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Phantom thieves, Daisuke has been firmly told more than once, are not cons. The tricks of a common gambler or card sharp are beneath them. But the skills honed by those games have their uses: the ability to calculate odds in a split-second, to balance luck with tactics, to closely observe the players around you while keeping your own thoughts carefully hidden.
And so Daisuke has been taught how to play such games, in the course of his training. They're useful for practice, if nothing else.
It's through this that he's learned that he cannot bluff to save his life, but he has something of a knack for reading his opponents.
Satoshi is no longer an opponent - maybe he never really was, Daisuke thinks - but he's gotten extremely good at reading him, all the same. Learned to spot the subtle clues that other people miss, the ones that always give away what Satoshi feels no matter how he tries to hide it.
Satoshi has tells.
There's the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth when he's amused by something. The way his hands curl when he's fighting for self-control.
And the way his eyes always linger just a moment too long, before he hurriedly pulls his glance away, when he's looking at something he wants.
(Daisuke can't help but notice, although it makes his face heat when he thinks of it, that the place Satoshi’s gaze most often comes to rest isn't on any object, but on Daisuke himself.)
Since the curse ended, he's been seeing those lingering glances more often. As though now, perhaps, Satoshi feels he can give himself permission to want just a little bit more. As though at last he can look at the world around him and believe he has a place in it.
But it's always followed by the inevitable backlash, the way Satoshi flinches away like he's caught himself doing something wrong.
He sees it one day when they're walking past a clothing store, and he catches Satoshi staring at the display window just a little too long. He's never known Satoshi to show any interest in clothes: there's a time when he would have assumed his serious-minded classmate considered such a thing beneath his notice. But he knows Satoshi far better now than he did then, and he knows that despite the years spent doing his best to suppress it, Satoshi is still a teenager who craves the same kind of fun as any other: friendship, jokes, games.
And, just maybe, clothes as well.
When he follows the line of Satoshi’s gaze, Daisuke finds himself looking at a sapphire-blue vest in the window. It's made of some silky fabric, with graceful lines and a subtle brocade pattern, and it's the sort of thing Daisuke could never wear without feeling ridiculous. But it fits somehow with some air of Satoshi’s, something old-fashioned and elegant.
"Do you like that vest?" he asks, gesturing at it.
Satoshi jerks his eyes away, with the familiar flicker of guilt that Daisuke knows and loathes. "I don't need it," he mutters.
"Okay." Daisuke quirks an eyebrow at him. "But that's not what I asked."
It's then that Satoshi makes his Pronouncement.
"Vests," he declares, with the gravity of a philosopher expounding on the meaning of life, "are unnecessary items of clothing."
Daisuke blinks.
"I'm… sorry?"
"They're too flimsy to provide real warmth, and when you don't need outerwear to keep warm, you can just wear a shirt on its own. Therefore, unnecessary," Satoshi concludes with finality.
Daisuke wonders, with a sudden urge to laugh, what Satoshi would make of some of the outfits he's worn in his career as a Phantom Thief, which always seem to have far more buckles and straps and decorative chains than anything remotely in the realm of "necessary".
"Do clothes have to be, um… necessary?"
"Clothes have to be practical," Satoshi says briskly. "What else are they for?"
Daisuke chooses not to debate this directly. "But do you think it's pretty?"
Embarrassment flits across Satoshi’s face again, as though even this much of an admission is shameful. "... I suppose so."
"Then isn't it enough for something to be pretty sometimes?" he presses. "Isn’t that what art's about? When I paint, I'm not worried about whether what I make will be useful. It's enough to try and make something that's pretty, or that makes you feel something, or that I just… enjoy."
"Not everyone would agree with that way of thinking. 'Art for art's sake' was actually quite a controversial idea, historically - Cao Yu called it a philosophy of the well-fed, for example..."
The tone is one Daisuke’s intimately familiar with - the one Satoshi always uses when he's reciting long-memorized facts or expounding on ideas to an audience. But there's something vulnerable in his expression, and maybe that's what gives Daisuke the boldness to take a step closer to him and ask, "And what do you think?"
"I- I think-" Satoshi’s eyes seem riveted to his face. "... I think something that brings people joy can never be useless."
It's strange to think that he used to see Satoshi looking at him this way, with the kind of intensity that's in his eyes now, and not know what it meant. Stranger still to think he used to not understand why it made his heart beat faster, used to attribute the feeling to fear or embarrassment long after those explanations had stopped making sense.
Understanding the truth feels like breaking the code on a lock inside his own mind, and suddenly seeing an endless expanse before him when the door flies open.
"You told me once that there was only one thing that brought you joy," he says.
"... Yes." There's a shift in Satoshi’s throat as he swallows, and Daisuke longs to run his finger down it, to stroke him there until all the shadows clear from his eyes.
"Is that still true?" he asks gently.
Satoshi seems to genuinely stop and consider this.
"Not as much as it was then," he says finally, as though it's an epiphany even to himself.
It's a start, Daisuke thinks.
"I want you to have so many things that make you happy," he tells him, soft and sincere. "In the big ways - the people you love, who love you. Being free to live your life the way you want… but the little things, too. Even if it's just something like the food you eat, or the clothes you wear."
Satoshi is still staring at him, with his eyes wide and awed the way they get sometimes, as though Daisuke is something unprecedented and miraculous. It's a look that sends a twinge of sadness to his chest - no one should have to be that awestruck at basic kindness, he thinks - but it sends a very different feeling shivering through him, too. Intoxicating to have someone look at him with that kind of naked admiration. And maybe it's been a journey for him too, to believe he deserves to be looked at that way.
To believe that he's allowed to want, too.
For one brief moment everything is breathlessly perfect, until the shadows shutter back over Satoshi’s eyes and he stumbles away as though shoved by an invisible hand.
"I don't think I'm good at being happy," he says.
It takes several months before Daisuke saves up the money to put his plan into action. Dark scoffs at the necessity of this, pointing out that he can easily get his hands on anything he wants, but Daisuke retorts that (with all due respect to his grandfather's past methods), he doesn't think Satoshi will be impressed with a stolen gift.
The truth is, he's not entirely sure Satoshi would care. Satoshi never seemed particularly bothered by his thievery, and would probably have had no interest in arresting anyone if it weren't for the obligation of family traditions. It's really his own conviction that keeps him planning and saving for months, Daisuke thinks. He wants to do this the right way - to do it his way.
He's certain that sharing this insight would only earn him more derision, though, and so Dark remains unconvinced.
"It's ridiculous!" he complains, gesturing with theatrical frustration. "You can't still think that he's going to clap a pair of handcuffs on you-"
Daisuke makes the critical mistake of blushing, and Dark’s smile turns positively predatory.
"Or maybe you're hoping that he'll-"
With a scowl, Daisuke crosses his arms in defense.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he mumbles, with the best attempt at dignity he can manage.
"Then why are you blushing?"
He has no answer for this, and so Daisuke settles for shoving his hand across Dark’s mouth with slightly more force than necessary.
(Of all the joys in knowing his friend finally has the freedom of his own body, Daisuke has to admit the ability to make him shut up can be a major perk.)
Several months and multiple sessions of frantic planning later, Satoshi stares down at the festively-wrapped box in his hands as though it's a particularly challenging riddle he's been asked to solve.
"My birthday is in September," he says slowly, with the tone of a question.
Daisuke nods. "It's not a birthday present."
Satoshi rotates the box this way and that, carefully examining the silver wrapping paper and iridescent white ribbon as if they might contain additional clues.
"Valentine's Day isn't for another… eight months?"
"It's not for that, either." Daisuke has to bite back a grin at the gravity of his boyfriend's expression. As much as he wants to see Satoshi’s reaction to the gift, he's finding the build-up surprisingly fun in its own right.
"St. White's Day?"
"Nope."
Satoshi finally looks up at him, confusion written across his face. "I don't understand."
"It's not for any specific occasion."
"Then why would you give me a gift?"
Daisuke shrugs. "I wanted to do something nice for you, Satoshi-kun, because you're important to me… and because I love you. Aren't those good enough reasons?"
"Oh."
It's rare to see Satoshi blush - at least compared to Daisuke, who's always painfully aware of his tendency to go scarlet at a moment's notice - but there's an unmistakable pink tint in his cheeks as he glances down at the gift again.
"Should I have gotten you something?" he asks hesitantly.
"Of course not!!" Daisuke waves his hands in dismissal. "It doesn't work that way."
"But you're important to me as well," Satoshi says, with the same utter solemnity, and something in Daisuke’s heart squeezes in response.
"I know that," he says softly, leaning in until their faces almost press together. "But you don't owe me. I wanted to do something special for you, just like you've done so much for me. It's not about keeping score."
"But all the same-"
Daisuke moves forward the last inch and kisses him on the nose.
"Why don't you just open it?"
"... Alright." The tint on his cheeks is warmer than ever, and there's something unmistakably flustered in Satoshi’s movements as he busies himself with unwrapping the gift.
The lid comes off, and Satoshi’s hands fly over his face with a gasp that makes Daisuke half-worried that something's gone terribly wrong.
"... Are you okay?"
Satoshi has gone from faintly pink to glowing completely red, and he seems to have entirely lost the power of speech, but he manages the barest of nods.
Daisuke, now that his initial worry is gone, can't help finding it rather endearing.
"Come on, look at me," he coaxes, plucking at Satoshi’s concealing hands.
There's only a choked sound in response, hands pressing stubbornly in place, and Daisuke grins. If this is what it feels like to fluster someone, it's no wonder that Satoshi’s always been so fond of doing it to him. Watching his normally cool and composed boyfriend fall to pieces leaves him feeling like both the most powerful person on the planet, and so utterly in love that his heart seems to ache with it.
"Don't you like it?"
"I--"
Apparently at a loss to say anything more, Satoshi abruptly throws himself forward and pulls Daisuke into a fierce hug.
Daisuke stumbles back slightly, caught off guard at both the force and the unexpectedness of it - even now, such an emotional display is rare from Satoshi. He smiles fondly, arms wrapping around to tug him closer.
"I'm guessing that's a yes."
