Imayoshi doesn't touch Hanamiya in public. He doesn't need physical contact to make his point - Hanamiya knows to watch the shift of Imayoshi's fingers, the flicker of eyelashes behind his glasses, and it's not like it makes a difference in Hanamiya's behavior anyway. The ending of their evening is always the same, regardless of which act he puts on or who he fools; everything else is just polish.
There's only one exception. Hanamiya can feel it aching under his skin right now, anticipation painted dark in his veins until his hands are nearly shaking when he reaches out for the glass on the other side of the counter. He can feel eyes catch at the bruise along his wrist, skitter away without catching on Hanamiya's knowing smirk. He knows how this works, knows strangers won't comment on the pattern of fabric worked into his skin like a careful-clear whisper of his tastes to anyone who is listening.
Hanamiya doesn't look to his left, where Imayoshi is leaning over the counter with his chin propped on his hand so he can maintain his gaze on the other's features. He can feel the heat of the other's eyes, lingering long at the cuff of his sleeve while he takes the time to read the entire novel of information in the color on Hanamiya's skin. It's not like he needs to - he knows perfectly well where those bruises came from - but he still stares, Hanamiya doesn't even have to look to be certain of it.
After a moment he does anyway, slides his eyes sideways to appreciate the total lack of reaction on Imayoshi's face. The other doesn't blink, doesn't smile any wider than he already is, but there's a chill down Hanamiya's spine like someone's breathing against the back of his neck, and he abandons the glass entirely without even taking a drink, lets his hand fall limp at his side while the couple down the counter from them start up a conversation made awkward by how carefully they are ignoring the two of them. Imayoshi doesn't even look at the other's hand, but fingers skim against Hanamiya's wrist, unerringly seeking out the ache of bruise against the other's skin and pressing deep-down hurt into Hanamiya's veins.
"What do you want to eat?" Imayoshi asks, his voice calm and even and as utterly unflustered as if his thumb weren't digging hard into the inside of Hanamiya's wrist, as if his fingertips weren't trailing out to dip just under the cuff of the other's sleeve.
Hanamiya doesn't know what he says. He has become very good at acting, enough that the facade comes without reaching for it and nearly without thought, which is for the best since it leaves all his attention free to circle the sharp pain of Imayoshi's fingernails digging into his skin.
Imayoshi doesn't need physical contact to make his point, but they both like the friction.