If he was as savage as the foreign detective so pegged him to be, Heiji might’ve lunged for another choke hold. How dare he tried to make him sympathize. How dare he compare each other as equals and attempt to be diplomatic after what he’d edged the Osakan to do. ‘Lowly’ was the only word he could spare for the blond detective, yet that ever increasing ire—whether at Hakuba or himself—occupied the need to even blurt that word out.
The Osakan further pressed his body onto the wall, forehead tightly against his arm. Was he trembling? All he cared about right now was to keep himself in control, whether that drumming noise inside his skull was doing something to help with that became a matter he didn’t particularly pay attention to. If it would drown the storm outside, his own voice, the voice of the other detective with him—so be it.
The measure of control displayed, despite the outburst, was admittedly impressive to Hakuba. The longer Heiji stood there, inactive, the more the anger faded. Perhaps the Osakan understood. Perhaps there was a semblance of common ground within reach.
Still looking at the other detective, Hakuba lowered his hand from his throat and instead to his stomach, gingerly touching the place of impact through his thin and still damp shirt. Then, he offered the faintest of sympathetic looks.
“For the record, I’ve never thought of you as anything other than Hattori Heiji, high school detective. But I do understand. You needn’t worry, I despise you unfairly on your own merits."
That said, he watched for the reaction. Would Hattori spur into a fury again? Or would he maintain that posture of – what was it? Control? Defeat? Hakuba blinked, watching the other detective. Perhaps he’d crossed the line a little too far in making his point.
He pushed himself to a stand, brows pinched in worry.
"Ah… Hattori-san… Are you all right?"
All coldness and anger were gone, replaced with the polite, but hesitant, voice of concern.