It's relaxing to be strokes like this. Those hands of Suzaku's have punched him, have pinned him, have nearly strangled him to death, but they're still the hands of a man he trusts with his life, the hands of a friend. He focuses on the callouses, proof of a life lived actively, as Suzaku checks him all over. Yes, this is safe. They're both safe.

It's only when Suzaku's near enough for their noses to almost touch that it clicks: The shots are drugged. Oh. Oh no. Chagrin floods him as Suzaku closes that last gap and presses their lips together.

Should he kiss back? Should he just pretend not to notice? Should he push him away? What he's realising, cradled in Suzaku's hands, is that this feels far better sober than he'd imagined after emerging from the humiliation of their last desperate kisses. Is it because he remembers how right it felt to be deluded? Is it because it's Suzaku, who's safe? Is it because he's always felt so much for the man, because he'd been desperate for so long in that war to draw Suzaku to his side above anyone else? Is it because he now knows enough about the specifics of Suzaku's love life to actually be aware of his friend's probably tastes? But that must be a sign this is all the drugs, because Suzaku's men are musclebound fighters like him...

The final result of this desperate overthinking are round eyes, flushed cheeks and still lips.