Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lately Satomi has been pushing the envelope with Kyouji, as if inviting him to cross some unacknowledged line between them. It’s a good thing Kyouji has had plenty of practice from resisting a thousand unintentional, innocent temptations from the boy.

The gifts Satomi had given him as a middle schooler had been so cute. A lined page with songs listed in meticulous handwriting, accompanied by an even more meticulous explanation. A good luck charm more suitable for an elementary school kid that a middle-aged yakuza. In their sweetness lay a danger, a physical proof of their connection and time together. Even as he had received them, a part of Kyouji had thought, evidence, substantiation of a crime not yet committed.

Still, Kyouji had collected and kept these reminders of Satomi, both honestly given (the slightly crumpled notebook page, the tacky protection charm) and dishonestly taken (an orange juice straw casually slipped into his pocket as they were exiting the karaoke room, the handkerchief fucking Arai had used to wipe Satomi’s brow at the karaoke contest). As he enters his apartment, his eyes stray to the closet in the entryway—he can picture the non-descript department store bag, in the far back of the closet, where he has stored these little tokens for years now. He is both tired and wired from the trip back to Osaka. A vague irritation buzzes in his veins as he hangs up his coat, puts his briefcase away. Avoids pulling the bag of keepsakes out, keeps his mind and hands away from it. Those little mementos represent a dangerous and repulsive part of him, which he would never show to Satomi. And while Kyouji has never aimed nor pretended to be a good person, there are limits even a bastard like him is unwilling to cross.

College student Satomi is more guarded with Kyouji, better at keeping his emotions in check. No more cute little gifts, either, which is for the best because Kyouji really doesn’t need any more marks against his conscience.  For the best, he thinks, as he undresses and gets in the shower, turning it a little colder than usual to try and wash off this sense of unease.

Sometimes, though, temptation is stronger than conscience. Of course, his sadistic bastard of a boss would pick up on it. The tattoo on his forearm is tasteless—placed off-center and clashing with the ornate, traditional ink on the rest of his body.

Which is to say it is both pathetic and depraved of him to now be tonguing and biting it with this intensity. He’s gotten better at stroking himself with his left hand, but the tattoo is still an awkward reach, goddamn the old man. No way to pretend his actions were anything other than they were, intentional and desperate. Damn Satomi for being so guileless, even though he wasn’t a middle school kid anymore. But still so painfully innocent. Those impassive eyes promising him a gift, what the hell was he supposed to think? Visions of a shyly gifted virginity had haunted him on the shinkansen back, so cliché and saccharine he had to cringe. And with that, the floodgates of his mind had opened: Satomi on his lap in a karaoke room, Satomi crawling under the table at the restaurant and putting his mouth on him, Satomi flushed and shaking in the passenger seat, trying to appear normal as Kyouji drove with one hand on the wheel and other down Satomi’s pants. These fantasies cycle through his brain now, as he finishes himself off in the lukewarm spray.

The last present he received from a younger Satomi had been his warning, complete with flashing red lights and sirens. The angelic singing voice singing Kurenai of all things. So much emotion on his behalf. The tears cried over him. When he’d gotten out of prison and they had handed him his possessions back – clothes, watch, wallet, phone - he'd pulled up the video he had secretly taken back then, from his position just inside the bathroom door. Hearing Satomi’s singing voice after years had hit him like a ton of bricks, but he had been surprised to notice his brothers sitting in the background, smoking and knocking back drinks, Kacchan walking by to refill a glass. Kyouji’s own memories of the event were overlaid with blur and a high-pitched tinnitus. He's not even sure what bullshit had come out of his mouth back then, everything narrowing to the tremble of Satomi’s eyes, the damp feel of the sweat soaking the back of his uniform shirt, and the rhythmic pounding in Kyouji’s ears of you’re fucked, you’re fucked.  

Kyouji thought he knew when to call it quits and get the fuck out before things truly went to hell, one of his many skills honed over the years. Except, just like always, somehow when it truly counted, he couldn’t stop his feet from walking right into disaster. He comes out of the bathroom, sits on the edge of his bed, and reaches for his phone.

Chapter Text

Kyouji is sharing a smoke with Hiroko-chan from the hostess bar. He’s already fully dressed in dress pants and a button up shirt, jacket lying folded to the side. She’s still sitting in bed in her panties, leaning over the ash tray on the nightstand to keep the ash from landing on her breasts or the sheets. He exhales, appreciates the easy silence between them. Kyouji’s been with more women than he can remember, sex and flirting an easy rhythm to fall into. Being with a woman like Hiroko is like filling out a daily newspaper sudoku: easy, satisfying, and routine. He knows better than to tell her this. He’ll give her a smile, thank her for a lovely time, and when he puts down his cigarette and leaves, she won’t bother getting up to see him to the door, won’t message him afterwards, likely won’t think about him twice.

Looking at her, he tries imagining it once, to see if it stirs something in him. Hiroko clinging to his back in the middle of a public street, like something out of a cheesy drama. A bark of laughter bursts out of him. The image gives him a ridiculous feeling, about as sexy as being embraced by the Michelin Man. He grins, kisses her goodbye, and definitely does not share this mental image with her.

There is nothing remotely funny about the memory of Satomi doing the same. When it happened, his mind had seized, then drifted - glacially slow - a passing thought of Oh, and it’s been a while. And horrifying: it’s the first time we’ve touched in Tokyo, like it was some kind of special anniversary. Spaced out, blank, the best response he could generate was a foolish “what?”

On the train back, his mouth had run on autopilot through an insincere conversation with a very old, very persistent acquaintance, while the rest of his brain played a game of compare and contrast.

Column A: 14-year-old Oka Satomi, the humid heat of Osaka summer, alternating between prickly, cute, and crying. Column B: Satomi: taller, calmer, still prickly and still fucking cute, in the crisp chill of Tokyo autumn. Past and present adorable, making his traitor heart squeeze and drop at the same time.

Column A: Shoulders giving slightly under the scratchy fabric of a middle school uniform as he slings an arm around a boy’s shoulder, sweat-dampness soaking through. The surprising smallness of arms, body, face, chest, all clenched in a death grip around his bicep. A gentle smack against his face drawing his gaze to eyes as soulful as the goddamn Mona Lisa. Column B: The unexpected touch of slender arms circling around his back. Loose and tentative at first, then stronger, tighter. Long fingers pressed flat to the shirt fabric on his stomach. The sharp dig of glasses against his back, then a cheek, soft, and a chest breathing in time against him for a moment, two. The touches sweetly innocent and dangerously inappropriate, then and now.

Same sugar on his tongue, same thrill under his skin. It had been so much easier for him back then. He hadn’t frozen and stuttered like a malfunctioning robot. The little transgressions excited him because they had been deliberate—he reached out with measured intention, let Satomi put his hands on him and chose when to step away. The lapses highlighting the control, his conscious act of not touching. It had been fun, a small wickedness in flirting with a line he had no intention of crossing.

Now he doesn’t touch Satomi at all. Won’t try anything more than a nudge with the toe of his foot, the handing of a watch from one hand to another—no skin contact. The line he played with before is now an electric rail between them. Unreliable, it blurs before his eyes, making him lose sight of which side he was on, and which side Satomi was supposed to be on.

Alright, that’s enough musings from a disgusting old man. He sneers and gives himself a mental kick in the ass. His eyes are gritty from lack of sleep, everything too bright and hyper focused. He’s been walking, but he’s not sure where he’s headed. Frankly, he feels like shit. But there’s no point trying to sleep now, so he heads to Tensuiyu for a bit before the office. As his body soaks in the hot water of the bath, his sleep-deprived mind continues its lurch and spin, like an addict looking for some corner of relief. The sweetness of Satomi messaging him first (are you alive?) had made it too hard to resist seeing him again. Satomi’s glare and stiff posture in his work uniform, like a grumpy kitten, had made him too soft, too greedy. Greedy enough to arrange another meeting before the one in December Satomi had asked for. The venue deliberately one where he could indulge his desire to spoil Satomi. He had dressed up nice, in casual clothes for their little pretend date. Softness rotting his brain enough to forget why he had stayed away in the first place. He winces in self-loathing at how neatly he had dug his own grave. I think it would be best if we don’t see each other again. Satomi finally grasping some self-preservation.

He sighs deeply. He’s too fucking tired to make sense of anything. Let the steam carry away the unwanted thoughts, let the hot water wash away the regrets of a corrupt man.

Chapter Text

Words have power. Kyouji has understood that truth from the beginning. 狂児. Kyouji. Child of madness. Insanity his birthright. True to his destiny, wherever he goes, things break and unravel. So, of course, he recognizes the power of the talisman on his skin. 聡美. Satomi. Wisdom and beauty, two things in diametrical opposition to the path Kyouji has chosen. Once inked, the characters on his skin had felt so true, so precious, that he had forgotten that words have consequences. Words, recklessly written or spoken, have a way of inscribing your fate.

Satomi is looking at him with a half-pout on his lips, eyes a little droopy (too many night shifts, he needs to sleep more). He grips the Big Mac he said he wasn’t hungry for with both hands, all ten fingers (cute) and takes a big bite that leaves a drop of mayo behind (fucking cute). Kyouji is briefly hopeful he can spend the time like this, taking in Satomi and talking about nothing. 

Hope doesn’t last long.

--I’ll ask you this, Satomi-kun, what do you want us to be? Careful the questions you ask, you fool. You might get answers.

Satomi answers.

Kyouji knows what Satomi is asking for. He’s taking the first steps out onto the bridge between them and asking Kyouji the take the next one. He knows instinctively that if he takes even one step forward, Satomi will take another, another, and another towards him. Sweet, brave Satomi.

--Why do you come to Kamata, just to eat with me? I’d come just to look at you for a moment. 

--What do you want with me? That’s…complicated.

--I want to be together with you always. Satomi. Satomi. Satomi, Satomi…

--Can’t you leave the yakuza? I can’t.

Despite carrying the flow of every conversation they have had, he has never said anything like the words Satomi has just spoken to him. More than gifts, touches, or stalking (yes, he admits it), the words that would come out of his mouth would be incriminating and irredeemable. A binding curse. Satomi feigns indifference, but he’s fundamentally kind. Too forgiving, so easily swayed by a small gesture. For a man like Kyouji to stain him forever in words as black as ink would be a sin of a kind that even he fears to commit.

So, he keeps his words light. He repeats his same lines. I’m just a message away (no closer). I’ll be there whenever you need me (no sooner). I’ll stay with you as long as you need me (no longer). He doesn’t bring want into the discussion; to mention want would be far too incriminating. Kyouji will come when Satomi asks. He will ask for nothing in return. He will offer nothing, because what he has to offer is an empty, sucking abyss. He’ll stay in his place, present enough to keep the string between them from snapping, but without letting it thicken into a noose.

Chapter Text

Kyouji is washing the blood off his hands. Sadly, they’re from violence inflicted against a professional Nikon camera and an iPhone, and not against a dirtbag journalist’s smug fucking face. He’d lost his composure a bit after that sack of shit had escaped, and possibly had taken it out with excessive force against electronic devices. The old man had fixed him with a dry look and sent him off:  “Go clean that hand up and cool your head before you come back. You’re ruining the mood.”

Kyouji sweeps the broken pieces of camera and phone off the counter and onto the bathroom floor. He stomps down, hard, a few more times for good measure, then dumps the fragments in the trash. The photo of him and Masanori gets shredded into the toilet, but he pockets the photo of Satomi. He’ll drop it in the usual back-of-closet bag later, on top of a crumpled ball of black shirt and casual jacket, then attempt never to think about it again.

Seeing that slimy, bottom-feeding scum handling the photos of Satomi - imagining him leering at them from the back of the McDonalds - had put him a headspace where he truly felt born of madness. He had already been volatile, mood tensed between want, fear, regret, and self-hatred. Only for some cocky, dirt-digging little bitch to rub salt into the wound. Who is the guy eating burgers with Narita? It had taken him a several beats to connect the experience of what had just happened with Satomi to that clueless, almost laughable description. When it had clicked, the rage had flooded in, vision blurred with a murderous red haze. He’d been ready to end Okada right there, for daring to watch those moments and present them back so flippantly. Eating burgers with Narita. He’d dug his fingernails into his palm, put on a smile, and reminded himself that killing the smug fucker in front of civilians would be a bad idea. If he got sent to prison twice in a row, Satomi might connect the dots. So, Kyouji had brought him back to the boss’ place, his headache mounting, jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. He’d say he had been extremely lenient given the circumstances.

His bad mood had only worsened watching Okada scramble to get himself out of the bar. Fuck! If he could just beat the shit out of that motherfucker once, he feels like he could regain some of his composure. He could at least knock his teeth out, make him permanently unable to sing stupid love songs or sleaze his way through another conversation again. No, even if he cut his tongue out and knocked out all the teeth, he’d still be able to make that irritating “heh” sound, wouldn’t he? Besides, his eyes and fingers were a problem, too. Fuck! Kyouji grinds his teeth. His knuckles are turning white from clenching the counter. Fuck! Shit! He swallows over the pulsating beat in his neck, presses his fingertips against the pounding at his temples. Shit-eating, sister-fucking cunt!

Enough. He takes a breath. Splashes water on his face to cool the blood boiling underneath. Breathes again. Reminds himself that even worthless human garbage like Okada have their uses. However disgusting the messenger, the message is clear. His place is here in the underworld, and Satomi’s is in the light of civilian society, uninvolved with a man like Kyouji.

He doesn’t go back to the party. Instead, he drifts by himself for hours, gaze skimming over the neon veil of the entertainment district, anger draining out of him and leaving him with a numb, empty self-loathing.

He takes a pill to fall asleep that night. It fucks with his dreams, probably. He’s kneeling on the floor in a small, Japanese-style room. The light is dim, walls painted in the fading glow of sunset. Everything looks unreal and indistinct, except for Satomi, who’s lying face down – naked - on a tatami floor. Kyouji is entranced by the repetitive motion of sharp metal points piercing the skin on Satomi’s low back, in-out, in-out, marking his body in a little more ink with each puncture. Crimson dye spreads and bleeds over sharp black lines. He looks down at the bamboo stick grasped in his hand, ending in a row of sharp needles, and realizes he’s the one hand tattooing Satomi. In-out, in-out. With his free hand, he strokes down Satomi’s side, soothing. Satomi shivers and trembles underneath his palm. Wondering, Kyouji looks up at Satomi’s face and sees tears streaming down, sliding little paths down his cheeks and off the tip of his nose onto the mat below. But when he pauses the motion of the nomi in his grip, Satomi’s hand shoots out and grips his wrist, tight, as he begs: “Keep going. Kyouji, please.”  So Kyouji keeps going. In-out, in-out. Push, press. Push, press. Stroking Satomi through the tears. When he wakes up in the morning, he can’t keep the final image of the tattoo in his mind, but he knows it was something terrifyingly beautiful.

Chapter Text

December brings shorter, colder days, bright illuminations, and busy Christmas markets. For Kyouji, it brings stress and overwork. A new upstart group with outside backing was pushing the boundaries with their kumi and keeping them in their place is turning into a huge pain in the ass.

Satomi’s message comes in at 2am, while Kyouji is having an insomniac smoke on his small balcony.

-When I’m in town this month can I come to your place? I want to make takoyaki.

Kyouji can’t help it, he smiles. This kid and his takoyaki. Then he groans. It’s an agonizingly tempting and undeniably dangerous suggestion. One he should decline. And he plans to: he starts to type out an excuse and suggest something safer. But something dark and selfish in him stills his fingers. If this is the last time he sees Satomi, he wants to be a little reckless. Just a small indulgence—Satomi’s suggestion, nothing more. Like the last cigarette and meal before going to prison, he wants to savor it fully.

-Ok, Satomi-kun! I’m looking forward experiencing your takoyaki skills 🧑‍🍳 🐙

Kyouji puts out his cigarette. Giving up on sleep, he goes inside and opens up his computer. In the browser bar, he types: best luxury takoyaki pan.

A few days earlier, Kyouji sits on the sofa at the boss’ house, creasing a photo in his hands. In it, a much younger version of himself stands straight, stiff, and serious faced. He’s flanked on one side by the boss (looking similar in age to Kyouji now) and on the other by a stocky man in his mid-30s who’s giving the camera a brash grin, one of his hands squeezing the back of Kyouji’s neck.

“I found that photo in the back of a bookshelf. Must have missed it when I burnt all the others,” the boss muses, his eyes focused somewhere else. He lets out a long exhale as he pets Kuro, who’s taking a nap on his lap.

The other man in the photo, Sakai, had been a mid-ranked lieutenant when Kyouji joined the kumi. Despite his rapid rise through the ranks, he was a polarizing figure. Kyouji remembers how Masanori, with his usual cat-like instincts, had always disliked him. Had absolutely hated Kyouji getting close to him.

But Sakai quickly took Kyouji under his wing. He’d taught him a lot about what it meant to belong to this life, including its darker sides. Masanori would have relished telling Kyouji “I told you so” when Sakai betrayed the kumi and defected to a group in Fukuoka. That is, if Masanori himself hadn’t walked away years before.

Kyouji puts the photo down on the coffee table. “Why the trip down memory lane?” he probes. Beloved sons excepting, the boss is the type to completely purge those who betrayed family and never look back.

The old man finally turns to him, measuring.

“After last time, we went back and caught up with Okada one more time. I was wondering how he got his hands on such a cute photo of my boys. Imagine my surprise when I heard a name I thought we’d exorcised a long time ago. Okada was passing information back to Sakai, too.”

Kyouji’s core turns to ice. Sakai had always been ruthless, especially so with those he considered his enemies. That brutality had driven his split from the kumi and into a more extremist Kyushu group. For him to now be targeting Masanori, that was dangerous.

No, wait, Okada had been passing him information back. The ice fractures into ten thousand sharp needles, each one tearing Kyouji from the inside.

“And you fucking waited until now to tell me this, why?” Kyouji growls. He knows his tone is crossing a line. If the boss decked him right now, it would be well deserved. But the thought of those photos—him and Satomi together, proof of a link he’s too weak to sever—in Sakai’s hands slices through his composure like a blade.

The boss places his hand on Kyouji’s knee, firm but gentle. The touch shocks him for a moment. He stiffens, then relaxes, putting on his usual conciliatory grin. Kuro is looking at him with understandable suspicion. For all that Kyouji would kill and die for the man in front of him, they don’t normally do this kind of closeness.

“For starters, we needed answers from Okada, not a dead body,” the boss chides him gently, but he doesn’t call out the disrespect. “I’m telling you now because you’re the one I rely on the most, Kyouji. We both have something important to protect. And this time, we’re making damn sure the traitor doesn’t walk away.”

And with that, December had turned into a hell of overwork.

Kyouji hunches over his workspace in the headquarters office. He sets his glasses aside and rubs the bridge of his nose. An array of CCTV stills from across the district are fanned out on the desk in front of him.

Sakai was back in town, causing trouble with his new kumi. A risky and foolhardy move by a bunch of outsiders without local ties that reeked of desperation. That type of group, which relished violent confrontation and had no discernment around type of business they engaged in would inevitably doom spiral into self-destruction. The problem was, there were plenty of reckless idiots who would flock to its blaze on the way down, spreading flames for everyone else.

Across the room, Kobayashi slams down the phone. He storms over to Kyouji’s desk and drops into the chair opposite, banging his fist on the table hard enough to scatter the photos in every direction.

“Shit, these bastards are even pulling in our kyodai! The police just arrested Ito-kun transporting a load of grenades and AK-47s. He was just the mule, but of course he’s gonna take the fall. What the hell are these bastards trying to pull?”

Reckless idiots. Bringing the cops down on their own heads—and everyone else’s.

Kyouji stands, grabs Kobayashi by the collar and yanks him down onto the desk, one hand pressing his face into the chaos of photos. “Get your idiot kids in line. Or I will,” he says, calm and icy cold. He lets go and steps back, massaging the headache clawing its way back up his skull.

“Geez, why’s he biting my head off like I’m the one who did it?” Kobayashi mutters under his breath, sulking and rubbing his forehead.

“Give Kyouji a break. He quit smoking, and now he’s PMS-ing. The things we do for love,” the boss chuckles, too pleased at his own joke.

The headquarters door is reinforced with ballistic steel. It always shuts with a bang. Kyouji makes sure to add a little extra force on the way out.

It wasn’t that he quit smoking for any particular reason. One day, he walked into his apartment and caught the stale scent hanging in the air. Bitter with a hint of vanilla—the kind he’s smoked for decades, the old man’s brand. Suddenly it was sour, unpleasant. So, he decided to quit. A New Year’s resolution, now that he’s getting older. A typically masochistic decision to pile on withdrawal and irritability onto the hell that December was already becoming.

Not ready to go back to the office for his berating, he heads to a nicer part of town. The street sparkles with winter illuminations, shops buzzing with activity.

Kyouji buys a large standalone takoyaki grill and a smaller stovetop takoyaki pan, just in case. While he’s there, he picks up a nabe pot and a new rice cooker (his current one doesn’t have nearly as many buttons). A sharp-eyed shop attendant clocks him instantly: a rich target looking to spend money to avoid reality. She convinces him he needs a better set of dishware—for company. From there, it’s easy. A complete stock of essential kitchen tools, a full set of high-end Miyabi knives, an intriguing array of items of uncertain purpose. Satoko-chan assures him they will take him to the “next level” in cooking. He smiles and nods. She adds a magnetic knife strip, a sharpening stone, and a heavy walnut cutting board. He takes each new item obediently, carefully rearranging them into his cart.

He leaves the store heavy with his purchases but feeling strangely light.

The weeks pass. The stress and overwork continue.

Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Kyouji groans and pulls the phone closer to his face.

It’s a message from Satomi. Just confirming we’re on for today?

He shoots back Yes, pick you up at 5! 🤩, then turns to stare at the ceiling.

It has barely been a month, but seeing Satomi in person hits him harder than usual. He’s all bundled up for winter—puffy coat, gloves, a thick woolly wrap around his neck. He has his hands tucked under his armpits, the bottom half of his face buried in the fabric of his scarf, glasses fogging up slightly with each breath. Kyouji imagines wrapping Satomi’s whole body into his overcoat, pressing his face warm against his chest so his glasses wouldn’t fog. Just holding him there.

Satomi gets in silently when Kyouji pulls up to their arranged meeting spot, a couple blocks away from his house. Kyouji itches to adjust the wool at his neck and warm his cheeks, but he doesn’t move. The déjà vu is intense. Everything feels both old and unfamiliar. Did he normally put his hands here on the steering wheel? Just look straight ahead, or glance at Satomi every so often? His usual smile feels brittle and misaligned. He doesn’t dare touch the radio. He’s made sure the car was warm, but he imagines he can see Satomi’s breath misting the space between them. Wonders if his hair still smells like the honey shampoo he used as a kid. The thoughts rise, settle. He keeps his eyes forward.

When Satomi steps inside his apartment, Kyouji experiences an arrythmia—his heart dropping several beats, then racing to catch up. Satomi looks around while Kyouji puts away their coats. He holds back an instinct to apologize for something as Satomi walks into the living area, eyes moving over the bookshelf, the throw draped neatly over the back of the couch, the single scented candle centered on the coffee table. He wonders if the smell of smoke still lingers after several weeks.

“Your place is cozier than I expected,” Satomi finally says, quietly.

Ahhh, fuck. He wants to pull Satomi into his arms. Warm up the cheeks and cute little nose still red from the cold. Bite a little. Swallow him whole. Tuck him away in his apartment and never let him leave.

Oh, this is dangerous.

“I bought some things to make takoyaki. But you have to tell this novice if I did alright, Mr. Chef!” Kyouji jokes, leading Satomi to the kitchen—a bid for safer ground.

Satomi rolls his eyes but follows. When he sees the grill Kyouji picked out he visibly brightens. He turns to look at the ingredients on the counter and snorts.

“Why did you buy three different kinds of flour?” His tone is sharp, but he’s smiling. It’s a true smile. Oh, Kyouji did well.

“Ah, you see, I knew how demanding my Satomi-kun was when it came to takoyaki, so I didn’t want to make a mistake!” Kyouji responds with a grin, self-deprecating. Satomi glares, but the smile doesn’t quite leave. Kyouji’s grip tightens on the bag in his hand. He wonders if now’s the right time to mention he also bought three types of fresh octopus, chosen for quality with the help of Yuriko-chan from the fish market.

Satomi sets Kyouji to work measuring and pouring ingredients for the batter while he slices the octopus and prepares the toppings. Kyouji’s glad he bought every ingredient he could think of because Satomi directs him to make several bowls with different fillings. He blesses Satoko-chan for convincing him to upgrade his mixing bowls, mixing spoons, spatulas, and the like. Satomi can order him around the kitchen to his heart’s content without having to pause for a bowl to be washed.

When it’s time to pour the batter onto the grill, Satomi takes over. They move to the dining table where Kyouji has already plugged in the grill. He’s told to stay out of the way, so he sits opposite and savors watching Satomi focus on achieving the perfect takoyaki texture. Satomi serves out the first batch and starts pouring in the second. Kyouji waits. He watches as Satomi pierces the first ball with his skewer and pops it into his mouth. After a second of chewing, he closes his eyes and covers his mouth in a look of blissful appreciation. 

Thank you Satoko-chan and Yuriko-chan. Thank you market ladies. Thank you boss and kyoudai for covering and not bothering me for once.

Kyouji thinks of the new nabe pot in the cabinet. The pasta maker. The ice cream maker. Wonders if Satomi will let him cook for him again. Wonders what type of dish would be most likely to earn a yes. If Satomi will wrap one of the new cashmere throws around himself as they sit on the couch later, or if he’d prefer Kyouji to pull out the recently purchased kotatsu for them to sit under.

Satomi comments on the takoyaki variations he’s created as he makes each set, his excitement evident. Kyouji responds with stupid comments that earn him glares and the occasional shut up or gross, because Satomi is just too cute and he can’t help himself. Otherwise, they eat mostly in comfortable silence. They put away an impressive amount, but eventually they have to admit defeat. Kyouji unplugs the grill and moves it aside, then takes the dishes into the kitchen and drops them in the sink. He steps out to ask if he should pull out the cheesecake in the fridge.

But Satomi is still seated at the table, looking somber, worrying the corner of an envelope in his hands.

Ah. No time for dessert, then.

“What have you got there, Satomi-kun?” Kyouji asks gently, sitting across from him again. If this is his execution, he’d rather it happen quickly, with minimal fanfare.

Satomi puts the envelope on the table. It’s thick—too full to contain just a letter. Satomi opens his mouth, then closes it again. His gaze flickers up to meet Kyouji’s, then drops back down. Finally, the pushes it across the table.

Kyouji opens the flap and peeks inside. A stack of 10,000 yen bills. Now more confused than foreboding, he looks back at Satomi, who’s digging his nails into his palm and looking miserable.

“Thank you for the Christmas present, Satomi-kun. But just your presence is more than enough.” Kyouji makes to push the envelope back, but Satomi puts his hand over Kyouji’s stopping him completely.

Kyouji moves his hands back onto his knees, back straight, like he’s waiting for the judge to deliver his sentence again. Satomi looks him in the eye—that captivating Mona Lisa gaze. His arms tremble from the force of his hands digging into his thighs, but his voice is level when he speaks.

“I’ve been saving up since the summer, Kyouji-san. To pay for your tattoo removal. So you don’t have to have my name on your arm anymore. Because…” Satomi’s voice tightens and starts to crack. His nails dig deep indents into his forearms. He pauses, takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes, then starts again, voice thinner and more quavering now. “Because I want to be with you Kyouji-san. But I can’t stand this in between. I don’t know where I stand, and I feel like I’ve tied you to me against your will.”

He squeezes out the rest in a shaking, high whisper, “So, if you don’t want me back, please accept this gift and get rid of my name. And let’s both move on like none of this happened.”

Kyouji says nothing, doesn’t know what to say. He’d braced himself for Satomi to end things for good but hadn’t expected it to feel this cruel. Satomi isn’t just asking him to disappear from his life, he’s telling him to cut out the pieces of Satomi and leave them behind before he goes.

But 200,000 yen won't cover what they’d need to do. It would take more than just burning his skin. They’d have to slice into his heart. Pick out pieces of his eyes, ears, tongue, hands, brain, olfactory nerve. Then take out his bones and grind them up to sift Satomi out.

His hands pick up the envelope. He stares at it. His body is frozen.

“I’m not telling you I want to end this. I want to be with you.” Satomi pleads. The tears are flowing down his cheeks now, quiet and steady.

Satomi looks so lost. Kyouji wants to comfort him, reassure him that he’ll be okay, but he can’t shake the paralysis. A temporary locked-in syndrome. He can’t do more than blink.

They sit there in silence for what must be minutes, Satomi crying silently, Kyouji unmoving. Eventually, one of Kyouji’s hands reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He hands it to Satomi.

Satomi takes it and wipes his eyes. “I want to go home,” he says quietly.

Kyouji manages to animate his body enough to get Satomi’s coat, scarf, gloves. He helps him into them. Leads him down to the car. Opens the door for him. Closes it. Walks around. Gets in. Drives him home. Neither of them say a word.

He forgets to drop him off a few blocks away, finds himself parked right in the front of his house. Satomi gets out without saying anything. He hesitates for a moment with the passenger door open, then shuts it and goes inside.

Kyouji isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do next, but he can’t stay parked in front of Satomi’s house. He drives aimlessly for a while, and eventually the road takes him back to his apartment.

A text comes in from Satomi later that night. It’s close to early morning, but Kyouji still hasn’t fallen asleep.

-I’m spending the New Year with my family, then leaving for Tokyo on January 3rd, so please make your decision by then.

Chapter Text

-Enjoy the New Year with your family. Stay healthy.

The text to the side lets him know that Satomi has read his message. Kyouji’s not expecting a response.

But two days later, while he's reading through documents in the office, his phone chirps softly.

-I've been looking at civil service postings in Osaka, just out of curiosity. I think I'm going to try to move back after college.

Kyouji wonders if Satomi meant to send the message to someone else, had opened his conversation with Kyouji by mistake. But he’s not generous enough to let the opening slip by.

-It’s good for a Kansai boy to come back home. Your family will be happy.

Kyouji hopes he’s threaded the line well enough. Nothing about him being happy at the possibility of seeing Satomi again, even if by accident. Nothing that would make Satomi automatically shut down the conversation when he realizes he texted Kyouji by mistake.  

Satomi doesn’t reply. Doesn’t tell him to get lost. Kyouji considers it a win.

Now that his foot’s slipped into the crack, he doesn’t let the door shut. Later that day, while he’s at the boss’ house, Kyouji sneaks a picture of Kuro eyeing him suspiciously from behind the armchair. He forwards it to Satomi.

-It’s you, he captions.  

-Will your boss notice if you kidnap one?!! Satomi replies.

Kyouji’s mouth twitches. Of course, Satomi is a cat person.

-Yes. It would be akin to kidnapping a child, he replies. I didn’t know you wanted a pet.

-Yeah, someday when I’m not living in a single room apartment. When I was younger, I wanted a dog, a cat, a snake, and a lizard. But a cat is more practical.

Kyouji’s at the Port of Osaka. He’s meeting some contacts to gather information and impress upon them the negative consequences of cooperating with any outside kumi that may try to approach them. By their faces when he leaves, he’s satisfied they’ve understood his group punishment approach should any ambitious customs officer grow unsatisfied with their current payroll and try to diversify.

He takes a walk along the waterfront afterwards. Letting the rare moment of calm wash over him. The sun is shimmering off the water’s surface, blindingly bright.

He sends Satomi a photo.

-Satomi-kun, do you know how to swim?

Kyouji feels a thrill when his phone lights up almost immediately.

-Of course I do, how old do you think I am? And you can’t swim there.

He bites back a grin, delighted.

His phone pings again.

-My parents used to take us to the same beach town every summer growing up. I thought it was lame as a kid, but now I get it. It’s nice to have a place that you can go back to again and again.

For Kyouji, the days are rinse and repeat.

He tracks the movements of Sakai's kumi, Katou-kai, across the city. Stays updated on truck and boat registrations in the district, checks with massage parlors and hostess bars about new staff no one has seen before, keeps tabs on customs officers who have suddenly upgraded their cars or purchased expensive watches. He cross-references names, checks manifests, reroutes surveillance patrols.

His kyoudai have taken turns making sure to put food in front of him. He chews without registering the flavor.

At some point in the day, the boss will get tired of him. Yell at him to go home and come back when he looks less like Sadako.

Except, he doesn’t go home. He walks several streets down instead.

The ladies at the department store have started to light up when they see him. They greet him with the familiar, Irasshaimase, Narita-san!

One of them walks with him to the home goods section. She shows him a set of embroidered linen napkins. He traces the stitching with his thumb. She adds them to his basket.

Another shows him a new shipment of handmade ceramic bowls. He selects two, deep blue edged with brown. Then chooses a second set, pottery white with veins of gold.

As he walks through the store, he adds a quiet, sleek humidifier. A teak tea serving tray. Floor cushions in simple, pleasing patterns.

He picks up a heavy, ceramic ashtray with koi fish painted at the bottom. Turns it over in his hand. Sets it back down.

He doesn’t smoke.

He selects a small indoor plant with trailing leaves. The staff offer to box it, but he carries it out in the crook of his arm.

At home, he unpacks everything slowly. The bowls go in the cabinet. The napkins in a drawer. The cushions under the end table. Tray on the coffee table, holding a vase with fresh flowers and a scented candle. Humidifier in an unobtrusive corner of the room. The plant on the windowsill, under the sunlight.

He doesn’t text Satomi. Not about any of it.

The boss is getting weepy over old photo albums. Everything by Misia is playing on the speakers, to Kyouji’s irritation. He gathers that things aren’t going well with Masanori. Another fight. The boss telling him to lay low for his own protection, Masanori telling him to fuck off and stay out of his business.

The boss gets up to restart the track from the beginning. Kyouji tightens his jaw. He reaches for his phone and opens LINE. He snaps a photo: Masanori in uniform, shouldering his randoseru. Gap-toothed, wide smile.

-Can you believe Masanori used to look like this?

Misia is singing about transforming the power of love into courage when his screen lights up with Satomi’s response.

-That reporter showed me a photo of the two of you when you were younger, so yeah. It’s his transformation as an adult that’s hard to visualize.

Kyouji starts to chuckle, but the boss looks over at him curiously, so he muffles it into a cough.

-The boss has always had a soft spot for kids. They all remind him of Masanori.

-It’s pretty normal to have a soft spot for kids, isn’t it? You’re the only weirdo who sees a kid and thinks of kidnapping and forced labor, Satomi shoots back.

Kyouji smiles into his knuckles. He wishes he could see Satomi’s expression right now.

-Do you get along well with kids, Satomi-kun?

-Okay, I guess. I’m the youngest, so I don’t really have any experience. My brother and his fiancée want a big family, though. I don't particularly want to have kids, but I'd like to be an uncle someday.

Kyouji gets a little high off all the replies. The precious pieces of honesty—his thoughts, his wants, his past—that Satomi willingly hands to him. Each one feels like a gift he doesn’t deserve.

That’s the only excuse he can make for his next mistake.

-Since you gave me something, I’d like to get you a belated Christmas present as well. Is there anything you need?

-You already know what I want.

Kyouji wants to punch himself in the face. Shut the fuck up, you stupid asshole. You walked into that one.

He’s never missed having a smoke in his hand quite like at that moment. He imagines the drag of the cigarette, the lazy curl of smoke on the exhale. The habit and ritual of it. The way it gave his hands something to do as he turned his mind off. Something to blunt the cold awareness of his own idiocy.

But the next morning, Satomi texts him again, like nothing had happened.

-How long have you lived in your place? Satomi asks one day.

-Almost two years, I think.

-Do you move around a lot?

-Yeah, every few years. There was a time I’d move every few weeks, so years is an improvement.

-Ugh, I forgot you were a gigolo.

Kyouji isn’t sure how to respond to that one. Thankfully, Satomi keeps the conversation going.

-My parents bought our house when I was two, so I don’t remember anything else. Masami remembers being really excited about it, though. When I'm more settled in my career, I think having a standalone home outside the city would be nice one day.

Kyouji thinks about the rapidly filling closets in his apartment. The living space that continues to absorb his growing number of purchases. He’s looked into renting a storage unit nearby. But a two-story standalone house isn’t a bad idea. A place to keep coming back to, again and again.

He and Satomi continue their daily correspondence. Kyouji keeps waiting for Satomi to call him out, to cut it off, to demand an answer from him. But he never does.

Then, on January 2^nd.

-I want to meet up in person. Are you free today?

Kyouji knocks his head against the side of the car in frustration. A couple of high school girls glance in his direction and give him a wide berth.

Things have taken an ugly turn with Katou-kai. They’ve rooted out most of their warehouses in the area, one by one. Meth, weapons, people—it seemed there was no kind of trade Katou-kai wasn’t tangled up in. Kyouji has been working brutal hours, painstakingly finding and removing the links in their chain—transporters, boat operators, corrupt customs officials. Even Matsuribayashi-gumi's own members lured by the promise of power and money.

The boss was working his magic, and the police were turning a blind eye, glad to let someone else risk their necks instead. But, like a cornered animal, the group had started to lash out aggressively as the walls closed in around them.

A week ago, someone had lobbed several grenades at a construction site affiliated with Matsuribayashi-gumi. A few days later, a drive-by shooter had sprayed machine gun fire at the front of the boss’ house. Yesterday, a man had driven a truck into their headquarters building. The futility of smashing a mini truck against a post-war reinforced concrete building just underscored the crazed desperation of Katou-kai’s last moves.

He can sense this confrontation is nearing its end. Just a few more days. Then he will be done. He can go tell the boss he’s finally done.

But Satomi leaves tomorrow. Fuck.

-Things are busy right now, but I’ll let you know when I can meet tonight. Stay home. Wait for my message. Don’t go out. I’ll come get you, Satomi-kun. Just wait for me, okay?

Kyouji’s hosting a late dinner meeting with the wakagashira of neighboring kumi from Kobe and Osaka. They’re discussing the Katou-kai situation, how to keep the out-of-control group from exploding the order they’ve built over years.

“Drug smuggling, human trafficking, supplying terrorist groups. We don’t do that shit.” Ichimura shakes his head in disgust. His kumi has long held dominion over Kobe, a gold standard of chivalry and tradition.

“You should have ended it years ago when Sakai first started acting up. Don’t pull out the weeds immediately, and they’ll take over the whole garden,” Tanaka rebukes. His kumi’s territory borders Masturibayashi-gumi’s. With a long history of good relations between the two, he’s been around long enough to remember the shitstorm that went down when Sakai defected decades ago.

“Give Kyouji a break. You remember what happened back then. He took the fall to cover everyone else,” Inoue comes to his defense with a brief squeeze of his shoulder.

Other than Kyouji, the youngest person the room is pushing sixty at best. He wonders if they’re all eagerly taking the opportunity to treat him like the kid they used to think of him as.

“Never thought it was right, making you pay for Sakai’s sins,” Tanaka concedes gruffly. “Five years for a first timer, when something was clearly not right with the case. That judge was excessive.”

The words trigger an automatic, loyal defensiveness. “The boss did the right thing,” Kyouji responds firmly. “I was close to Sakai and missed what was happening. I deserved to pay the price for it.”

“He has a good second-in-command,” Ichimura asserts, closing the discussion. “You’ve done an impressive job ending this cleanly on your end. We’re ready to support as needed.”

With that, the discussion proceeds smoothly. They’re about to drink a toast to seal their agreement when he’s interrupted by a buzzing in his jacket.

It’s Satomi.

-I really need to see you. I’m right outside your place. Can you please open?

Kyouji’s stomach bottoms out. The blood drains from his face.

It’s unbelievably rude to leave mid-toast, but he makes an excuse. He walks out the door without waiting for a reply. His cup of sake sits on the table, untouched.

Satomi doesn’t answer the phone. It rings. And rings. And rings.

Fuck. FUCK.

Kyouji’s racing home at twice the speed limit. He haphazardly parks his car, half on the curb, and bolts up the stairs. Satomi’s still not answering.

The door to his apartment is ajar. The inside looks like the aftermath of a localized typhoon.

Shoes and jackets are strewn across the entryway. The shoe rack lies splintered in several pieces.

Kyouji runs inside, yelling for Satomi, going room by room.

The coffee table in the living room is overturned. A patch of wetness, ceramic shards and bent flowers lie on the floor in front. The couch has been knifed open, stuffing strewn everywhere. The floor is a chaotic mess of torn books, heaped up throws, and assorted decor. A massacre of torn leaves and stray earth by the windowsill.

In the kitchen, the fridge door beeps petulantly at being left open. Ingredients have been thrown around along with appliances and dishware. The whole thing looks like a bad trip.

The bathroom gives the feel of an aromatherapy room having a psychotic break, the scents of various overturned bottles mingling together. Each dresser drawer in his bedroom has been removed and upturned. His clothes are in a tangled heap on the bed. His sheets are in a tangled heap on the floor.

There’s no one there.

The phone vibrates in his hand. It’s a message from Satomi. A photo.

He rushes to open it, fumbling, nearly dropping the phone as it slips through his fingers. 

In the photo, Satomi is sitting against the dark leather seats of a car. He’s gagged. His hands are bound in front of him.

He’s glaring at the camera. Kyouji can see tear tracks. There are no visible injuries, but that means nothing.

A message pops up below the photo.

-Kyouji, your place is boring as fuck, hope you don’t mind I trashed it. But who’s this cute kitten I found outside?

Chapter Text

This time, the phone connects when he calls.

“Kyocchan, it’s been awhile!” Sakai sounds almost giddy. “No message even after I’ve been in town so long—I thought you were ignoring me.”

Glass crunches underfoot as Kyouji exits the apartment. He doesn’t slow.

“Where are you?” he growls.

“Now, what kind of greeting is that, Kyouji? I know I taught you better manners than that. But maybe none of it stuck. No sorry, even after you betrayed me all those years ago.” Sakai’s seethes, the playfulness curdling.  

An angry Sakai is bad. Dangerous for Satomi.

“If it’s my apology you want, let’s talk in person,” Kyouji says, conciliatory. “I’m ready to make amends.”

“I want more than that, Kyocchan. You’re a big deal now, aren’t you? Kissed up to the boss to climb your way up. Always his favorite. I wonder how you cozied up to that lonely old man, abandoned by everyone else.” Sakai’s mocks, but his tone steadies. He thinks he’s winning.

No matter what, Kyouji has to keep him talking. “Whatever you want from me, I’m willing to listen. But let’s talk man to man,” he cajoles.

“You know what I want. I want you to pay in blood for choosing to cling to the coattails of a fading old man instead of the aniki who made you. But not before you hand me the keys to the kumi that never should’ve been yours to begin with,” Sakai’s volume rises with each sentence. Spitting fury. 

Kyouji’s phone pings. A location pin. It’s one of the minor warehouses on Kyouji’s list, one they hadn’t tipped off the police to yet.

“You’re going to meet me here with the name of every local contact Matsuribayashi-gumi has, and the dossiers of all your members. You’re gonna get here in under 20 minutes or I’ll start taking out my impatience on our cute guest.”

“Fine,” Kyouji says, voice scraped raw.

“Oh, and Kyouji? If I so much as hear a siren or a tire squeal, your little kitten dies.” With that, Sakai disconnects. His call back goes straight to voicemail.

He’s only a block from the office. Each second ticks loud in his skull as he sprints to the front entrance. Dashes up the stairs and bangs open the door, interrupting the boss, who’s fiddling with his phone.

It’s only him and the boss in there. They must all be spread thin.

“Sakai went to my place. He found Satomi-kun,” Kyouji pants.

The boss raises his eyebrows. Kyouji doesn’t have time to explain.

“I need a 15-minute head start to try to negotiate. Then, I need you to redirect everyone to the warehouse in Kashiwara, ready to fight.” Kyouji might be yelling. He can’t quite hear himself.

The boss hums. “It sounds like you’re telling me to risk an all-out war with Katou-kai over an unrelated civilian, Kyouji.”

It isn’t untrue or unreasonable. But it lands like a gut-punch of betrayal.

“He’s not unrelated to me,” Kyouji snarls.

“He’s not kumi. Just an unfortunate kid,” the boss returns, impassive. His expression turns grim, deadly serious.

“You’re not some loose stray anymore, you’re my wakagashira. And you’re going to stay right here and not get drawn in to the confrontation Sakai obviously wants to goad you into. That’s an order, Kyouji.”

Kyouji looks at the man to whom he’s dedicated the last two and a half decades of his life. He doesn’t hesitate. The door slams behind him—loud and final.

Kyouji has been investigating Katou-kai for months. They’ve lost most of their membership through violent confrontations with the police and civilians, and the subsequent crackdowns. Only around two hundred members remain. Sakai brought thirty or so to town for his rash, deranged bid to secure a port in Osaka to transfer their smuggling operations.

Sakai wouldn’t need more than a handful of men to ransack his place. That’s doable—unless they’ve already regrouped at their base and sent him on a wild goose chase. There is a chance that without Sakai, the remaining members will be disorganized enough to break apart and go home.

He can’t take a chance with Satomi.

He works while driving. He reaches out to the police commissioner, a man he’s gotten to know well over the years. Sends him the location of the Katou-kai base, enough evidence to justify a search, and a promise to share the rest of his information if they do their jobs right.

He’s blowing up the traps he’s laid for over a month, betraying his kumi in the process—and he doesn’t give a fuck.

He slows down and kills the headlights as he approaches the meeting point. Steps out quietly. Across the distance, he sees a figure standing away from the warehouse. Recognizes Sakai’s stocky silhouette. If there’s anyone else here, they’re inside.

Now, he prepares to cast away his pride—and finds none left to cast.

The first call gets sent to voicemail. Fine. He texts instead. He knows the boss never leaves a message unread.

-If I’ve ever done anything to put you in my debt, I’m calling it in now. I’ll prostrate myself. I’ll only follow orders from now on. So please, I’m begging you—help me now.

He sends his location pin to the boss. Then he stoops ever lower.

-I betrayed Masanori’s trust for your sake. I went to prison for you and never complained. This is all I will ever ask in return. Please.

Done. Time to confront Sakai.

Sakai grins as Kyouji approaches. “Kyocchan! All grown up and still as easy to manipulate!” he crows, too loud.

“Where’s Satomi?” Kyouji snarls.

“Oh, is that her name? You’re cold as ever, Kyouji, making your cute little girlfriend wait outside for you. I didn’t know your taste ran in that direction, or I would have offered you a different menu when we were together.” Sakai sneers. “That’s not why we’re here. We’re here to discuss how you’re going to help me—”

“I don’t give a fuck why you think you’re here.” Kyouji growls. “Where’s Satomi.”

“Kyouji, don’t tell me you actually have feelings for this one?” Sakai scoffs. “Don’t worry, we’ve taken real good care of her—"

Sakai goes silent. Kyouji replays his bullshit, trying to figure out why. That’s when he notices the gun in his hand—muzzle pressed to Sakai’s forehead.

Ah. 

“Really, threatening me, Kyocchan?” Sakai’s voice strains for playful, but he’s bad at hiding the rage in his eyes. The gun to the head works, because Sakai’s gaze veers for a just a moment to the building behind them. Classic tell. His backup’s still here, waiting to ambush. Satomi’s still here.

The man who once towered above him looks like so much wet paper now. He’s still rambling, trying to subtly reach for his gun—but he’s no longer relevant.

“I’m the one who taught you how to kill, remember? Never thought you were the type to risk an inter-group war over some little wh—"  

Kyouji shoots him once, point blank in the head. Doesn’t bother to see where the body falls. He’s already running for the door.

The first instinct is to kick it in. He gets a hold of himself. He’s no good to Satomi dead.

He braces himself behind the door. Tries the handle.

It’s unlocked.

He opens it, slowly. 

Later, he’ll reconstruct the scene: bodies strewn on the floor, others restrained and being hauled away by his kyoudai. Several kyoudai circle the boss, who’s taking an empty Kagome vegetable juice box back from a shaken-looking, but unharmed Satomi. They’re both seated on a metal bench that’s bolted to one wall of the warehouse room.

In the moment, though, he sees none of that.

All he can see is the bright amber of Satomi’s eyes, fixed on him. He spans the distance across the room. He can’t say if he ran, crawled, or just willed himself to Satomi’s side. Someone carefully takes the gun from his hand—he lets them. He shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Satomi’s shoulders, too cold, too exposed in just a cotton shirt.

His kyoudai are ribbing him, someone is joking about playboys falling the hardest. The boss is reading lines from his text in a gruff, exaggerated, tough-guy voice, saying something about karma for a string of broken hearts. There’s an explanation somewhere—they’d kept a round-the-clock security detail on Kyouji’s place. They’d never lost eyes on Sakai or Satomi. The words are noise buzzing somewhere over his head.

He crouches down in front of Satomi. Reaches out, slowly. Softly cups his face in both hands. Tries to be as tender as he can.

Satomi’s eyes are locked onto his own. Neither of them can move their gazes away.

“Your brothers rescued me almost as soon as those guys stopped the car. I stayed with your boss in his car until it was safe, and then they brought me here,” Satomi tells him, voice soft and flat. “I mean, it was horrible, and terrifying. But. It was mostly going from sitting in one car to another. So. I’m okay, Kyouji.”

Kyouji doesn’t understand why Satomi is trying to reassure him until he lifts a hand to wipe under Kyouji’s eye, coming away wet.

Oh. He reaches for his handkerchief. Satomi takes it and wipes the blood and tears from Kyouji’s face.

“Let’s get you home, Satomi.” His voice comes out rough. Broken.

But Satomi bites his lip and shakes his head. His hands tug on Kyouji’s shirt collar and Kyouji lets himself be pulled up to sit beside him.

“I changed my mind, I don’t want you to get the tattoo removed,” Satomi breathes, soft and strained. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It’s okay if you don’t quit the yakuza. I still—"

He covers Satomi’s mouth with his hand. It’s enough. He doesn’t want to keep standing frozen while Satomi braves each step between them alone.

“I’m not going to get rid of the tattoo, Satomi. Ever.”

His thumb grazes Satomi’s cheek. When that’s allowed, he slides his hand down to the side of his neck, rubbing softly.

“I can’t give up the tattoo. Or you. I want you with me. Forever.”

The truth is he hasn’t for a second considered removing Satomi’s mark from his skin. The truth is Satomi’s skin is warm, his pulse is beating fast and alive under Kyouji’s hand. Satomi’s eyes are beautiful when they look upon him, and his heart is big and brave enough to hold the wreckage that is Narita Kyouji. The enormity of these truths clears out the thought of anything else. Kyouji has no choice but to let them break him and reshape him.

Kyouji turns to the old man, who’s moved towards the far corner of the room with his kyoudai. “Boss,” he starts, only to find his view suddenly barred by Kobayashi’s broad chest.

“What business does a civilian have with our boss?” he barks, arms on his hips, chest puffed out.

What? Kyouji tries again. Gets on his hands and knees this time.

“Boss, I know I said I would never ask you for anything ever again—”

“Enough!” the boss walks over and cuts him off sharply, tone icy. “Kyouji, you disobeyed my orders. You made your choice, and now I’m throwing you away. Never show your face here again.”

Behind him, his kyoudai are crying. The boss turns his back and walks away without another word. At the exits, he pauses. Looks back for a moment.  

“Ah, take care of him sensei,” the boss says with a wink to Satomi, then slips out.

Satomi nods, solemn. Then he wraps himself around Kyouji’s arm, pulling him down with the weight of his body as he sags into him.

“Let's go home,” Satomi mutters into Kyouji’s shoulder.

Kyouji takes Satomi home.

Chapter Text

Satomi’s still holding on to him when they reach Kyouji’s apartment, so he unlocks the door one-handed. As it opens, the chaos greets him—upturned furniture, shattered glass, the aftermath of Sakai’s intrusion. Too late, he remembers why home might have been a bad idea. He starts to apologize, reaching back for the door, but Satomi’s already slipped off his shoes and gone inside.

Kyouji can only follow.

He catches up, gently turns Satomi, slides the coat from his shoulders. Tosses it toward one of the piles—no point hunting for a hanger. He looks Satomi up and down, confirming his presence. He feels shaky and wrong-footed in a way he never has, even as a gawky teenager.

After a pause, Satomi takes his hand and leads him to the ruined couch.

Satomi presses against him, shoulder to hip to knee. He takes Kyouji’s right hand in both of his. Plays with his fingers—opening and closing them, following his life line, lacing their hands together. Kyouji lets himself be handled, grounded by the warmth of Satomi’s touch.

Laying his head on Kyouji’s shoulder, Satomi unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve and rolls it up. He slides his index finger over the lines of his name on Kyouji’s forearm. Kyouji counts twenty-three strokes as Satomi’s reinscribes his name onto Kyouji’s skin. Satomi traces and retraces, using his arm like a kanji workbook.

On one pass, Satomi shifts his grip, and Kyouji catches a hint of black lettering along the inside of his left hand. On instinct, he pulls free, takes Satomi’s hand in his instead, palm up.

And there it is.

狂児. Kyouji. Small, but unmistakable. Inked along the base of Satomi’s left ring finger. Still red around the edges, not fully healed.

The breath goes out of him.

Kyouji’s teeth close around Satomi’s finger before he can stop himself. Animal instinct. His tongue laps out, tasting his name on Satomi’s skin.

Satomi gasps. Soft and sharp in the silence.

Kyouji meets his eyes as he sucks the finger deeper into his mouth. Hears a hiss from Satomi. His gaze feels like a blessing. He wants to drop to his knees and kiss Satomi’s feet. Maybe he will. Later.

One more lick over his brand. One last press of his teeth—a ring around the base of Satomi’s finger.

Satomi exhales as Kyouji slides his mouth off. Then climbs onto his lap, hands tugging at his collar.

“Kiss me,” Satomi breathes.

Their lips meet, soft and tender. Then deeper, more wanting. Someone groans. Someone gasps.

The kisses turn biting, wet. Kyouji delights in the tremble of Satomi’s skin under his touch. The give of Satomi’s body in his hands.

He tastes salt on his tongue. Pauses to wipe Satomi's tears, but Satomi just laughs and kisses him again.

“Say it again,” Satomi begs in his ear.

Kyouji holds his face, tender. Claims one more kiss. Rests their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he tells Satomi.

Satomi giggles. “Close enough.”

Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”

Somehow, they make it to the bedroom, mess of sheets and clothes swept aside to the floor. Kyouji drowns himself in Satomi—his taste on his mouth, his softness in his hands, his scent everywhere, his enigmatic beauty, the small sounds he makes to drive a man crazy.

Kyouji is undone.

Afterwards, he curves himself around Satomi’s back. His thumb rubs against the ink on Satomi’s finger, back and forth, like a monk chanting with prayer beads. He wonders, dreamily, if he’ll reach 108 repetitions before sleep takes him.

In the morning, Kyouji comes out of the bathroom to find Satomi sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the middle of the debris. In his hands is a creased, yellowing piece of lined notebook paper.

Fuck. He stops cold. Satomi’s eyes move steadily over his own handwriting, reading line by line. The silence stretches taut.

Finally, Satomi folds the paper and looks up. Kyouji’s gut constricts, hot with shame.

“You never changed your song,” Satomi says, voice unreadable. “Why always Kurenai?”

Kyouji swallows. “Just like it,” he replies, low, helpless.

Satomi nods, rises, walks over. He presses the paper into Kyouji’s hand. Leans up for a kiss. Kyouji feels himself unclench.

“It’s the wrong song for you, and you sound absolutely terrible,” Satomi tells him. Brings their lips together again. “But keep singing it anyway.”

That afternoon, Kyouji drives Satomi to the train station.

He hands over Satomi’s backpack and suitcase when the shinkansen pulls onto the track. Satomi takes them but doesn’t move.

“Satomi.”

Kyouji pulls out an envelope.

“Thank you for saving up for me. I can’t accept your original gift, but the ladies at the department store gave me some suggestions for a gift to fit this budget.”

Satomi reaches out for the envelope. Kyouji holds back from kissing away the perplexed little frown.

Satomi opens the flap, blushes when he sees the flyer (Christmas special: couple rings). He slips the envelope into his backpack. If he notices the heft—two or three times thicker than before—he doesn’t say anything.

“Let’s go when you’re in town next month,” he says, quietly.

Kyouji ruffles his hair and laughs when Satomi swats him off, annoyed.

“I’ll see you soon,” Kyouji promises.

Satomi nods, then turns to get on the train.

Kyouji watches it pull away. Walks back to the car, mind busy.

Three more years of college. Enough time to find a welcoming home in a good neighborhood and remodel it to Satomi’s tastes. Close to the station for work. Not too far from his family.

He should go to the shelter soon. See if he can find a cat that doesn’t hate him. Maybe a bonded pair, so they won’t be lonely when he’s out of town.

For now, he’ll go home and try to sort through the wreckage. Get rid of what he can’t use anymore. Figure out what to do with what remains.

And tomorrow, maybe he’ll get on a train to Tokyo.