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“You’re not exactly my type,” Kokichi says without looking up from his nails, which he is cleaning with one of Maki’s knives. Teruteru wonders if Maki knows it’s missing. Most likely, she decided it wasn’t worth the effort to retrieve it.
“Well —”
“Well? You’re still making an effort to ask me out. Admirable, I suppose.” Kokichi sighs and sets the knife down. “So, listen. How about we make a deal?”
Teruteru knew he might be in over his head when he first saw the sharpness in Kokichi’s smile, but he can’t deny that the mischievous twinkle in his eye is part of the attraction. Most people turn Teruteru down flat, anyway, so he can’t exactly afford to be picky. “What kind of deal?” He works up an eyebrow waggle, mostly out of instinct, and Kokichi seems mildly amused. “Sounds… spicy.”
“I’m sure it’s a privilege for you to be seen with anyone who tolerates your presence for more than a second,” Kokichi continues with a sparkling smile, completely ignoring Teruteru’s comment, “so your reward will be the enthralling experience of not being a complete social pariah while in my presence! All I ask is that you hit on me as aggressively as possible in front of the space-brained idiot, our resident cold-blooded killer, and my beloved detective, of course.” The knife is back in his hands, and Teruteru feels a little woozy. “Simple, right?”
“Ah, well, I’m not quite —”
“Perfect!” Kokichi claps his hands and Teruteru is treated to a return of the sharp smile that he once found pretty cute. “We can practice now!” And then the knife is driving down between Kokichi’s fingers, blade burying itself in the table, a millimeter from his hand.
Teruteru makes a half-strangled noise. Kokichi laughs. “Are you scared?” He wrenches the knife up out of the table and prepares to bring it down again, but this time Teruteru moves before he realizes what he’s doing.
In half an instant (faster than he thought himself capable of), he’s thrown himself across the table to seize Kokichi’s wrist. “No!”
Kokichi freezes. His wrist is small and fragile in Teruteru’s hand, as breakable as bird bones. As a chef, Teruteru has wrung his fair share of birds’ necks, and for half a second, some strange emotion flickers through Kokichi’s eyes — and then he leans forward and, quick as a flash, presses a kiss to the corner of Teruteru’s mouth.
Teruteru can count on one hand the number of people who have kissed him. (His mom. His grandma, before she passed away. A dog on the street, once.) He’s not even sure if this counts as a kiss, because it is over as soon as it begins, Kokichi drawing back, tugging his hand out of Teruteru’s limp grip.
“Ah, Shuichi,” he says pleasantly, eyes flicking over Teruteru’s shocked face to settle on someone behind him. “What perfect timing you have.”