Reisi has been having a very good birthday. This is due primarily to the fact that, as yet, no one has actively acknowledged it. Awashima greeted him with the same level "Good morning," she always delivers, without even the flicker of a blink to note there is anything out of the ordinary about this particular morning. He's not sure if the rest didn't know to begin with, or if perhaps Awashima quietly took it upon herself to ask that none of them say anything, but in any case the day goes by with absolute normalcy. He even lingers late as he usually does without any comment, reviewing the last handful of reports until the rest of the building has gone silent around him.
He can't avoid Mikoto forever, though. He does contemplate staying later, waiting until the other man actually shows up at the office to collect him - it wouldn't be the first time - but in the end it seems more graceful to get it over with, particularly when resistance will only lead to Mikoto calling him out. So he walks home through the occasional flakes of an early snowfall, pacing out the conversation he's expecting so as to handle the obligatory birthday wishes with composure if not any particular appreciation.
The lights are on as he comes up the steps to his apartment. Technically - very technically - Mikoto does not actually live with him, but at some point in the last several months the redhead has taken to sleeping on Reisi's bed instead of on the couch at his own headquarters, and Reisi is pleased enough by this that he hasn't put up any protest other than a raised eyebrow. Even that token amusement he was only able to manage the first time, when he came home to find Mikoto sprawled over the rumpled mess he'd made of the other man's sheets, and when the redhead lifted his head to blink a sleep-bleary smile in his direction even Reisi's composure had cracked into pleasure.
It's been an unstated assumption, since then, that Mikoto will be there when Reisi gets home from work, if it's the middle of the afternoon or the middle of the night either one. He must be relying on some sort of information, someone who is providing him a tip when Reisi leaves headquarters, but Reisi doesn't ask. He doesn't really want to call Awashima out on it, and if he does he suspects it'll stop and he doesn't want that either. There's something comforting about coming home to backlit windows, about opening the front door and finding it unlocked in anticipation of his presence. And then there's Mikoto, the angle of his knee thrown over the back of the couch and his hair tangled over the arm of the couch even before he tips his head back to look at the front door.
"Hey." It's a drawl in his throat, low and unhurried, and when he swings his leg around to the floor it's with the same slow consideration as his voice. Reisi pauses just past the doorway, doesn't even move to unbuckle his belt or unbutton his jacket in the distraction of watching Mikoto get to his feet. Mikoto stands, unfolding himself from the comfort of the couch so carefully Reisi wonders if he wasn't on the verge of sleep in spite of the light filling the room, interlaces his fingers and stretches high over his head, arching until Reisi can hear his shoulder crack into relaxation. Then he tips his chin down, looks up through the dark red of his hair, and by any reasonable standard Reisi should be used to that smile. It should have lost the power to stutter his heartbeat, it shouldn't be able to pour heat into his blood at the distance of the room, but he takes a sharp inhale, and his chilled cheeks go warm without his permission, and Mikoto is coming across the distance and Reisi can't even pretend composure anymore.
"Hello," he manages. "Were you waiting for me?" It comes out faintly teasing, amusement audible even under the warmth of the affection he can't crush out.
"Yep." Mikoto's fingers are at his elbow, as if to steady him or just to calibrate where the other is. There's a flutter of motion, red hair tangling with black, and then Mikoto's mouth, pressing gentle and light at the bottom edge of Reisi's lips. Reisi's mouth comes open, his eyes fall shut, but Mikoto is leaning away again, his mouth is curving around a smile as his hand tightens into a deliberate hold on Reisi's sleeve.
"You taste like snow," he says. "Is it cold out?"
"Mm." Reisi's not really listening. His hand is coming up to match Mikoto's, his fingers touching against the thin t-shirt at the other's hip. "It's warm in here."
Mikoto grins, a flash of white teeth. "I have something for you."
Reisi doesn't pull back. He might have, if he weren't expecting this, if his mouth weren't Mikoto-warm from that brief flash of a kiss. As it is he just lets a breath of air out in a faint sigh, lets his mouth pulls tight and tolerant.
"Okay."
"You're not going to protest?" Mikoto is leaning in again, not quite kissing Reisi but just close enough that the other is turning his head to track the motion, trying to anticipate a movement that never quite comes.
"Just stop talking and get it over with," Reisi almost-snaps, but the edge in his voice just makes Mikoto laugh.
"As you order." Mikoto shifts his weight so he can reach around to his back pocket. Reisi only has a moment to contemplate the size of whatever he is reaching for; then Mikoto's fingers are brushing against his palm, pressing soft cardboard into his hold, and Reisi pulls back to look down.
It's not what he expected, for what surprise is worth. The battered box of cigarettes is open, crushed out-of-shape by use and the heat of Mikoto's body, and the shape has only nostalgic familiarity to Reisi's fingers, years-old memory from a long-lost habit.
"What is this?" He digs his thumb into the side, feels out the shape of the last few cigarettes in the box.
"I thought you wanted me to stop talking." Mikoto is still close, still breathing his words against Reisi's cheek. "Did you change your mind?"
"Don't tease me." Even the warm purr of Mikoto's voice isn't enough to soften the uncomfortable edge of confusion in Reisi's head. "I quit years ago, you know that."
"I know." Reisi can hear the smile in Mikoto's voice. "They're not yours."
Reisi sighs, rolls his eyes. "You just gave them to me."
"They're mine," Mikoto says, carefully, like the words have more meaning than Reisi can pick apart. "And they're for you."
"Mikoto," Reisi starts, ready to let actual frustration spark into his tone - and then understanding hits him, and he goes quiet a moment before Mikoto laughs against his jaw.
"I'm quitting." The words are hot on Reisi's skin, hotter in contrast to the cold ripple of shock that runs through him. "Thought it was worth stopping before it kills me. Like you always say, right?"
Reisi does always say, he can remember the taste of offhand comments, his usual complaint whenever Mikoto leaves him alone while the redhead goes to smoke a cigarette on the balcony. He never expected Mikoto to actually listen, not when the other man never listens to him about anything else.
"I know you don't like doing anything for your birthday," Mikoto is saying, dropping words into the still pool of Reisi's thoughts. "I'm gonna not-do-anything for your birthday from here on out. You'll be stuck with me for years."
"Oh." Reisi's fingers tighten on the box. It feels warm in his palm, as if it's radiating the promise of heat even in advance of the spark of a lighter. When he blinks his eyes are hot too, burning under his eyelids with the threat of unfamiliar emotion.
"Happy birthday." Mikoto's mouth is against Reisi's again, brushing at the opposite corner to catch his skin alight.
Reisi can't say thank you. His throat is too tight, he can't trust himself to speak without a sob in the sound. But when he turns his head Mikoto is waiting for him, kissing the heat of tears into a different warmth entirely, and when he shuts his eyes the snow falling outside disappears, and all he sees is light.