NB: It's 5AM in London and I'm writing crack and smut for want of sleep. Don't read this chapter if you want even mediocre editing and real meaning. You'll find neither.
Akari makes artistry out of demolishing the captain's facades.
The first of his schemes is appallingly simple—so much so, in fact, that Hirato ought to be embarrassed. It's clear the brunet loathes being second, to any person certainly, but to paperwork and experiments as well. The protozoan also thinks his alarmingly possessive tendencies have gone unnoticed. Perhaps by the inepts at Circus, but researchers are inherently perceptive. It's no surprise, then, that the doctor catches amethyst eyes glaring at Hearty while Akari cleans his cage and replenishes food and water.
The brunet attempts conversation. Akari merely tuts noncommittally, seemingly too distracted to engage his companion at present. Hirato grows increasingly menacing at such meticulous care of a lab animal—care he's claimed for himself. It's obvious that he would delight in ripping the tiny furball into innumerable pieces.
This murderous intent is made clearer when Akari deposits said furball in a gloved hand. "Don't drop him."
Spectacles flash in indignation. "I'm too skilled for this."
"I'll be sure to compensate you adequately for your services then."
Hirato hisses. "Damn." Apparently, Hearty's drawn blood. "Why keep him at all? He bites."
"So do you," Akari responds dismissively, a victorious smirk alighting his lips. The captain isn't affectionate by any imaginative stretch, but neither is he in danger of crushing the little cretin, not when the physician has requested otherwise. The situation is supremely humorous: One of the most dangerous men in the country, defeated by a ball of pink fur.
An attention-seeking Hirato is so easily made pliable. All one need do is temporarily withhold attention. (If one is Akari, that is.)
The researcher's second strategy is more efficacious. 'Ambush' is the only accurate descriptor. He anticipates Hirato's return. As always, the commander is immaculate, from his perfectly symmetrical tie knot to the crisp crease of his trousers. He's not removed either coat or gloves before Akari slams him against the door, swift fingers unbuttoning that cumbersome overcoat while a demanding mouth samples surprised lips. Simultaneously, the blond makes short work of Hirato's belt and slips dexterous hands below, eliciting a strained groan.
When clever fingers are replaced by a cleverer tongue, the race is on. Hirato attempts to fully undress before he comes apart at his lover's virtuosity. He'd prefer a prolonged romp, after all. Here, he's disadvantaged. A brilliant doctor knows precisely how to tease, where to touch, and what manner of swirl of tongue against sensitive skin will reduce incessant mockery to a string of unintelligible sounds punctuated by the syllables of Akari's name.
The two collapse on the floor. Akari props himself up and appraises the disheveled mess he's made of the brunet—glasses askew, hat and coat discarded haphazardly, tie slipping loose from a rumpled shirt, and unruly hair a wild tangle of black. Hirato looks thoroughly-debauched. He looks like sin… until he speaks (around uneven breaths).
"Adequate compensation indeed, but utterly devilish of you, doctor. What would your staff say about such trickery?"
"They'd likely congratulate me on how well-had you appear."
Hirato laughs—an unguarded, sincere laugh that's reserved for Akari alone. It's generous remittance for the blond's ardent efforts.