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In a world where every passing day is a dance with death, they hold on tight, until the only ones left dancing are themselves.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
It starts at his front door.
Chuuya knows the look, the smell, the taste of blood well enough to know that the stark crimson pool by his feet couldn’t possibly be anything else. It soaks through the genkan in a puddle where there’d clearly been a pause, a stumble, before it trails down the floorboards into the hallway, and disappears around the corner. He’s not been home from work five minutes, and the scent of it is invading his nostrils, sharp and unavoidable. It’s fucking terrifying. It would burn were he not so familiar with it.
And, given that his door was intact rather than broken in, he doesn’t have to take a guess at WHO exactly is bleeding out, alone, after midnight, in their fucking apartment.
“Atsushi!” Chuuya yells into the darkness of the hallway, dropping his bag onto the tatami and tossing his coat onto the shelf rather than bothering with the rack.
He shoots off into the apartment at a mad dash, trying to keep his ability in check because gravity isn’t really going to do any good for him right now. All of the lights are off in the apartment save for one, the bathroom across from his bedroom, and the door is halfway closed so that only so much escapes through the crack. If not for the sharp sting of the blood leading him there, the light would have done just fine, but his shoes pick up blood off the floor and onto the soles, tracking angry red footprints in his wake. He doesn’t care what happens to his goddamn floor, because that can be replaced, - her certainly has the money - rather he finds some twisted solace in the fact that it’s still wet enough to track at all.
Dried blood, OLD blood, is always far more frightening.
“Atsushi!” he gasps through lungs aching with frantic breath, throwing the bathroom door open without waiting for permission from inside.
It’s something of a mess; the cabinet under the sink is open wide, and the first aide kit is toppled over, bandages and wipes and ointments and thread scattered over the tile floor in a heap. There’s a puddle of blood by the toilet, clearly fresh, and sitting against the side of the bathtub, slumped over his own stomach and bleeding out onto the bathmat, is Atsushi.
He clutches a washcloth to his bare abdomen. His dress shirt is no longer white so much as it is red, discarded in a pile of tattered fabric that’s about as useless as anything, now. More importantly, though, his stomach is cut through from hip to hip. It’s raw and it’s oozing slowly, a pasty crimson diluted by the shredded beginnings of scar tissue as the Tiger is starting to slowly knit the skin back together, and Chuuya has seen so much worse every other day since he was eight years old, but this is Atsushi, Atsushi, Atsushi, and Chuuya can only see the red, and Atsushi, and he cannot make enough sense of the rest of it.
“C-Chuuya-san I-“
“What happened?” Chuuya demands, stepping forward and slipping his jacket off his shoulders, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he clears the distance between them.
Atsushi presses his hand down onto his stomach. The washcloth absorbs some of the blood, but he winces at the pressure. “I’m so sorry Chuuya-san, I’ll scrub the floors I prom-“
“Shut up,” Chuuya growls through clenched teeth. There isn’t any heat behind it; how can there be, when Atsushi has never done anything worth apologizing for for as long as Chuuya has known him? He refuses to give any real name to the emotion, lest he validate the worry in which he’s beginning to drown. No, he can only kneel beside his boyfriend as his hands flutter cautiously around the wound. “What happened, Atsushi?”
Now that he has a better view of it, the cut itself doesn’t look quite as bad. There’s a lot of blood, yes, but it’s starting to dry already, and the Tiger’s healing is making decent progress. Chuuya can’t see anything WORSE than skin, at least, which is a relief in and of itself. There isn’t any signs of discoloration, either, which means that he probably wasn’t poisoned and- no, that’s a worst case scenario that he can’t allow himself to indulge-
“I-I’m fine, really,” Atsushi murmurs, glancing down at the injury and trying to catch what remains of the blood dripping from the tear on the towel. “I-It was a run in with an ability user we’ve been after, t-that’s all. H-He got away,” he admits with a sigh that shakes a little too much for Chuuya’s liking, looking disappointed. He can’t let that stand. “But I couldn’t chase him like- this.”
Chuuya gently cups his hand holding the towel to nudge it ever so slightly away from the wound. The skin continues to close up by itself, little by little. Chuuya releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. There’s a mix of emotions running through him; fear for Atsushi’s safety, relief that the Tiger is here to protect him, anger at the person responsible. He’ll hunt them down himself, on that he swears, for daring to put his hands on Atsushi, let alone to hurt him. Chuuya is well-acquainted with blood, yes, but Atsushi’s blood is something else entirely. It doesn’t belong here. It was not meant to be spilled. Atsushi has been through enough, and the fact that it was, at any point, bad enough that he was DRIPPING behind him is unusual for Atsushi. It’s MORTIFYING.
“Chuuya-san-“ Atsushi continues, after a beat of silence passes between them. Chuuya looks back up to meet the golden-purple of his eyes. “I really am sorry, about the mess all over the floor, I was only a few blocks away and the Tiger was slow in patching me up so I decided to come here instead of going back to the Agency, and I tried to use my shirt to soak it up but that wasn’t enough and I-“
“Atsushi, stop it,” Chuuya murmurs, leaning upwards to cup his cheek in on hand. Atsushi leans into the contact immediately. “You have nothing to be sorry for, I don’t give a damn about the floor. I care about YOU.“ Atsushi’s breath hitches, Chuuya can hear it, and he leans closer still until their foreheads are nearly touching. “The floor can be cleaned, for fuck’s sake, but YOU are a hell of a lot more important. That’s what love is. I love YOU. So as long as you’re safe, that’s all that matters ta’ me. If the Tiger ain’t doing enough to heal you, then tell me what you need from me, and I’ll make it happen.”
Atsushi swallows around a visible lump in his throat, and his free hand not still clutching the towel wraps around Chuuya’s wrist by his jaw, clinging like a lifeline.
“The Tiger- I’ll be fine. S-she just needs time to work,” he insists, and he sounds steadier than he was when Chuuya first got home, so that’s really fucking good. “Can you just- just stay here with me. Until she’s done?” he asks, almost shy. His cheeks flush a beautiful pink. “I don’t want to be alone.”
And, god, if he isn’t so fucking sweet even now, so fucking gorgeous-
“Of course,” Chuuya replies without ever missing a beat. He presses his forehead against Atsushi’s, and Atsushi returns the pressure with a wobbly smile. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Atsushi.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
This mission is Dazai’s fault, somehow.
Atsushi doesn’t mind joint jobs with the Port Mafia, especially not when that means getting to work with Chuuya, but a three-day jaunt in the mountains in the middle of January was definitely not his first choice for a backwards ‘sort-of date’.
Ever since they had started dating, Chuuya had taken any opportunity on the field together to make it into a date, and Atsushi was by no means complaining. Any time with his boyfriend is time well-spent; the best, in fact. And while Atsushi doesn’t particularly rank ‘work’ above ‘dinner at home’ or ‘a walk in the park’, Chuuya enjoys the rush of battle, and ATSUSHI enjoys the rush of WATCHING him in battle. He’s graceful, elegant, purposeful, and, when the situation demands it, he’s brutal to a point that this, in itself, possesses some amount of inherent elegance, too. Atsushi will never admit it out loud, because he refuses to entertain the idea that he MIGHT have some masochism in him, but there’s a certain… appeal, to Chuuya’s capacity for strength.
Right now, though, surrounded by snow and huddled in several layers of coats and scarves and hats, Chuuya is neither elegant nor is he brutal, and Atsushi imagines that he’s not really faring much better in the composure department.
It’s cold up here. They aren’t far from the peak, and the sun is beginning to set over the horizon, so the lack of sun certainly isn’t helping. Atsushi’s only plus is the fact that he runs warmer than most because of the Tiger’s biology, but his warm blood can only do so much against near-negative temperatures and five-mile winds. It’s no wonder that their target - a small-time gang kingpin caught trading inhumane weaponry at the port - chose to hide up here, because no sane person would have deigned to follow. Unfortunately, Dazai isn’t sane, and even though he promised them that there would be a safe house towards the top of the mountain where they could spend the nights in between looking for him, Atsushi was starting to doubt a roof over their heads would make much of a difference in this cold.
“This is fuckin’ stupid,” Chuuya complains. He kicks a rock for emphasis. His shoulders are shaking like leaves and he hugs his elbows as close to his chest as is physically possible. “Goddamn Dazai did this on purpose, sendin’ me up here just to give me a hard fuckin’ time-“
“He sent me up here, too,” Atsushi offers, but it’s a weak argument because-
“No, you offered to come,” Chuuya mutters, rubbing his arms up and down. “Not that I’m complainin’ about that, but he was prepared to give this job ta’ me alone, just to fuck with me, stupid fuckin’ mackerel.”
Atsushi sighs. It’s true. Mori-san and Fukuzawa-san had delegated the joint job to Dazai’s best judgement, and Dazai had, in turn, declared that Chuuya was best suited for it. And then there was Atsushi, who had no cases to himself at the moment, and offered to go with Chuuya because he always got nervous, when Chuuya went out on jobs all by himself. He knows he’s fully capable of defending himself, outnumbered and all, but that doesn’t stop Atsushi from worrying. That’s the nature of loving someone, he supposes.
“I know,” he concedes, glancing at Chuuya’s clear shivering and furrowing his brows. “But he didn’t have to let me come. At least now you aren’t out here all alone,” he smiles, strained as it is against the stinging of the wind. “The cold is always worse that way.”
Chuuya’s gaze softens, but his shivering doesn’t stop. “S-Sap,” Chuuya teases, a grin pulling at the edges of his mouth. It’s only then that Atsushi notices just how intense his shaking really is. His knees look like they’re about to give out, his arms are shaking even huddled to his chest, his nose is a bright red, his fingers are twitched up his gloves, and his eyes are glazed over from the wind. He’s trying very hard to keep it together, but Atsushi knows better; Atsushi can see through it.
He’s not just cold, he’s freezing, and it’s taking a toll on him. More than he’s letting on.
Atsushi can’t help the frown that takes over his features. “Chuuya-san, are you okay?”
“‘Course I am, Tiger,” Chuuya scoffs, but it’s far from convincing. His teeth clatter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Chuuya doesn’t like asking for help, let alone admitting that he might need it. For as much as he insists that Atsushi can always ask the same of him, he’s a bit of hypocrite, hesitant to accept an offered hand even though Atsushi has been working on getting him to take it without thinking himself weaker for it. It’s a learned behavior, one that Atsushi is familiarly intimate with, growing up in an environment that demanded survival, where there was nobody to rely on other than yourself, where any hint of a weakness to be exploited could mean death, or worse.
But things are different now, for both of them. Atsushi is going to take care of Chuuya if that means meeting his stubbornness with stubbornness of his own.
“You’re shivering, Chuuya,” Atsushi says, dropping the honorific. It has the intended effect, because Chuuya stops just short of tripping over his own two feet and plants them in the snow.
“I’m fine, Atsushi. Don’t worry about it,” he growls, gritting his teeth. Hunched over like he is, it’s hard to take his annoyance seriously. Atsushi thinks of a chihuahua, but quickly dismisses the idea. For both their sakes.
He stops a foot ahead of Chuuya, crossing his arms. “If you were fine, you wouldn’t be shaking like that,” he argues, gesturing to Chuuya’s obviously strained knees. “It’s really cold up here, I’d be surprised if you weren’t freezing. I know it’s getting to me,” he admits.
Chuuya falters, his eyes narrowed, but his face melts into something less defensive.
“Yeah, well, it’s the middle of fuckin’ winter at the top of Mount Oyama, and I don’t gotta lotta body heat to go around,” he mutters, glaring down at his toes. “If I’m cold, it’s my own damn genetics fault.”
It takes a lot for Chuuya to ever acknowledge his… height. It’s a touchy subject. The most Atsushi’s ever gotten about that is Dazai’s teasing, which he suspects isn’t anything new. Still, it makes sense that he’s cold, packed with lean muscle and a lower center of gravity. It tugs at Atsushi’s chest, knowing that it’s an insecurity even now, when they’re alone, and they’ve got the very real possibility of catching a cold to worry about. Chuuya doesn’t do well with getting sick; it makes him feel vulnerable, lonely, as miserable as anyone would already be when they’re down with a fever and then some. He doesn’t deserve that. Atsushi doesn’t want him to have to go through that if he can help it before it hits.
Luckily, he does have a solution.
“Well, my genetics aren’t so bad at keeping me warm. I don’t mind sharing the body heat,” Atsushi smiles, stepping closer to him.
Chuuya cocks his head to the side. “Yeah, you run like a damn furnace,” he snickers. The smile is nice to see, back where it belongs. “But I don’t see how that’ll help right now. We’ve still gotta hour’s hike until we get to the mackerel’s supposed safe house.”
“I could carry you.”
Chuuya sputters for a moment, whipping his head around and gawking like he’d just asked to make out in the middle of the woods. “Hah?! Carry me?! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ all on my own ya know-!”
Atsushi rolls his eyes, entirely fond, as Chuuya flushes with an embarrassment that’s equal parts amusing and endearing. “I know that, Chuuya-san, but if we share body heat, you’ll stay warmer,” he smiles, reaching out a hand for Chuuya to take, palm up. “Think of it this way. You’ll be helping me, too, because I’m pretty chilly up here,” he tries. “The Tiger runs warm, but it’s not like I’m covered in fur all the time.”
For a moment, Chuuya only stares, his bright blue eyes clearly mulling it over. He’s always been an openly, physically affectionate person, and he has no qualms about the contact; holding hands, swinging their arms, draping himself over Atsushi’s shoulders, pressing kisses to his face, Chuuya is very public with all of it. Atsushi is touchy-feely as it is, reciprocal and cuddly by all means, but Chuuya might be even more so. He likes to be the one DOING the taking care of, rather than BEING taken care of, as much as Atsushi is inclined to dote on him every second of the day. To be carried would mean to be taken care of. And that’s the hurdle that Chuuya is still working on jumping.
He glances at Atsushi’s outstretched hand, then back to his feet. “…Fine,” he mumbles, cheeks glowing ever redder. He’s still a little grumpy, but it’s cute. Not that Atsushi will tell him that right now. “But only because I don’t want you to be cold!” he adds, accepting Atsushi’s hand with his own, gentle but firm; decisive. “I’d never be able to forgive myself if you got sick because of this stupid weather, so if it’ll help you stay warm then it’s fine by me!”
Atsushi pulls him forward, cupping his back with his free hand and grinning. “Whatever works for you,” he agrees, pulling Chuuya to his chest. “Come on, we’ll be there soon. Just hold on.”
Without any other warning, he hoists Chuuya up into his arms, one hand under his knees while the other slips from between Chuuya’s fingers to support his back. Chuuya yips when his feet leave the ground, and his arms worm around Atsushi’s neck to hold on tight. His fingers fist Atsushi’s coat when he presses his nose into the juncture of Atsushi’s neck. Atsushi smiles, giggling as his boyfriend adjusts in his hold, more wiggling than anything else.
“Comfortable?” Atsushi murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of Chuuya’s hair in a quick kiss.
“Of course I am!” Chuuya snaps. Apparently, that wasn’t ever a question. That makes Atsushi’s heart soar, a sort of love so strong that he’s certain he’s ever felt anything quite so incredible. “…I’m always comfortable when I’m with you.”
Atsushi flushes, and for once, it isn’t the fault of the cold. “I love you too, Chuuya-san.”
And that admittance alone is enough to keep them warm.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
“Cut the bullshit! Yer the one closest to ‘im, tell me ‘ow ta’ get in contact wi’h ‘is men!”
“I don’t know!” Atsushi spits, and there’s blood congealed in between his saliva. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did-!”
The man looming over him grabs Atsushi by the rumpled collar of his shirt, and pulls HARD. The fabric cuts into the back of his neck. Atsushi doesn’t know his name, but he’s tall, burly, and missing one of his front teeth. His shirt is tight but his pants are loose, torn at the knees, revealing pale skin covered in bruises. His left shoe is untied. His right is not. He has a distinctly Western accent, speaking broken Japanese, though he seems to understand the language well enough to make his demands without any problem. Atsushi tries to catalogue anything he might be able to use to his advantage, tripping him by the lace, lying to him in a language he doesn’t fully understand, but it’s hard when he still can’t tap into the Tiger to back him up.
He hasn’t been awake for long. There’s a nullifying drug running through his system, some sort of manufactured recreation of Dazai’s special ability that feels much the same. The Agency had been briefed on them some time ago, tranquilizers that the government used to detain dangerous gifted, but they’re circulated from time to time on the black market, which is troublesome to say the least. The Port Mafia tries to buy them out, Chuuya says, to keep that from messing with their people; he supposes a sale or two must have slipped through their radar. Atsushi has felt Dazai’s bare fingers against his shoulder often enough that he knows the feeling of the Tiger going to sleep, as it were, so that’s the only real explanation for why he’s alone NOW. It tingles, but it’s quiet.
And it’s annoying, because he doesn’t have much to fight back with so long as his wrists are bound to a chair.
“Yer a real punk, ya know tha’?” the thug barks in his face, shaking him and, by extension the chair, with enough force to make his head ache. Or maybe he’s just concussed. That would explain the blood on his tongue, and the cut on his lip. “And yer pissin’ me off! I ain’t playin’ games wi’t ya, tiger pipsqueak! Either talk, or ‘m just gonna have-ta beat it outta ya.”
The thug sneers. It’s obvious which of the two he’d prefer, though Atsushi hardly sees eye to eye with him on that.
“Yer choice,” he shrugs, dropping Atsushi so that the chair rattles against the floor and echoes off the wall of the warehouse. Crates and boxes stacked along the windows shudder.
Atsushi’s CHOICE would be to rip the rope off from around his hands, beat this guy up, and make it home in time for dinner, because it’s his turn to cook, and Chuuya is supposed to be working late. So long as the Tiger is asleep, though, that isn’t really an option, and he isn’t sure how long it will be until she wakes up.
And… if he’s being completely honest with himself (which can be difficult sometimes, that he knows all too well), he’s starting to get a little nervous. He’s been bound before, tied up, chained to the wall, beaten senseless without any outlet to fight back. It’s different, when you’re a hostage. He’s not a child anymore, this isn’t the orphanage, there is no Headmaster here to torture him until he cries himself to sleep. This isn’t that. He’s not defenseless anymore, and this guy doesn’t even WANT him, he WANTS to get to Chuuya.
He’s just not sure what part of all of that is scarier: the fact that he’s disposable, a sacrifice to be made when he still so desperately wants little more than to LIVE, or the fact that the actual objective is Chuuya, putting his boyfriend on the bullseye no matter how capable he is to protect himself, trying to get to him through the Mafia’s rank and file. For what, Atsushi doesn’t know, but it sure as hell isn’t anything good. Atsushi wants to hurt him- no, kill him, for so much as daring to even consider Chuuya prey to be hunted.
In this position, the best Atsushi can do is stall him. He’s hardly equipped to protect without his claws.
“I’ve never met his subordinates. We don’t talk about work,” Atsushi insists, clenching his fists. That’s not a lie. Nothing he’s said so far was a lie. “But it doesn’t matter.”
The thug raises an eyebrow, leaning over Atsushi.
“O’ yea?” ‘Ow come?”
“Because you don’t stand a chance against him,” Atsushi grins, even as he notices the man’s hand twitching as though begging him to throw another punch. There’s already blood dripping down his chin, anyway, so what does it matter, if it’s for Chuuya? “It doesn’t matter how big and strong you are. Chuuya-san will kick your ass into next year. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t kill you.”
He watched the thug’s face twist with fury. The hole where his tooth should be is black in the shadow of his massive shoulders. “Why ya’ little-“
He reels his fist back, just as Atsushi suspected, and he resigns himself to his fate, bracing for the impact as best as he can all tied up and stagnant. He can take the hit. He’s taken worse. It’ll hurt, he knows it’ll hurt, and god does he hate pain. But it’s worth it, for Chuuya.
It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s-
“Hey jackass! If you gotta problem with me, be a man an’ take it up with me yerself!”
His fist never connects with Atsushi’s jaw the way he expects it to. No, rather, one moment the thug is jolting backward at the sound of the warehouse door slamming open, and the next, he’s doubling over in excruciatingly visible pain before Atsushi even has the chance to blink.
A wooden crate the size of Atsushi’s head clatters to the ground behind him, splintered and bare, stained with someone dark. The man falls over and lands on his nose, an obvious crack of bone making Atsushi wince no matter how entirely unsympathetic he feels about it. There’s a gash on the back of his bald head, a well of blood forming around broken skin.
In the doorway is Nakahara Chuuya, bathed in the faint red glow of his ability, and downright FURIOUS even from a distance, prepared to maim, to KILL. His gaze flickers over the room, taking quick stock of their surroundings, the moonlight filtering through dirty window panes. Until finally, he settles on Atsushi, and he watches that anger melt into something far more careful, far more kind. A look he’s long since learned is only reserved for him.
The tension, the fear, leaves his body all at once and, oh, Atsushi suddenly feels like crying.
“Chuuya-san,” he croaks around a lump in his throat that’s tight with relief.
Chuuya surges forward, sliding over the concrete, hopping over the thug unconscious on the ground without missing a beat. “Atsushi,” he sounds out-of-breath, falling to his knees in front of Atsushi, reaching up with hands that are shaking to cup Atsushi’s cheeks, urgent but oh-so gentle. They’re warm, safe. “Atsushi,” he says again, looking him over top to bottom, raking over his arms flush to his sides, his wrinkled shirt, then back up to his face. Atsushi remembers that there is blood on his face, and it’s not anyone else’s. It’s clear that Chuuya can tell. “Are you okay? What did that bastard do to you?”
“I’ll be fine, Chuuya-san,” he replies, smiling around glazed eyes and blurring vision.
“That’s not what I asked,” Chuuya says, inspecting the cut on Atsushi’s lip with a gently probing thumb. Atsushi whimpers ever so slightly at the contact, and Chuuya rubs his cheek in a silent apology while he pulls the thumb away. “I already know they had nullifying agents. The Tiger hasn’t come back yet?”
His concern is poorly masked, if he’s making any effort to try to hide it at all. A part of Atsushi feels badly for making him worry. A stronger part of Atsushi is endeared to the fact that someone loves him enough to worry in the first place. He’s still getting used to that.
He shakes his head and sighs. “No. But I think it’s starting to fade,” he offers, tilting his head.
Chuuya hums and pulls his hands back from Atsushi’s face. He reaches for the knife strapped to the small of his back, leaning over to inspect the rope around Atsushi’s wrists. “Good. That’s good. Yer okay though, other than…” the thought peters out, but Atsushi catches the rest of it as Chuuya glances at his face. It reeks of guilt.
He shouldn’t feel guilty, dammit.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Atsushi promises him, and that’s not a lie, either. “And it’s not your fault, you know. My job is dangerous, that’s all.”
Chuuya begins to saw away at the rope keeping him to the chair. He’s diligent, purposeful. “It fuckin’ is my fault. He was comin’ for me. He was usin’ you to get to me,” he scoffs. “I shoulda kept you safe.”
Atsushi flexes his fingers as the first of the ropes falls away from his wrist. “You did. You came for me.”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” Chuuya growls, glaring at the thug still out on the floor, bleeding slow and consistent. “I should have nipped this in the bud before he got the chance to lay a hand on you.”
As much as Atsushi hates for him to feel this way, he can’t say he doesn’t understand it. Self-blame is a familiar companion, one he’s spent years trying to chase away. Chuuya is less inclined to carry the weight of something he can’t control when he knows he did all he could to stop it, but Atsushi seems to be the exception. This isn’t the first time he’s gotten upset with himself for Atsushi’s troubles, and it probably won’t be the last. Atsushi certainly never faults him for that, but it’s hard to get through to him, sometimes.
He hates that look, on Chuuya’s face. It’s something akin to agony, something gloomy that just doesn’t belong there. So he switches tactics.
“How did you find me?” Atsushi asks, pulling his free hand through his hair to feel for any cuts along his scalp; pleased when he pulls back clean fingers.
Chuuya’s tongue pokes out from between his lips. “Kunikida called me this morning, said ya never made it to work. Gave me this real bad feelin’ in my gut when I tried to call you a couple times and ya didn’t pick up, so I went lookin’ for ya. This loser-“ he throws a thumb back at the thug and readjusts the knife in his hand. “-and his gang have been tryna get into the smuggling trade in Yokohama for months. Been givin’ us a lotta trouble. One of his idiot lackeys was hangin’ out two blocks from the Agency.” He picks at the leftover rope with precise motions. “Thirty seconds of face time alone with him an’ he wailed like a baby. Gave me everything his boss’d been up to the past few days, includin’ goin’ after you.”
The rest of the rope falls away. Chuuya sheathes his knife behind his coat.
With the freedom to move again for the first time in what feels like days, Atsushi wastes no time sliding off the chair and into Chuuya’s lap. Chuuya stumbles under his added weight, but catches him all the same, wrapping his arms around Atsushi’s middle and holding him close to his chest.
“Atsushi-“ he murmurs, running a hand through Atsushi’s hair the way that he likes, twirling silver locks between lithe fingers. “I’m so-“
Atsushi sits up just enough to press his lips squarely against Chuuya’s. They have done this so many times, and yet Chuuya blanches, eyes wide, clearly not having expected Atsushi to shut him up like this. The kiss is brief, and entirely chaste, but it’s sweet. He doesn’t bother to think about the cut there, because Chuuya’s lips are chapped and warm and familiar, and despite his surprise, Chuuya presses back almost as quickly as it came, humming quietly against Atsushi’s mouth as he pulls away to look his boyfriend in the eye. Atsushi licks his lips. He can taste the lingering smoke of light cigarettes and the wine from their dinner last night that is so distinctly Chuuya. He wonders distantly if Chuuya has eaten since then, if he spent all day seemingly occupied, much as Atsushi swoons at the thought. He sure hopes that he at least stopped for lunch.
“You say you should have protected me, but you did,” Atsushi whispers, breath ghosting against Chuuya’s jaw as his head falls back to his shoulder. “You came for me, Chuuya-san.”
Chuuya pulls him impossibly closer, until Atsushi can no longer tell where he might end and Chuuya may begin and, oh, he feels so utterly loved.
“Always, Atsushi.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Chuuya stares out into the city from the balcony of his apartment. A half-dead cigarette raining ashes hangs from between his fingers, and he can feel the weight of the bags under his eyes, but he doesn’t care enough about either to do something about the discomfort it causes him.
It’s just one of those nights. He’s not sad, per se, he’s just tired. The Boss has been running him ragged for weeks, and the lack of sleep is starting to catch up to him. Just his luck that a jewel exchange he wrapped up yesterday morning got him thinking about when he was younger and… well, he’s been thinking a lot about the Flags since then, about how badly he wishes they could see the life he’s built for himself, now, both inside of Mafia and beside it. It’s hardly a new thought; he’s mourned them properly, he’s moved on. Still hurts like a bitch, though. They’ve been gone for so long that he doesn’t really remember what they sound like anymore, with the vague exception of Albatross’ obnoxious crooning. What Chuuya wouldn’t give to hear him whining and chirping again, no matter how late in the night or early in the morning. It’s odd. He used to hate it. Now, he thinks, he never appreciated it enough.
He’s grown up to be executive. He travels abroad for jobs. He has subordinates. He’s so high up on the wanted list that the government couldn’t actually prosecute him if they tried and yet, he’s saved countless unsuspecting civilian lives from getting caught in the crossfire of a world that doesn’t concern them. He lives comfortably, a high-rise penthouse apartment with a view of the ocean on one side, and the city skyline on the other.
They would be proud of him for moving up the ranks and staking his claim with the Mafia. They always knew that he had it in him, too him under their wing because of it, encouraged him to pursue that success.
And yet, no matter how ultimately short-lived their time together had been, he knows that what they’d be most interested, nosy and invasive creatures they were, in the fact that he doesn’t live alone.
“Chuuya-san, why are you up so late? I thought you had the day off tomorrow.”
Atsushi comes up from behind him, the soft padding of bare feet against the hardwood floors. He steps out into the cool night air, onto the balcony that puts him shoulder-to-shoulder with Chuuya as soon as he ducks under the doorway, but he takes his time all the same, as if he’s afraid of spooking Chuuya and chasing him away by mistake (not that Chuuya could imagine running away from him, not ever).
“Couldn’t sleep, that’s all,” Chuuya shrugs. “Nothin’ you need to be worryin’ about, gorgeous.”
Atsushi hums, leans into Chuuya’s side. “That makes me think I should be worried.”
Despite himself, Chuuya laughs. Atsushi is a lot more forward now than when they first started dating, and his keen eye makes it difficult for Chuuya to keep his feelings under wraps. It’s not that he’s trying to keep it a secret from him, and he knows Atsushi won’t force him to talk about it if he really doesn’t want to, but there’s still a part of him that will likely always have to readjust itself to opening up without having it come back later to bite him in the ass. Atsushi, unlike his shitty mentor, is thoughtful, and caring; just one of the many things that Chuuya falls head over heels for over and over again.
“It really is fine, Atsushi,” he says, putting out the butt of his cigarette against the balcony railing, watching the smoke disappear into the cloudless night sky. “I’m just thinkin’ about some stuff. The tough kinda stuff, ya know. But ‘m fine. If I really wasn’t I woulda said somethin’.”
Atsushi eyes him skeptically, and Chuuya laughs again. “Hey, c’mon, gimme some credit,” he snickers, elbowing Atsushi right where he knows it tickles. Atsushi jolts back and giggles, a light and bubbly little thing. Chuuya deposits his finished cigarette into the ash tray on the balcony table. “I like talkin’ about my feelings now, remember?”
That’s Atsushi’s doing, too. Chuuya has opened up more than he ever thought possible, and it’s funny, because the Flags spent a hell of a lotta time trying to get him to do just that only to come up short every single time. Lippmann always called him hard-headed; Chuuya had preferred strong-willed. There’s nothing wrong with sticking to your principles, thank you very much.
“Mm, I suppose,” Atsushi smiles, laying his head on top of Chuuya’s. “Nowadays you’re a real sap.”
Chuuya feels the heat rushing to the tips of his ears.
“Yeah, well- whose fault is that, hah?!” he sputters, glancing up at his boyfriend with narrowed eyes. “Yer the one who’s puttin’ heart-shaped rice balls in my bentos!”
Atsushi presses his cheek firm against Chuuya’s hair. “Says the guy who comes by my office in the middle of the work day just to drop off flowers and a love note,” Atsushi grins, wrapping his arms around Chuuya’s waist. “But if you don’t like my bentos-“
“No way!” Chuuya cuts him off, grabbing at his boyfriend’s hands over his stomach. “I love you so I love them! No takin’ ‘em back!” He leans back into Atsushi’s chest. “Matter ‘a fact, yer not ALLOWED to take ‘em back! New house rule.”
…Okay, so maybe he has a bit of a thick skull. He just… needed the right person to come by and stick around long enough to crack it open; to give him a chance to trust them enough that they COULD.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Chuuya-san,” Atsushi murmurs, swaying minutely against the almost imperceptible breeze.
The Flags would have loved Atsushi, each in their own way. Some days, he imagines what it would have been like to tell them that he ‘met someone’, or what they would have done to meddle even when he asked them not to. He imagines introducing them to Atsushi, Albatross hanging off of him like a monkey, Piano Man rattling off Chuuya’s most embarrassing stories, Lippmann fawning over his hair, Ice Man demanding to see the Tiger, Doc scrutinizing him like a lab specimen with every intention of simply getting to know him. He remembers the nerves he’s had before their first date, terrified of fucking things up, chasing Atsushi away, coming on too strong even if they had already been friends for quite some time and- and he remembers their shoddy pep talks from when he was just a kid, telling him to get out there, bring down hell, and look good doing it.
It would’ve been pretty shitty advice for a first date with the nicest and most considerate person ever conceived by man.
But when he came home in the middle of the night, smiling, lips bruised and so high on the mere concept of his life that he could float up into the exosphere, they would have been proud of him for getting his shit together and giving the whole ‘happiness’ thing a real chance, in their own way.
“Am I allowed to ask what’s on your mind, or do you just need some time to think?” Atsushi asks him, squeezing him lightly into the hug.
“Of course you’re allowed,” Chuuya sighs. The exhaustion is starting to get to him. Well, that, and Atsushi’s warmth wrapped around him like a perfectly weighted blanket. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout some of my old friends. They ain’t around anymore.”
There’s a beat of silence. Somewhere deep in the sitting, a car horn blares.
Atsushi tilts his head to prop himself up on his chin. “You told me about them. The Flags.”
“Yeah,” Chuuya replies.
“I’m sorry,” Atsushi whispers, shifting from one foot to the other. “I know you miss them.”
Chuuya chuckles. A wry smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “It’s really fine, Atsushi. It was a long time ago. They wouldn’t want me ta dwell on ‘em now,” he snorts. “They’d kill me for gettin’ all weepy on ‘em. We were never like that, not with each other.”
Piano Man had once slapped Chuuya for getting upset after a job had gotten all screwed up. He was still new to command back then, and one of his teammates had gotten so banged up he could hardly move. Chuuya felt responsible; it was his mission, his plan that put him in the hospital for months after the fact, but when Chuuya had gotten all fussy about it, Piano Man had struck him upside the head and told him to shut the hell up, because it was his quick thinking that brought his whole team back alive to begin with. Chuuya learned to deal with that self-doubt, the self-inflicted feeling of crushing guilt that comes with someone, anyone, getting hurt under your watch.
He’s much better about it now, but the blame rears its ugly head from time to time, of concern only to Atsushi. Their line of work is dangerous, both of them, and Chuuya can’t always BE THERE like he wishes he could. Atsushi is capable, but he’s not invincible, and that really fucking scares him some days. Piano Man would probably chastise him for that, too, tell him off in that eerily calm way about burdening himself with wallowing in things he didn’t do but…
They would have understood, if they’d seen it, if they’d gotten to know Atsushi. He’s sure of that.
“You would know better than I would,” Atsushi concedes, rubbing his hand over Chuuya’s hip in an idle pattern. “Doesn’t stop me from worrying about you, though. You need to get some sleep, Chuuya-san.”
“I dunno if I can sleep right now, Tiger. ‘M still wide awake,” Chuuya sighs and then, just his luck, it devolves into a yawn. His jaw pops and his eyes water with the force of his exhaustion. It’s loud and unavoidable and it sounds like the Tiger whenever Atsushi allows himself to indulge in his natural urge to sunbathe.
Atsushi snickers. “Hm, for some reason, I find that hard to believe,” he pokes at the juncture of Chuuya’s hip. “Come on, let’s go back to bed, and I’ll let you be the big spoon tonight.”
It’s a tone that he has a very tough time arguing with, even if he wanted to.
“Shit, ya shoulda just led with that, gorgeous.”