Higuchi's palm was teasing his skin with it's callousness, his fingers raking dangerous patterns against his abdomen.

"You clearly need to invest in lotion," Namikawa breathed.

Higuchi nipped tersely at his skin and then raked his tongue over it. "You talk too much."

Namikawa dug his fingernails into Higuchi's shoulder, pleased when Higuchi winced and gritted his teeth together. "I hope you brushed your teeth."

Higuchi left his assault on his neck and looked at him levelly. Namikawa was surprised at how dark his eyes had gotten—was he enjoying this that much? "You tell me," he said huskily. Higuchi leaned forward and shoved his mouth against Namikawa's in a searing kiss that was rough and obtrusive; his tongue flicked out to meet his, and Namikawa was greeted with the bitter taste of coffee mixed with saliva (and alcohol?) as Higuchi's tongue glided across his teeth slowly. It was the most unconventional kiss Namikawa had ever experienced, namely because he was not the one in control.

Higuchi's hand glided down his chest, passed over his abdomen and then gave his belt a meaningful tug. Namikawa made a point in not reacting, and Higuchi—perhaps pissed off at his lack of a reaction or too intimidated—brought his other hand down against Namikawa's thigh and hooked it against his waist. He pressed their pelvises together. Namikawa felt both his hands twitch against the wall, and could tell Higuchi was grinning against his mouth. He did it again, and this time Namikawa shuddered and had to suppress a gasp. When he did it the third time and increased his tempo with painfully maddening connotations, Namikawa realized he had to stop this before this went too far—father than they already had. He had never been fucked in a bathroom, and he wasn't planning on making this his first time.

Namikawa bit Higuchi's lip and simultaneously managed to stomp on his foot. It worked; Higuchi broke the kiss and released him, took a step back and swore loudly. "What the fuck, Namikawa?" he demanded, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Namikawa tried to catch his breath. "My point exactly, Higuchi," he said critically. "We're lucky that no one walked in"—it had just occurred to him that this was a public restroom, and it was sheer luck that no one had walked in on them—"Midou is out there. Shimura is probably here by now, too. No doubt they're wondering where we are. I don't want them getting ideas."

Higuchi chuckled and shook his head. "That worried about your public image?" he asked.

Namikawa didn't answer. He straightened his shirt. Buttoned the collar. Tucked in the green tea-stained hem into his pants. (Yes, that's why he had been in the bathroom in the first place. It was hard to believe now.) He retrieved his blazer from the paper towel dispenser and put it on. When he looked in the mirror to straighten his disheveled hair, he saw Higuchi staring at him like a predator stares at his prey.

"So I did turn you on," he observed, obviously quite impressed with himself. "Another few seconds and you would've been hard as a rock. I was close to fucking the prime and proper Namikawa Reiji."

Namikawa turned to look at him. "My one run-in with bestiality, Higuchi. I assure you." He waited until the words sunk in, and smirked when Higuchi scowled at him. He grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at his mouth, trying to wipe away any excess and unnecessary Higuchi he had on himself.

"I'm going to finish the rest of my tea," Namikawa announced, "and I'm going to tell Midou, and Shimura, if he's there, that we're late because you couldn't find the restroom. Or you were hitting on the waitress. Whichever. I'm sure you won't mind."

If Higuchi had heard any of what he had just finished saying, he didn't make it apparent. "You're surprisingly sexy, Namikawa," he told him.

Namikawa crumpled the paper towel and tossed it into the trash can. "I wish I could say the same for you, Higuchi."