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Cold from ceramic tiles creeps up to his skin, making him shivered.
Conan looks up when Amuro drops a heavy jacket over his shoulder. His black one that he took off before dawning Poirot's apron in the morning.
"With the weather this cold you should've brought your jacket down here, Conan-kun." He lightly chided, both palm's warmth seeped beyond the fabric into Conan's shoulder.
"Ah..." Shinichi forgot his tone of voice and righted himself. "Uh, right. I forgot, Amuro no nii-chan..."
Amuro smiles, then leaves Conan alone to do his homework while he continues to clean unoccupied tables and fixes the chair up. Amuro offered up closing Poirot on his own lately, much to Azuza nee-san's chagrin. She's not feeling well for the last couple of days, so ever the gentlemen, Amuro stepped up. And like clockwork, after-school Conan went down from Mouri's office occupying one of Poirot's empty tables with his books and newspapers.
Shinichi shuffled, felt the underside soft cotton of Amuro's jacket cocooning warmth softening his cold prickled skin as he melt within its comfort. A recurring thought gave its unwanted weight as Shinichi felt his damning size more than ever like this. If his body was what it once was, his arm would fit better, even if the sleeves a little loose. The man was lean, but Amuro was bulkier than Shinichi had been. If they stood side by side Amuro would still stand above him. He'll grin knowingly for that extra inches. It's annoying that he could engulfed Shinichi whatever size he's in. It's annoying that the thought comfort him, then it gave Shinichi a different kind of warmth blossoming to his face and ears.
Conan put a pencil to his lips, tapping it over and over. Restless, but unwilling to go anywhere else. There are no eyes on Poirot, unlike the noisy horseback racing nor Ran's melancholic worry. He can fill his homeworks within minutes and pass his times reading newspaper or his comfort novels. He could wrap up the day and done with it. If he does so, Amuro will pass by his table to look, tidying up Conan's book with a smile so he can finish the day. Shinichi didn't want that. Not when knew Amuro is watching his every tics.
Conan let his lips hang open, the eraser tip tap on his bottom lip once, twice, thrice.
Like it’s a challenge, Amuro hides his smirk behind his shoulder playing aloof. A stray tissue conveniently flutters under the table. After making sure it caught both their attention, Amuro bent his waist in a deep slow bow, one arm propping his weight on the table's corner. Tight jeans leave little to imagination as slender fingers pluck the tissue off the floor.
Shinichi bites his bottom lips. "The broom is right there you know."
Amuro hummed. "Is that so?" He curved back up, his waist a sinful shape wrapped in a neat bow of his apron, then discarding the tissue in the trash bag. He looked over his shoulder, playful as a vixen. "I didn't notice."
Shinichi swallowed hard.
When Conan said nothing back, Amuro went back to cleaning. The longer it went on, the room's silence put a weight on Shinichi's chest. Guilt, a lapse of yearning. For a second Shinichi forgot his body, and he never felt more foolish.
Tiny hands bundle up Amuro's jacket closer. It smells what people thought they smell when they see the man. Clean unassuming detergent, a hint of sweat and traffic. Shinichi imagines what isn't there; the gun powder, disinfectant, and the blood. The jacket is warm, but now they feel hollow, incomplete. Half of the men hid away. Just like Shinichi is. There are some things Conan could never be, and some things Amuro will never do.
"Is your homework finished yet, Conan-kun?" Amuro was done putting the leftovers away before he asked. He already knew the answer, Conan glaring white paper is obvious.
Conan shook his head. "Nu-uh." Amuro let his question show. "My fingers are too frozen to write, it's annoying."
"Oh?" Shinichi saw Amuro's trains of thoughts move. "That's not good." He looked at Conan's hand, snuggled too small in his jacket sleeves, and searched the eyes beyond the glasses.
"Want me to warm it up?"
A pause. One answer's outcome was obvious, and safer.
"...yes."
Amuro sucked in a breath. The sound made Shinichi's chest skip a beat.
But hasn't Conan tempted danger on a daily basis?
He argued it's nothing drastic. Shinichi had a thought that Amuro would brew him a tea or hot water at least. But no, he took no time to tidy up, and instead he stood by Shinichi's side like he would when he took a guest order and bent closer. His bigger hands hover over Shinichi's.
"May I?"
His eyes not meeting Conan, like his mission parameters only to stay within Conan's freezing fingers. Shinichi could gaze up, watch the seamless make up covering bruises, dark lashes over bright blue eyes. His lips hydrated , but does not hide a very small cut by the corner. Conan looked and observed. Shinichi could only want.
He breathes out. "Please."
There's no uncertainty in his movement. Amuro cradled Conan's hand in his palm like he had done so many times before. Something precious, yet not fragile. Conan won't break easily, so Amuro holds him firmly. His palm burns.
"I always run warmer than most." He said the obvious once again, seeing Conan watching. He rubbed their hands together, transferring warmth to Conan.
"Lucky..." Conan's hand lay pliant. He watches their skin meld together, Amuro so much bigger than him. Callouses he can't hide, tiny cuts foils all round. Here the three faces briefly met. Bourbon, Amuro, Rei. Shinichi felt hunger spikes. Mysteries he had yet fully unearthed. Sparse glimpse of clues he had yet connected all the dots, yet here they are at this moment. Together, a moment of meeting; an addict and his drug.
Shinichi had just realized Amuro had stopped rubbing their hands, and just held his palm together. Amuro looked up at him. So close. "Better?"
"Maybe..." Conan said. Wiggling his fingers, not pulling away. "A little bit better."
Amuro not putting Conan's hand down. He flipped it, made their palm touch. Index fingers passing through pulsing veins stole a brief gasp from Conan. As sudden as his breath is taken, so does Amuro clasp on his hand. Firmly, like a gentleman would, like he might put a kiss on his knuckles.
But he didn't.
Conan freezes. Amuro could read his pulse, could see his pupil blown. Shinichi can see how steady Amuro is on the other end, even with the same signal he's showing to Shinichi.
Amuro closes their distance.
Rei pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, one Shinichi found himself leaning into.
Seconds stretched for eternity, empty pools made aware of their hunger. His warm lips on his temple, a softness Shinichi couldn't seem to forget. A drop in the Sahara, and it left Shinichi wanting.
Before the gentleness of it turns into something heated, the man pressed, and disengaged with a small pop, snapping Shinichi back into the moment with a painful gasp.
He put Conan's hand back on the table, and stood back up. Retreating to another corner of Poirot, to tidy neatly place cups and wipe invisible dust on the counter. Shinichi let the space between them be. Let his heart beat settle and dizzying heat dissipate. He went back to reading his neglected English homework. Made himself aware of the warmth left behind, letting it linger for as long as he could.