There was a long silence.

Ryouma’s voice, when he finally spoke, was softer. “Sorry. That’s not fair. You don’t want any of this crap and I keep bleeding it on you anyway.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I just— get restless sometimes, after missions. I thought tonight’d help.”

“Until I chased your distraction off,” Kakashi said, trying for ironic. It came out quiet.

Ryouma shrugged one bare shoulder.

Why’d you agree to come? Because Ryouma had asked. Because sometimes, very occasionally, Kakashi wanted to do something that wasn’t training, or missions, or murder. Because he’d been curious. Because Ryouma had made it sound fun, and the lieutenant had shown up in a slinky shirt, and Raidou hadn’t yelled at anyone yet. Because, leaning on that balcony with a drink in his hand, watching Ryouma spin Usagi around the dancefloor, Kakashi hadn’t felt jealous — he’d felt warm, because Ryouma was laughing.

And then Ginta.

Who, really, hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d even retired graciously in the face of of Kakashi’s teeth. It was just—

It was just.

He tripped Kakashi’s danger sense, the way any exceptionally lethal ninja did. But so did Ryouma. That wasn’t a good reason. He was slick and manipulative — he’d enjoyed riling Satomi and Kakashi up against each other for no real reason — but he’d also been professional and competent, and he’d watched out for his team. Kakashi had arguably revealed far more to him on the ship, sharing talk that was traitorous even in the abstract, than Ryouma would by taking his clothes off.

Kakashi had stepped between them because… he hadn’t liked watching them together.

So, he was an asshole.

He lifted his gaze carefully to Ryouma’s throat. There was a slim white scar in the shadow of Ryouma’s jaw, cutting just above his adam’s apple. Someone, a long time ago, had gotten very close to a fatal strike.

“Tonight’s not over,” Kakashi said. “It could still help.”

Ryouma let out a breath. “How’d you like to dance?”

There was not an audible noise when Kakashi’s brain stalled entirely, but if there had been, it would have sounded like shearing metal. Despite every intention, he looked up.

Ryouma’s head was tilted hopefully to one side, a half-hint of a rueful smile curling his mouth. He looked like he expected a no.

Kakashi heard himself say, “Okay.”

Ryouma blinked, expression wiped clean by surprise. His smile glimmered back, small at first, then broadening to something wide and real, lighting up his whole face, and Kakashi thought, Oh.

“You need to try your drink first,” Ryouma said. “Promise I won’t look.”

And now he was being considerate.

Kakashi collected his glass, catching his balance along with it, and started to employ his usual sleight-of-hand, but Ryouma had turned to lean against the doorframe, head tilted back to study the star-stitched sky. He wasn’t watching.

Slowly, Kakashi touched the edge of his mask. Ryouma didn’t move. Kakashi tugged the cloth down to his lower lip. Inhaled the sharper, brighter scents of the unfiltered night, and drank his expensive drink. It didn’t taste like alcohol; it was rich and dark, the heart of some red fruit with a spicy afterburn. Something dangerously easy to get drunk on. He licked the last traces off his teeth and pulled his mask back up. Ryouma still wasn’t looking.

“I like it,” Kakashi told him, and slipped through the gap Ryouma had left, to head back down the stairs.