Work Text:
There are days when life simply runs you over. And today, unfortunately, is one of those days.
Only that life has not just run her over, no—it has gone back in reverse several times like a repeating cycle of hit-and-run, sadistic to the point of reducing the body to a mangled pulp only to abandon it in the middle of the deserted road.
That is how she feels, at least. Maybe it could come off as overdramatic, but things have been really rough for her lately.
Outside, it is raining cats and dogs. The office has floor-to-ceiling windows, giant crystal panes seamlessly put together to get the most out of the striking view of Yokohama’s skyline. Water droplets collide against the windows and then slide down the clear surface, falling towards the ground dozens of metres below.
Enough to give her vertigo if she looks down at the pavement.
She does not know what hour it is, but does not bother checking the clock, either. It is way too late into the evening—the exact time does not matter that much.
The mafia does not have 9 to 5 workdays, anyway.
She is stuck in the building until she is done with today’s paperwork. (Paperwork, in the mafia? Really? Sadly, yes.) She could take it home, she guesses, but she would much rather mix her work and personal life as little as possible.
So, overtime it is.
Her eyes are starting to get blurry when she finally turns off the computer, filing the papers neatly into separate folders and locking the cabinet where all the reports are stacked.
She grabs her coat, her purse, and makes a swift exit.
No one crosses her path on the way out of the building—most of the office-type workers have already left.
Night-time is for other kinds of work.
It has yet to stop raining. She does not have a car—she came in by foot this morning. Riding the train this late and in this kind of weather would be more trouble than necessary, but walking home is going to have her drenched to the bone by the time she arrives.
What a perfect ending to a shitty day.
Only, it is not exactly the end yet, because when she opens the front door to her apartment, dripping on the matt and in a terrible mood, it turns out that the living-room window is open and rain has found its way into her home, making a big poodle on the floor and soaking the curtains.
After cleaning up, taking a hot shower and putting her ruined clothes in the washing-machine, she finally—finally!—flops onto the bed unceremoniously. She does not even bother to get under the covers; only sets the alarm on her phone for the next day—or rather, later in the same day—and lets her heavy eyelids fall shut.
In no time, she is out like a light.
So much, that she does not even stir when her phone beeps with a new string of messages.
(1) are you still at the office?
The heavy rain splatters against the window, wind blowing fiercely outside.
(2) guess not
went to check and there was no one
had dinner yet?
(3) you better not walk home in this fucking rain
(4) i’ll give you a ride
Thunder can be heard in the far distance. She snores slightly, dead to the world.
(5) kay, take it you’ve gone home already
see you tomorrow
.
∞
.
The next day, things do not improve.
For starters, she wakes up with a pounding head and a stuffy nose. Now she regrets not getting under the covers last night.
Getting through the morning is hard, but somehow she succeeds. She arrives a little late, but at least today she remembers to take an umbrella. The weather is not as terrible as yesterday, but rain keeps falling down on Yokohama and it shows no sign of stopping soon.
In the hallway that leads to her office, she crosses paths with Higuchi. Weirdly enough, the blonde woman has turned out to be one of her most trusted co-workers. She would go as far as to call her a friend.
“What’s happened to you?” Higuchi asks with a look of shock on her face.
Sure, her eyes are red and her updo is terrible, and on top of that she feels like crap. But Higuchi could at least pretend not to notice or be a little more subtle about it.
“Caught a cold last night. Nothing too bad.”
“It doesn’t look like ‘nothing too bad’.”
The other woman deadpans. It seems like she wants to say something else, but her phone goes off and, judging by her expression, it must be Akutagawa calling.
“Sorry, I have to go,” Higuchi explains after she hangs up. “But, please, take good care of yourself. Mr. Chuuya won’t be happy to see you’re getting careless with your health.”
She watches as Higuchi disappears down the corridor.
Honestly, she could tune it down with that bluntness of hers.
However, one thing is true: Chuuya will be mad at her if he finds out.
Usually, he is so nagging about the fact that she works too hard, insists that she should take better care of herself, maybe go on a vacation from time to time. Which is a bit far-fetched, because he is her superior. It would be unprofessional, complaining about her workload to him, so she never does, because what good would that do?
He keeps on pestering her about it, never mind the hundred times she has argued with him on the matter. Chuuya says she does too much—she says that it is hardly the case. They never agree.
She still has to reply to the texts from last night, so now he will have another excuse to be on her case today.
Maybe it would be best to avoid him as much as possible so he does not chew her out first thing in the morning.
Or perhaps running away from Chuuya has little to do with him chastising her, and more with the fact that she does not want to confront the unrequited feelings she has for the man today.
Oh, well.
Her office is empty when she arrives, and she thanks whatever deity for it. There is already a mountain of paperwork on her desk, and the day has only started.
A couple of pills, many paper tissues, and a hot cup of chamomile tea later, she notices a couple of new messages on her phone, alongside some missed calls.
They are all from Chuuya.
She curses under her breath.
“Fucking finally,” he is swearing the moment he picks up. Honestly, this man. “What the hell have you been up to?”
“I’m really sorry, I lost track of time while working.”
“Working?” Chuuya sounds bothered on the other end of the call. She can only imagine the faces he is pulling. “Do ya mean last night, when ya didn’t answer your phone?”
She facepalms. Of course he would mention it.
“No, I—” She stops herself, then tries again. “Actually, sir, what I do with my free time is none of your business.”
Chuuya grunts. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Does he sound somewhat abashed? “Ya know I don’t—Hey, no, wait.”
“What?”
There is suspicion arising in his voice when he says, “Ya sound weird.”
“Weird, how?”
“As if ya have a cold, or something.” A pause. “Ya didn’t go home walking in the fucking rain last night, did ya?”
Fuck, no. Chuuya is about to go full mum-mode, she can feel it.
Think fast, think fast…
“No, sir. It’s my allergies.”
“…The fuck are ya allergic to?”
“…Chocolate.”
There is a long silence on both ends of the line.
“…You’re allergic to chocolate.”
“Exactly.”
Another unbearable silence. A muttered curse on the other side of the line.
“I’m gonna need those files I messaged ya about. As soon as possible, thank you.”
Chuuya hangs up without giving her time to add anything else to the conversation.
Today’s balance: a terrible cold, a lot of awaiting paperwork, the worst headache imaginable—oh, and her boss thinks she is stupid, now.
Oh, and Higuchi is standing by the door looking at her like—
Crap. Higuchi is by the door.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asks without bothering to sugarcoat it.
“You’re not allergic to chocolate,” the blonde says.
“Of course not,” she sighs. “But Chuuya doesn’t know that”
Higuchi hums, stepping further into the office.
“Maybe Mr. Chuuya has a point. You look like you need to rest—”
“Fuck that.” She slumps back onto her chair. “There’s too much to be done. I’ll take a day off when I think I can afford it.”
“Will you, though?”
She arches an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean, Higuchi?”
“Not to upset you,” Higuchi crosses her arms, “but when was the last time you actually took a day off?”
Higuchi has a point; she knows she does. But she does not appreciate the fact that she is being called off by the only other person in the Port Mafia that works way too hard for the sake of a man who will never acknowledge her.
And it makes her a little mad.
“I don’t want to hear that coming from you, Higuchi. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She gestures widely towards the door.
Higuchi looks stricken but complies with her unspoken request. The blonde appears a little stiff when she exits the room.
She sighs, already berating herself for treating Higuchi like that. It has been uncalled for—she knows Higuchi only worries for her.
But she also has no idea of her true predicament.
There is no time to be wasted lamenting, though. Chuuya said he needs those files as soon as possible, after all, and she is going to make sure to deliver.
.
∞
.
The Port Mafia pays good money. Even to those who, like her, sit all day behind a desk managing numbers, names, and all kinds of valuable info.
That had been one of the reasons why she had joined—that, and a rather high debt inherited from a close family member. Mr. Mori had been too happy to condone the debt once he learned about how useful she could be to him.
But you know what they say about selling your soul to the devil. And, if the devil truly did exist, his name would be Ougai Mori.
And that had been the beginning of her story with the Port Mafia, but certainly not the end. Her days had become an unsavoury succession of paperwork, shady deals with even shadier people, a lot of seeing but not telling, and silent threats uttered in deserted corridors. Suit-clad afternoons and bloody evenings, nightmarish nights and regretful mornings.
Truly, so many memories worth forgetting.
Chuuya did not come into the picture right away. The moment she joined the mafia, he was already steadily climbing his way to the top of the organization, two steps at a time. But she had never laid eyes on him—much less, held a proper conversation with the man.
Chuuya Nakahara had just been a big name whispered in both awe and fear.
Until he became not only a name, but a face, too. A rather good-looking face with a voice that could be very soft in the right circumstances, and manners belonging to a true gentleman—but only if he was in a good mood.
The day she had started working for him, her first impression of Chuuya had been favourable, but nothing else. He had not even caught her eye that much, except for his unusual height.
But that had been about it—another mafioso using her to make the most of their illegal money.
Nothing more.
Except for that one time when he had gifted her a rather expensive bottle of red wine—with a name she was not even able to pronounce—for her birthday, in spite of her not having told him.
Or that occasion when Chuuya had found out that she loved that one high-end bistro on the bay where you could see the lights of the city flickering across the dark waves, and he had treated her to dinner there—not only once, but thrice—with the pretext of discussing business.
It was no secret that Chuuya liked luxury; expensive and select things—wine, bikes, clothes, food.
What truly was kind of a secret was that Chuuya was actually a kind man. And he would kill anyone who dared state so out loud, but that did not change the fact that he was, indeed, a good person. He was the kind of co-worker that pulled his own weight on the job and then more, the kind of boss that wanted his underlings to be comfortable and in top condition, every day.
Which ultimately meant that the way he treated her was not special at all—just regular-Chuuya-concern.
Alright, maybe he did not gift high-tier wine to every other person he worked with, but that was because the two of them had become somewhat close. Chuuya would profusely apologise each time he had to call her at three in the morning for this or that, and the next day there was always some sort of trinket on her desk as a way of compensation.
But at the end of the day, he was her boss—an amazing one, but nothing more.
And that honestly hurts, because she does not think she could love him more.
It is quite alright, though—it was not meant to be, anyway. She hates the Port Mafia, after all, and Chuuya is an executive. The only reason she works for him is because Mori owns her and disposes of her in any way he wants, and that is all there is to her supposed loyalty.
Furthermore, Chuuya would never leave the mafia. It is a part of who he is by now, one he would never deny. Well, maybe he would for someone special, at some point in his life—but she is not that person. He is just too loyal—to Mori, to the organisation, to everyone working under him.
Loyal to a fault, a heart not unlike that of a dog.
And that is, of course, the thing she admires about him the most.
.
∞
.
What to do when you hate your job with a passion, have no hope for the future, and are constantly torn between sheer exhaustion and your own unrequited feelings?
You get wasted, of course.
In a bar not too shabby, with good alcohol and nicely decorated set-up, because we are not savages around here—but wasted, nonetheless.
With a little bit of class, you know?
The night starts easy with a couple of fancy-looking cocktails, a snack to munch in between gulps from the highball glass, and soft music playing in the background.
She has even bothered to dress up a little, because nowadays she barely gets the chance to do so. It is a nice change, even if the dress may be a little too short and the heels a bit too high.
Perhaps this would be a nice place to bring Higuchi as an apology for her brusque treatment earlier…
As time passes, her head starts to get pleasantly numb with the effects of the couple—more than a couple?—drinks she has had. The stress from the day slowly fades away as her hips sway to the rhythm of the ambience music.
A soft rock ballad—not too bad.
Of course, such peace of mind would not last for long.
(1) have some time to kill before the next job
wanna go to that one ramen place downtown?
my treat
This would be an amazing time to set some boundaries, an opportunity to learn how to keep her work life and her personal life from interacting. Just ignore the message and move on with her night.
But with Chuuya in the picture, doing so is near impossible.
Not that she really wants to.
Soon enough, she is calling him.
He picks up at the first ring.
“I remembered you’ve been dying to try the new season special. So, where do I pick ya up?” He is talking as soon as the call starts, child-like enthusiasm bleeding through the speaker.
She is very tempted to accept his proposition. But…
“I’m actually… not available right now.”
“Oh?” Chuuya’s enthusiasm has been thoroughly dampened. However, he tries not to let it show. “Are ya at a bar, or something?”
He must have picked up the background noise.
“Well, yes. I came for a drink.” More like a few, but what Chuuya does not know, does not hurt him. “Is that a problem?”
“Nah. Didn’t know ya had a date, though. Ya could’ve told me.”
The ice in the drink gets stuck in her throat, causing her to splutter. The couple on the table to her right looks at her funny.
“’M not on a date,” she grits through her clenched teeth, trying hard not to make a scene in such a public place.
“Uhuh. Whatever ya say.” She can hear the shit-eating grin on his face from a mile away. “Don’t have to be shy about it, missy.”
If there is a hell, she must be very close to its fiery pits right now.
“I swear I’ll hang up on you.”
Chuuya laughs. “Sure, sure. Wouldn’t want to distract ya right now,” he sardonically says, and all the while she ponders about the efficacy of stabbing someone through the chest with a butter knife. “Anyway, talk to ya later. Go get some, darlin’.”
And, with that, the line goes dead.
She stares at the blank screen of her phone for a minute or two, thinking about what the fuck has just happened. She wants to toss the damn thing against the nearest wall, go home, crawl under a blanket, and forget this terrible night altogether.
And that is exactly what she is about to do. She is already standing up when she catches something out of the corner of her eye.
Or, rather, someone.
Because—bloody hell—is that guy not the one from the detective agency? Yes, the one with a blond ponytail and glasses and—there it is, the infamous notebook.
She sits back down with such force that the chair scratches against the floor.
The man—he is way taller in person than he had appeared on the reports—is not-so-inconspicuously asking a lot of questions to one of the waiters, who looks fairly intimidated if judging by the amount of sweat gathering on his forehead.
She sends a discrete message to Chuuya.
The blond detective must be in the middle of an investigation. It could be something minor, but for the way he creases his brow and takes notes without stopping, she gets the hint that this has the potential to be big.
When the detective—she still cannot recall his name—exits the restaurant, she follows. He waits some minutes on the corner of the street, and then waves a cab and gets in.
Not even ten minutes later, the rumbling sound of a bike reaches her ears.
Chuuya stops the bike right in front of her, next to the curb. Some curious eyes look in his direction, and then immediately drift away. It is no wonder why—Chuuya screams danger tonight.
Perched on the deep red and ink black of his bike, he reminds her of one of those cheesy films where the badass side character completely steals the show from the main lead. Clad in leather, light scowl on his features, hair slightly ruffled from the ride, a line of pale flesh peeking from between one black glove and his jacket’s sleeve.
Now she kind of regrets not having agreed on dinner with him.
Chuuya looks like trouble.
“Came as fast as I could.”
He sounds like trouble, too.
And it would be oh, so easy to believe that the eyes that rack her figure up and down and up again are appreciative. That he acknowledges her in some way more than his assistant, than a simple co-worker.
It would be so easy to think Chuuya might find her attractive—but it would not be true.
He is probably only worried because her dress is too short for a comfortable bike ride.
Suddenly, she feels self-conscious. Does Chuuya think she looks silly all dressed-up for a night alone?
“What happened to ‘not being on a date’?” his smooth voice drawls when he finally makes eye contact with her.
“I’m not—I wasn’t—I’m not!”
Chuuya clicks his tongue as if he does not believe her. A heartbeat after, he asks,
“Where’s the damn detective, anyway?”
“He took a ride, but I overheard where he was going. We could follow him there.”
He blinks, and the next moment, his smirk comes back.
“’We’?”
She almost bites her tongue in panic. “I meant—”
“Sounds good to me. Hop on.”
He cannot be serious. A bike ride with him, in the middle of the night, with heels, to hunt an armed detective? The mere thought is thrilling—exhilarating, even, with the way he is grinning at her—but she will be caught dead before she admits so.
Chuuya watches her as she nervously fiddles with the hem of her dress. The fabric has ridden up her thighs slightly. She hesitates.
So, he aims—
“Or ya could stay here with that date of yours—”
—and shoots.
“If you’re too scared to ride with me.”
He watches as her expression goes from nervous to surprised to offended all in the span of a handful of seconds.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Tonight’s balance: four fancy drinks, 1-0 to the Port Mafia vs. the Armed Detective Agency, a hearty bowl of the best ramen in town, and a lesson in why riding a bike in a short dress is more trouble than what it is worth.
(Or maybe not.)
.
∞
.
That night’s excitement serves as a nice reminder that routine is more unforgiving than ever once you get back to it.
In hindsight, it is the worst kind of day possible. She is tired from the moment she wakes up, not even four hours of sleep on her. On the way to the office, one of her heels snaps thanks to a gap in the pavement and she is forced to limp all the way to the Port Mafia building, gaining more than a few weird looks and badly-disguised snickers from the guys on the reception.
Once she arrives, though, things manage to go even more down the drain. There is a ton of paperwork already waiting, even more so than usual. Lately, both the authorities and the ADA have been more on the Port Mafia’s tail than usual, which gives her a lot of headaches and great losses to the organisation.
Furthermore, everyone seems to be on edge. Someone has to be blamed for such a bad strike, so most of the underlings and some of the middle-raked executives are trembling from fear of consequences. Which means they are even more impolite, harsh and aggressive than normal.
In the course of a single morning, she gets into two different arguments and gets called a bitch more times than what she can count. ‘She doesn’t even work on the ground, why do we have to listen to her?’ She keeps hearing things like that whispered to her back more and more often.
Tachihara even tells her to go fuck herself at some point, which he instantly regrets and profusely apologises for after, but the damage has already been done.
This day sucks major balls, honestly.
However, the main event takes place right before an executive meeting.
She is there to hand some important documents to Chuuya. It is the first time all day she has caught sight of him, but he is in such a hurry that they do not even have the time to strike a normal conversation. It is a little depressing, because she wants to ask about the bags under his usually bright eyes and the creases in his clothing that absolutely should not be there—to ask if he is alright, first and foremost, because he does not look like it.
But there is no time for it, as Chuuya is already entering the room where the secret meeting is about to take place.
And that is when Ozaki arrives, perfectly dressed and poised as usual, moving with an elegance only portrayed in great works of art. She tries not to stare too much, but it is difficult with how ethereally beautiful she looks.
Until Ozaki gazes down and scoffs, and then her features turn sour with disdain.
She follows the line of her eyes, and instantly regrets it.
She had forgotten about her broken shoe up until now, with the terrible day she has had. But quivering under Ozaki’s examination and obvious distaste, she is made aware of what a terrible impression she must be conveying: not only is one of her heels missing, one of her thighs has a tear that crawls up her shin, and her skirt is askew.
It would not be a big deal any other day, but with everything that has happened lately, Ozaki’s wordless disdain hits like humiliation. If she were to look around, she is sure she would find several condescending smiles on some of the people present. Someone is already murmuring some bullshit, but she does not want to pay them any mind.
Ozaki has enough politeness in her as to not say anything, and then she disappears inside the room. The double doors close after her with a deafening sound.
Crying at work is for weak people. And she is not weak, so she must not cry.
That is what she tells herself, at least.
After all, what is another lifetime of this endless circle of frustration and disappointment?
Nothing she cannot handle. Right?
There is another half an hour of sunlight left, at best, when a knock on her door takes her wandering mind back to the real world.
As it always happens, Chuuya is right there to witness her at her lowest point, because life has chosen not to be kind to her today.
“Ain’tcha going home?”
He walks into her office without being invited—loosening the collar of his shirt, strolling with the familiarity of someone who has done so a hundred times before. And he has, of course. But somehow, today, it feels painful to watch him act so casually around her and yet be so out of her reach.
“Let me know when ya finish so I can give ya a ride, hm?”
He says it so casually, fumbling through the things in the room as if it were his first time here. It is barely credible that he finds so much interest in the lines and lines of coded files on her bookcase.
“That won’t be necessary, I’ll be a while—”
“Then I’ll wait,” Chuuya says as he flops down on one of the chairs in front of her desk. He looks straight at her, as if in challenge.
“I can walk home once I’m finished.”
He arches a thin brow. “Without a shoe?”
She cringes. So, he has noticed as well.
“Ya know, I’ve been meaning to ask.” He crosses one leg over the other, left arm draped over the back of the chair. His gaze never leaves hers. “Is there a reason ya always refuse my offers? Like taking ya home or giving ya things. It’s quite alright if ya don’t want to, but if I’m making ya feel uncomfortable, then ya have to tell me.”
Oh. Could it be?
With how confident he always acts, it is easy to forget that Chuuya is actually a little insecure, especially in the regard of how others see him.
Does he really think she does not want him around?
“Hey! The hell are ya laughing for!?”
She cackles so hard a tear escapes her eye. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just—" She takes a deep breath, tummy hurting slightly. “I just didn’t want to be a bother. I guess that’s it.”
Chuuya gets up from the chair, grunting in false annoyance. A faint reddish hue shines on the highest point of his cheekbones. “Are ya stupid, or something? Why would I keep inviting ya places if I didn’t—”
He stops himself. When he finally looks back at her, he has recovered most of his composure.
“Anyway, let’s go already.”
“Go where?” She scrambles to keep her things from falling to the floor when Chuuya simply takes her forearm and yanks her up. “I’m not done with—"
“Who cares?” he says in an annoyed voice. “I’m taking ya home.”
.
∞
.
And so, he does.
The entire ride is silent, the wind and the rumbling engine filling the gap when the both of them choose to keep quiet. It is not uncomfortable, per se, but rather heavy with things that are yet to be said.
The twilight and its chilly air do wonders to help her forget about her unkempt appearance and most of this terrible day. Or maybe it is not the time of day, but rather Chuuya himself that puts her at ease without even trying.
When he pulls over right next to her building, she gets off the bike with a heart full of lead. Saying goodbye is suddenly the hardest thing she has even had to do.
But then Chuuya kills the engine, and the pleasant silence of the golden hour welcomes them once again. Neither looks at the other.
“Are you…” She is not sure what she should say, or whether she is ready to. Chuuya parking his bike instead of driving away could have so, so many implications. “Do you want to come up? Maybe for a cup of… something?”
How smooth.
Chuuya is still on his bike, gripping the handle with what appears to be too much strength. Under his gloves, his knuckles must be white with the pressure.
However, when he answers, he sounds cool.
“Sure.”
The way to her apartment is quiet, too. This is not Chuuya’s first time here, but most of his previous visits have been to retrieve work-related stuff or to drop something in his way somewhere else. He has never stayed after sunset.
This, right here, feels a lot different from those other times.
The living-room is dark when they come in. There are only a few sun rays left, but most of the apartment is painted in violets and greys with hints of orange—the same shade of Chuuya’s hair.
She goes to turn on the lights, but a gloved hand curls around her wrist to stop her movement.
“Chuuya…?”
“Tell me why ya look like you’ve been crying.”
A moment of bafflement. Her voice comes out much softer than intended when she tells him, “I’m not crying.”
“I know that.” Chuuya takes a step forward, positioning himself so his face is right in front of hers. Locks of hair dance across his forehead. “But most days I simply watch ya go on like you’re heading for the slaughter, and I’m tired of not knowing what to do about it.”
Her eyes widen, taken aback by his confession. To know that he cares about her to that extent… Has Chuuya been worrying so much without her even noticing?
Just how self-absorbed has she been?
“I don’t like feeling useless,” he adds in a whisper, and she feels her heart shattering in a million pieces.
“It’s not your fault.”
She ventures a trembling hand towards him, fainting in her resolve halfway. But fortunately, Chuuya is bolder than her, so he takes her hand and places it against his own cheek. His skin is warm.
“I know that, too,” he chuckles, but it is not a happy sound. “I know that, but I still feel responsible, ya know? I still wanna make ya smile. ‘S stupid, but—I like the feeling it gives me.”
All this time. All this time, she has been fantasising about the impossibility of Chuuya caring for her in a way that went beyond professionality. And no, said man is in her living-room, his face obscured but the shadows but voice rich with emotion, telling her the sweetest words anyone has ever dared to say to her.
And, somehow, he still seems to think she is going to overlook all of that.
He could not be more mistaken.
“Chuuya, I—”
“It’s okay if ya don’t want that kind of attention from me. I get it. But whatever ya need, I’ll be happy to give ya.” Chuuya is starting to sound frantic now, slurring his words in his haste to get them out. “If this is because of the boss, I can talk to him, make him change your agreement to—”
“No.”
There is a finality in her voice that he does not get to hear often. It is enough to shut him up, rare as the occurrence is.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
Her other hand comes up to join the one on his face. Chuuya’s eyes widen slightly at the contact.
“I just… Want to be with you like this. For as long as whatever-this-is lasts.” She exhales, voice wavering on the verge of breaking. “Please, Chuuya—please, let me.”
There is no need to ask twice. Chuuya’s arms come around her waist to embrace her, and the moment they touch her back she crumbles down like a ragdoll, boneless and feeble like a kid’s toy come to life.
Now—now she is crying.
It is difficult to know how, exactly, because everything is blurry—but Chuuya manages to turn on the living-room lamp and seat her down on the sofa, all of that without letting go of his hold on her.
His body is solid and warmer that she had dared to think, comforting in a way it has no right to be given that the man is a trained assassin and a ruthless weapon in more ways than just one.
Chuuya’s embrace feels like heaven, in spite of all this, because she has never been held this gently.
She cries until her tears dry in her eyes and her head starts to feel like someone has stuffed cotton balls up her nose. She cries until she stops shaking and the frustration gives way to tiredness. She cries until she ruins the collar of his shirt with a runny nose and a desperate grip of her fist on the fabric.
And all the while, Chuuya keeps comforting her, patting her matted hair, murmuring soft nothings into her ear, squeezing her with the perfect pressure to reassure her of his presence, of his unwavering support.
How on earth is this happening? She does not believe she deserves this much unwarranted affection.
“There’s something I wanna give ya.”
Reluctantly, she lets him go to fix him with a curious stare.
Chuuya makes sure she is comfortably seated on the sofa before he gets up and goes to retrieve something out of one of his coat’s pockets. It is a rectangular package, small enough to fit in one hand.
The package is light when he lays it on her lap, wrapped in golden paper and adorned with a red bow on top.
After checking with him that it is okay to open it, the wrapping paper reveals a box of milk chocolates, perfectly cut in thin squares and presented in a tasteful arrangement.
A gift. For her.
“C’mon, try one,” Chuuya urges her with an expectant look.
She does as he requests. The thin layer of chocolate makes a cracking sound when she bites down, sweetness invading her mouth the moment the chocolate touches her tongue and practically melts on contact.
“Oh, my god,” she almost moans at the taste. “Chuuya, this is—"
“Ahah! I knew it!”
Chuuya is on his feet faster than lightning, pumping one fist in the air and pointing his other hand at her in an accusatory gesture. There is a fire burning bright in his eyes, nostrils flared, and lips turned downwards—exasperation evident in his stance as if he had just crossed a certain bandaged ex-mafia agent on the street.
“You’re not allergic to chocolate, ya liar!”
It takes a moment to click, but when she remembers that yes, she had told him so in a lame attempt to keep him from knowing she was sick, she is left speechless.
On his part, Chuuya looks torn between feeling victorious for this discovery and his obvious annoyance at having been lied to.
“The day ya told me ya were, I went and threw away a very expensive box of chocolats au beurre salé form the best shop in town!” He lifts his hat to pass a hand through his hair in frustration. “Do you know how much I spent on that shit? And I don’t even like ‘em!”
“Then why did you buy them?”
A vein on Chuuya’s forehead ticks. He is trying very hard not to yell. “They were obviously for ya, dipshit!”
Wait, what?
“Oh.”
“’Oh’ sounds about right!”
An uncomfortable silence grows between the two—the kind that seeps under the bones and makes one feel fidgety.
Chuuya crosses his arms in front of his chest, further rumpling his already dishevelled shirt. His head is cocked to the side, eyes averted, and lips downturned in obvious upset. But she knows he is not mad, per se, because his jaw keeps working under the jumping muscles of his face.
He always bites the inside of his mouth when he is embarrassed.
And, for some fucking reason, that is what makes her burst again.
“H—Hey! What’re ya crying for now!?” Chuuya goes into panic at the new overflow of tears coming down her cheeks, fumbling all over her with a lost expression.
But then she embraces him, firm and with more nerve than she could have ever imagined herself displaying, and they both sink into the plush couch in a tangle of limbs.
He is taken aback for a moment, unable to regain his balance. “Oi, ya—Oi! What the hell, woman?” he grumbles, voice pitched with bafflement. “Are ya insane?”
But then he stills, frozen at the sight portrayed right under him.
She lies on the couch, hair a mess with all the locks that have managed to escape her updo, lashes shining with the remaining teardrops, the faintest dust of a blush on her cheekbones.
Chuuya gulps, feeling like his clothes are suddenly too tight.
“Sorry I lied to you.”
His eyelids are heavy, in the same way his head seems to be filled with warm, spicy treacle. The distance between the two shrinks, somehow, without any of them moving. And Chuuya knows enough about gravity to recognise the kind of pull that ties two moving objects with invisible ties—just like this, just like this.
“Yeah,” he rasps, voice gone airy. “You’re lucky I like you.”
And, fuck—the way she positively sparkles when he tells her the very words that have been on his mind for way too long. Chuuya knows, right then, that he is in too deep.
It is hard to say who leans in first, drawn to each other as they are—but what matters is that they meet exactly in the middle. Unashamed, but just the tiniest bit shy, if it makes sense.
If it does not, well—it could not matter less, really.
For Chuuya, it feels like being awakened after the longest slumber. And he knows what he is talking about, for the darkness in him had been born in a somewhat similar way. Only that, in this moment, there is no rage, no hatred, no overwhelming desire for destruction. He has never before experienced a warmth like this one, a sense of belonging that could be found in another’s arms. He has never believed that the tiniest of gestures could convey a whole home—until now, that is.
For her, Chuuya’s caress is like having her heart crushed into a billion pieces, only to have it reconstructed again right after, better and fuller now that it has been fixed.
His hat makes a soft noise when it hits the floor, completely forgotten for the time being.
When they part for air, neither of them is able to keep away for too long. Their mouths meet again, even needier this time, hot and wet against each other, lips tangled in the most delicious of ways.
Chuuya is demanding in what he takes from her—which is only fair, she muses, after everything he has done for her on a daily basis since they met. He bites, sucks on the abused flesh, teases her with a hint of tongue that only leaves her wanting more, breathes against her when a frail whimper escapes her throat.
A gloved hand traces light circles on the dip of her waist when he asks, just short of breath, “This okay?”
Only he could give so much while taking, she swears.
The moment she nods energetically to show her consent, her want for him, he is leaning back onto her with renewed energy.
Distantly, she wonders if this should be considered weird. There have been no grand declarations, no knees on the ground, no glamorous dinner or a walk under the moonlight. This can hardly be considered romantic at all, but how they have come together like this feels disarmingly natural, as if it was meant to happen regardless of the circumstances.
And perhaps—she muses while Chuuya takes an earlobe between his teeth and suckles on it—perhaps the fact that their meeting point has been at her lowest means that this is true, truer than anything she has ever felt or dreamed, because it has the raw beauty of a soul bared to its very core—no make-up, no pleasantries, no pretending. Just being.
Chuuya shudders each time he manages to tear a new sound out of her with his hands or his mouth. He has to take a moment for himself when he feels like everything that is happening is too much—how many times has he imagined this, bothered to the point of almost hating himself for wishing for something he could not have? But now, against all odds, his desires have become reality, and he is left feeling both heavy and too thin at the same time.
She chuckles when he recedes, pretty blush extending to reach his neck, and pulls him back by the lapels of his waistcoat.
He goes with the pull for a moment, but then resists. There is something he needs to clarify before, even if he wants nothing more than to dive back in.
“Chuuya?” There is uncertainty in her voice when she addresses him. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog inside. “Nothing,” he groans, so deep in his chest that she feels it under her palms. “Nothing, just—lemme take care of ya.”
She looks at him, dumbfounded. There is no trace of mockery or trickiness in his eyes, only an overwhelming, disarming honesty that mixes so well with the shade of blue that paints his gaze.
She does not know what he means with that, but she acquiesces, nonetheless. Is there really anything she would not do for this man?
Chuuya heaves a breath. “Take good care of ya, I promise.”
He ends up hoisting her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a sheet of paper—he is using his ability, probably, but she does not care enough to check on that right now. In fact, she is unable to take her eyes away from him for more than a heartbeat.
Somehow, they end up in her tiny bathroom, cold light reflecting on the white tiles with an intensity that should be forbidden. All her imperfections are suddenly so exposed, and she recoils when he puts her back down on the floor, too self-conscious.
But Chuuya is having none of that nonsense. He forces her to focus back on him, makes her look while he takes his gloves off—slowly, deliberately, biting each finger and pulling before taking the garment off completely, hints of white teeth peeking from behind lips reddened from kissing.
The pressure builds inside of her body, all tingly and hot like a boiling pot. His attention on her is nerve-wracking, but she cannot get enough of it.
His body retreats when he goes to open the bath’s faucet. She only understands what that means when he gets back in front of her and starts undressing.
Chuuya takes his clothes off his body just like he had done his gloves—with intention, carefully watching her every reaction all the time.
First, his jacket. Then, the vest. He folds every garment and lays it on the sink, stealing a kiss or a caress after each piece of clothing has been removed. He teases her, unashamed, with each button of his shirt he pulls open, the lightest trace of a smirk growing when she splutters, not knowing what to do with her hands.
When he is left in nothing more than his trousers and choker, his focus changes towards her. And, oh, Chuuya’s hands without his signature gloves should be written down as purely obscene, so sinful they are in the way they touch her.
She should feel embarrassed at how quickly her underwear is getting ruined by this man’s presence, but rather than mortification, what she experiences is elation.
The fog steaming from the bath makes everything around them ten times hotter than it should be, but somehow it is not enough. She needs to feel him all around her, inside her, wrapped in her body and in her mind. How has she managed to exist for so long without knowing Chuuya like this?
She does not even register how he undresses her until she is left completely bare before his hungry stare. The shame she has been expecting does not even make an appearance, for the expression on Chuuya’s face leaves no room for that kind of feeling. There is no doubt that he is more than content with what he sees.
In contrast, the peck that he plants on her temple is almost innocent, short and chaste in what is more a reassurance than a proper kiss.
“Pretty,” he murmurs, tracing her features with his lips as if he were drawing them, committing them to memory; a gesture so intimate that it hurts a little. “So beautiful, always working so hard, so good and kind and fucking selfless. Can’t even imagine the number of times I’ve been raving mad because ya didn’t seem to even wanna take proper care of yourself, shit.”
She wants to retort, to tell him that it is not like that, but he does not allow her. Instead, he silences her with a kiss—a proper one this time—that manages to leave her a tad dizzy.
“That night, at the bar,” he keeps talking with a sultry voice, goading her with his hands and mouth, “I was so angry that some random bloke had made a move on ya before I could.” His grip on her waist gets tighter. “Seeing ya all dolled-up like that made my blood boil, ya know?”
“Told you, it wasn’t a da—oh!”
Chuuya has bitten her collarbone with enough force to leave a mark. “I know that now,” he chuckles, “but back then I was upset, fuck. Even if I managed to get you all for myself in the end.”
She slaps him for being a bit of a prick, which only makes him laugh harder. This is the first time she has ever heard Chuuya make a sound so pure and relaxed, so unbridled—so she lets his cockiness be for now.
Finally, he pushes her towards the bath. Chuuya helps her get into the hot water, reading the soaps next to him. He scoots over the edge of the tub, scooping water with one hand and letting it pour onto her skin.
There is a kind of sheer contentment washing over her with Chuuya’s movements on her body. The soap makes scented bubbles, the warmth of the water helps her relax, Chuuya’s cooing lulls her into a kind of semi lucid state that has her mewling in pleasure without realising.
But something is not quite right.
Chuuya looks up at her when her hand comes to grip his forearm.
“Get in with me.”
He is doing that thing again where he bites the inside of his cheeks, but his eyes shine with eagerness.
“Fuck, ya sure?”
When she nods, he gets up from the floor so fast that she squeals in surprise.
For a moment, Chuuya is busy fumbling with the zipper of his dress pants, so hasty in shedding them off him. His underwear goes flying, too, and then he is left as naked as she is.
She feels the blush creep all over her face, going up towards her ears and down towards her chest. She tries not to stare, really, but the sight of Chuuya with nothing on him but his collar, skin taut over his cut muscles and hair a dishevelled mess, is enough to make her feel like a firework display is going on in her guts.
He is heavy and full in between his thighs, a rosy tint on the skin because of the warmth and all the blood that his body is pumping. The bob of his manhood as he gets in the bath behind her is enough to make her mouth water.
But it is enough to lie like this, for now. With Chuuya nestled on her back, supporting her while he helps her wash away all the nasty things in her mind, is more than enough. There will be time—later or another day—to explore his body in a very different fashion, to make her feel as good as he has done with her tonight, and then some more. But right here, in the quietness of her bathroom, the occasion calls for a calm enjoyment, another kind of intimacy between two people who are just beginning to learn the best way to discover the other.
Later, when they share the blankets on her bed after a long bath—another make-out session and chocolate-eating in the middle, somewhere—she finds another thing about Chuuya that leaves her speechless for a good while.
“I don’t have many friends,” he tells her, a hushed whisper underneath the covers. “Not real ones, anyway. And when I realised the way I felt about ya… Well, at first I didn’t know what to do, because I thought you’d end up using me, or leaving, or dying like everybody else has.”
The tears start welling up again in her eyes, but she forces them back. Chuuya will not appreciate that she cries for the third time tonight—much less, if it is for his sake.
“I’m not going anywhere,” is what she finally says when she recovers her voice.
“Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting ya.” He bites her fingers playfully, lapping the traces of chocolate still left there from before. “Want ya all to myself.”
She giggles, burying her face in the pillow. “With strings attached?”
In the dim light, Chuuya rolls his eyes at her. She cannot be sure, but she thinks she sees the faintest start of a soft, bittersweet smile.
“Yeah, with strings attached.”
Tonight’s balance: a box of chocolates, a hot bath with a hot man, and the prospect of a silver lining in the shape of a short ginger with extravagant taste in clothes and a temper that could literally make a whole building collapse—who also happens to have a heart of gold.
(Not half bad.)
.
∞
.
Mori’s office is as decadent as the man himself. She has not been here many times, but that is fine, because she despises the room almost as much as she despises the man himself. The only good thing about being here is the striking view of Yokohama out of the windows.
That, and that Elise does not seem to be around today. A relief, really.
“Are you sure? Chuuya has been rather adamant with me, which does not usually happen. And I find that he happens to be in the right. Your debt to us has been repaid tenfold, and I wouldn’t be a proper businessman if I didn’t acknowledge that.”
Mori looks her up and down with that fake kind expression that he likes to convey. If anyone has ever been fooled by this carefully collected exterior, she wonders. It is painfully obvious that this man is deranged, soft smile or not.
“You could walk out of that door and never come back,” he keeps telling her. “Say goodbye to the Port Mafia, as much as that would pain me. And many others, I’m sure.”
She does not like how he says that last part. Mori has the looks of the cat who has gotten not only the cream, but the canary as well. And he actually does, much to her utter chagrin.
Her freedom on a silver platter—the very thing she has always wanted.
“I’m sure, boss. Allowing me to keep my current position is enough of a diligence, as it is. I much prefer to keep working for Mr. Nakahara than any other executive, to be honest.”
“Oh?” Mori arches an eyebrow at her, smiling behind his hands. “And why would that be?”
“I’m used to his style of work, sir.”
“I see.” He does; he sees way too much for her comfort. “I’m glad that you decided to stay with us, then. I will be more than happy to meet your demands. Why don’t you start by taking a while off duty, hm? Consider it a gift from a satisfied boss.”
Maybe the reason why she had started to work for the Port Mafia had been the leash Mori had on her, but she chooses to stay now for a completely different motive.
Guess that Chuuya is not the only one with the heart of a dog.