Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a mute desperation Kataoka recognizes instantly. As the fists come down again and again, increasingly brutal, animalistic with each punch. A blonde head bobs with every heaving throw.

Oblivious of eyes on him even as his knuckles crack against the fallen men, the blonde man goes on, relentless.

Kataoka stands still; somehow, it’s magnetic. He smiles, his white teeth peeking out, a cigarette twisting in his fingers.

He likes it. Not the violence, but the familiarity of brokenness, Kataoka concludes happily and savors the loss of sanity in the man he watches.

“New recruit?” He enquires of the two bodyguards beside him.

“Yes, boss,” they reply in unison. “From the juvie. Got off the worst, he is a young ‘un”

“Hmm…” Katoka accedes.

He watches for a beat more until the man finally falls, kneeling on the grass beside the two men he has just beaten to a pulp. They lie motionless; there is blood on his face now, the white of his shirt smeared with specks of red and pieces of flesh.

He heaves for just a moment and then, all of a sudden, as if sensing Kataoka, looks up.

His eyes scorch into the back of Kataoka’s head.

Cold, distant, dark, almost as if they’re not of this world, and yet, Kataoka feels a simmering burn linger in the gaze.

There’s a smudged scar of a healed cut drawn across his right cheek; his sweat-streaked tanned skin glows under the sunlight, it’s addictive, Kataoka decides, staring at the man.

And then he turns, breaking away. “Let’s go,”

“Kirii was always so good at picking out the broken ones...” He smirks under his breath.

It’s another 11 months until Kataoka stops in his tracks.

He is in a good mood, though; things are going well. Businesses in his area are all falling in line.

Only Kirii wants him to have more underlings. ‘Some more responsibility will be better for you, brother…’

And it’s such bullshit, but the old man agrees too. Kataoka shrugs. To be honest, it doesn’t even matter.

“We are here, boss,” his driver informs, holding the door of the black sedan ajar.

Kataoka steps out and smiles, straightening out his colorful suit. A gathered group of young men bows on cue.

The smile broadens. It feels good to be admired, to be so unequivocally looked up to. Kataoka feels himself straightening up even more.

He walks through the medley of young men, feeling almost like a preened peacock, until he is halfway to the elevator door that’ll take him to his office on the top floor.

There’s a movement, a slight golden halo Kataoka catches from the corner of his eyes. He stops.

A head is looking up, blonde, skinny, eyes unreadable, but not looking away.

And it’s a split second, Kataoka feels it, like déjà vu. The familiarity of that gaze, like a hard, cold breeze of Hokkaido, the dark eyes hold his gaze, and instantly, there is that burn that Kataoka lets fill slowly up his brain.

This time, though, he doesn’t look away. He puts his hands in his pockets and turns to almost face the man. The burn doesn’t hurt; it feels toasty instead, almost curious.

It’s not long until a guy on the blondie’s right forcefully pushes his head down, making them both bow lower until their faces are almost touching the ground. The blonde man doesn’t resist.

“This way, boss,” one of the bodyguards motions.

It’s only when the blonde guy no longer looks up, Kataoka decides to move away. He barely holds off from asking for the man’s name.

It’s late at night, and there's men he lost today; a deal that turned renegade because someone snitched.

Kataoka doesn’t feel like smiling as he takes in the old man’s grave face. They need to find the mole; that’s the priority.

Kataoka understands, and yet somehow everything feels pointless. It’s not in the yakuza code to mourn soldiers for too long, but Kataoka wishes somewhere deep down he was the one to end his life instead of his subordinates.

When he leaves the old man’s office, the clock ticks close to 2 AM.

Kirii’s chambers station on the floor below, and Kataoka doesn’t know why he hits that button in his elevator.

It’s weird, he doesn’t even want to meet Kirii, because somewhere he suspects his stepbrother is responsible for the deaths of his men, and yet Kataoka feels drawn to see him.

Maybe he will chicken out like always and not say a word to Kirii. Listen to him and leave with nothing but a wave, but Kataoka wants to see Kirii’s face just once tonight.

The elevator dings. The hallway to Kirii’s room is painted red, the dim lights ghostly in the shadows.

Two stoic guardsmen stand at Kirii’s door, and just as Kataoka moves to step forward, the door opens from inside.

A lanky man steps out, and Kataoka halts.

His hair is not blonde anymore. It’s dark, the color of a starless sky at midnight. The scar still adorns his face like a beauty spot.

Kataoka doesn’t move. Unlike the fearless leader he is, he instead pushes himself deep in the shadows of one of the many doorframes in the corridor and watches like a surreptitious cat.

“Don’t need you tomorrow, Odajima,” Kirii’s voice grates out from inside the room; there’s a dimmed sound of belt clasps and zippers. The command’s dismissive, even cruel in a way that twists something in Kataoka.

“Yes, boss.” The answer is just as cold, though.

But it’s the first time in three years Kataoka hears the man’s voice, and his name.

Odajima. Odajima.

His lips look red, almost bruised. The dark of his shirt hangs limply around his lanky frame. He runs his hands across his lips like trying to remove some unseen stain.

And his eyes, Kataoka can’t help but search his eyes: they’re hollow, like a dark, empty vacant space that doesn’t focus anywhere.

Odajima doesn’t sense Kataoka or at least pretends not to. He doesn’t mind Kirii’s bodyguards by the door, but walks slowly, dragging his feet one before the other. There’s the distinct smell of semen and sex that cling to him, and Kataoka swallows.

There is no mistaking what he does or has just done for Kirii.

And a part of Kataoka wishes that Odajima would turn, look at him again with those eyes, even in the aftermath, even with Kirii as his lover, if he would look just one more time at Kataoka with those eyes.

Odajima rings the elevator and gets on it, looking down at his feet. He never looks up.

That night, Kataoka doesn’t meet his brother.

“He has been with us a long time, Kataoka. Odajima is trustworthy, good with finance; just disappear with him for a few months.”

Kataoka recalls later smiling to himself as sheets of salty air from the sea blow in his face.

He hears the click of a gun less than a foot behind him, just as he feels the tug at the end of his fishing line on the high bluff.

“Dare not miss,” He bellows loudly over the wind, pulling up the pole line, but to his utter misery, he actually misses it.

There is no fish, and a bullet never kisses him; only Odajima’s footsteps get closer.

“The tide is too low,” He informs deadpan, “the boys down the bluff said you won’t get to catch anything today.”

“Ahh, really?” Kataoka grimaces, “Huh… Well, what can you do? I guess, we’ll grab some lunch at the noodle place then.”

His orange Hawaiian shirt blows in the wind as he rises and meets Odajima’s eyes. They falter and lower until Kataoka steps forward with the sudden, intense urge to trace the little scar adorning Odajima’s face.

“Uh…Boss?…” He enquires, haltingly.

There’s a sheen of pinkish hue that comes to the surface on Odajima’s face whenever he feels flustered; it’s a recent secret that Kataoka discovered. And he feels the distinct urge to see how far this blush travels: does it run down the V of his shirt, flush over his chest, feel warm like the burn he marked on Kataoka the first time they locked eyes.

Does he moan when swamped in pleasure, beg for more, or does he bite his lip, unable to hold back?

The blush stays soft, fragile, almost non-existent unless you look closely, at war with the stark coldness that emits from his eyes. And Kataoka wishes he could store it away somewhere in him, to relish, to cherish…

“We need to buy a better car,” He moves away, changing the topic, “Something bigger, with a working air conditioning and radios.. and..”

“I don’t think,” Odajima replies, “That’d be a good idea, boss… It’ll only draw attention.”

Kataoka rolls his eyes.

Chapter Text

The car is shitty. White, old, with paint peeling off from the corners, and the seat is bony, uncomfortable as Kataoka shifts, trying a better position.

He sighs, giving up. His hip bones creak on the offensive material.

They’re stopped at an unknown harbor, and Kataoka has lost count of how far they have come. The miles melt with the summer wind, getting all crumbled into a kaleidoscope of colored vistas and changing horizons; sometimes Kataoka thinks none of this is real, and maybe he is dead already.

There’s a part in him, the part that’s shallow, a veritable coward in fact, that wishes instead that he lay in the arms of some unnamed, beautiful woman, maybe with that young girl in front of the parlor who kept throwing hints every time he passed. Maybe the mess with the pimp didn’t happen, maybe Kirii didn’t want his head.

Maybe he was be dead already…

And yet, Kataoka isn’t unhappy. He tastes freedom with each unknown lane the car swerves, the faces of his stepfather and brother, the organization, the stench of Tokyo blurring with each sunrise.

He turns his head and looks sideways.

His companion rests peacefully or at least pretends to. Odajima’s head lolls to one side against the windowpane.

He is not asleep, only acting; the restless movement of his diaphragm gives it away.

So novice for a gangster. And silly too, all to avoid picking up his vibrating phone.

Such an idiot.

Kataoka smirks.

Odajima is still wearing the same shirt as the day Kirii gifted him to Kataoka. Grey with lines of dark flowers and leaves across. They don’t smell the same as then, though.

The clawing scent of Kirii’s cologne and laundry detergent washed away, carrying now a trail of salty sea air, swirled with cigarette smoke and Odajima’s own sweat and bruises.

And if Kataoka’s honest, it’s a hauntingly addictive concoction.

He indulges, ungracefully dragging breath in and watches Odajima quietly.

The perfect curve of his Adam’s apple, the slender dip of his neck, the disappearing tan of his skin into the shirt, teasing Kataoka.

A slow, small smile blooms on Kataoka's face. His fingers hover just above Odajima’s belt.

Odajima was a gift. He was his stepbrother’s plaything and now gifted to him as a leftover or for appeasement, a little something before death, perhaps…

His assassin, his very own murderer… how poetic.

‘Odajima,’ Kataoka calls softly. When he doesn’t answer or still pretends not to hear, Kataoka reaches out, leaning across to the driver’s side, and starts to fiddle with Odajima's zipper. It takes a minute of maneuvering before Odajima finally stirs up.

"Uh- boss? … Boss, what are you doing?" he says in a shaky voice.

When Kataoka replies, his voice is low, mischievous, “I promise, it’ll feel good.’

Before Odajima can form a response, he has already had his pants pushed down mid-thigh, pulling his cock out of his boxers, and any lingering protests die on Odajima’s tongue.

Kataoka doesn’t waste time; he swallows half of Odajima’s cock into his mouth and sucks him greedily until Odajima hits him at the back of the throat.

Kataoka likes the way Odajima swells in his mouth, his earthy smell, the way his stiff body slowly softens under him.

Kataoka swipes his tongue in an unending motion in a continuous stripe from the bottom of the girth to the top of the tip with its little pink nub that glistens and quivers with each touch of his tongue.

It revels Kataoka, every noiseless moan he gurgles out from Odajima, and sucks him back down harder.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Kataoka riles, coming up, biting his lips. There’s a hand thrown across Odajima’s face, pushed into the nook of the car seat, like he is too embarrassed to show himself, and yet an involuntary whine escapes.

Kataoka smiles, all his teeth on display. The hard, wet cock leaks with precum in his grasp, as he playfully tugs on it.

He lowers back down and slowly dips even lower, and then, deliberately gently, licks across the little puckered hole that constrains immediately. It’s hidden in the deep valley of Odajima’s most secret place, and Kataoka savors the hot warmth of it.

“Boss!” a hapless whimper keens from Odajima’s throat.

“Shh..” Kataoka pushes him further back into the car seat. Relentless, he laps and licks until Odajima is glistening up to his thighs, his hardened cock sitting like a proud mountain top.

Kataoka licks his lips, admiring his own handy work: Odajima open, soft like jelly, unguarded and beautiful, and so so lovely.

The site shoots a straight jolt of pleasure to the base of his own cock. Hardening, he palms himself through his pants.

He takes off his own underwear, heavy and hot, his cock jumping out from its confines. Kataoka spits on his fingers, lathering himself up, and positioning the head, as slowly as he can in the cramped-up car, Kataoka pushes in.

But in a moment, he stops.

In truth, he hadn’t been expecting much of a resistance; yakuza lover boys usually start pretty early, and by this time they are loose, pliable, especially for someone as beautiful as Odajima and yet…

Odajima, though, is so, so tight.

A cry, a genuine cry of pain, tears out of Odajima’s throat, “Please… Boss, please go slow.”

And Kataoka doesn’t move; he watches in growing confusion. Maybe he should have gotten some lube; maybe Kirii hasn’t been doing it as much. Maybe some boyfriend of his dumped him and he hasn’t been getting it?

“Uhh.. sorry,” He says contritely, truly, “It’s been a while for you, I see… I’ll go slow…”

And even if he moves only infinitesimally small, excruciatingly slow, it feels wonderful to sink into the warm, snug tunnel, like finding a fire in the middle of a blizzard.

Kataoka sets up a gradual pace, in and out, in and out, slowly, holding his own pleasure at bay as he gradually feels as Odajima adjusts to his size, his setting. Odajima sit up a little, still hiding his face, but slowly, gradually matching his thrusts.

“God, you’re so tight!” Kataoka exclaims as their movement picks up pace. The air around them dampens, sweat trickling, making hair stick to their foreheads. Kataoka grips Odajima’s hips for support. He wonders if he will leave a print on the skin.

He reaches and tugs at Odajima’s neglected cock; and smiles when it hardens within seconds in his hands.

“You’re liking this,” He asks gleefully, “Aren’t you Odajima?”

He gets nothing but grunts in response.

“Please,” Odajima’s hand reaches out, his voice cracking like he needs some water. He tries in vain to stop Kataoka from rubbing on his cock anymore, “Please, please…”

“Tell me what you want,” Kataoka teases.

“Please,” Odajima whispers, again, “Boss, I... I’m gonna cum.”

Kataoka feels something just then, warm and bubbly, but not like the usual heat of sex, or the natural heat of rubbing of two bodies, but something distinctly fuzzy and soft like an indescribable urge to press his lips to Odajima’s cracked ones…

But he doesn’t.

“Go ahead then, Odajima, cum for me,” he says instead, increasing his pace. Almost like a youngling waiting for a command, he feels Odajima’s body release, a soft whimper breaking through his throat, and as each of them chases the zenith of their cresting pleasure, the thrusts become more erratic, offbeat, until they collapse right at the same time, like an explosion imploding in them, burning fire coursing down their veins.

Two streaks of white semen squirt out instantaneously, soiling their shirts just as Kataoka pulls out, joining the man underneath him.

The sun sets in the distance. In the combined labored breath, the two men look away, too spent, too scared perhaps to look at each other.

The streetlight’s hazy. Its orange glow casts more darkness than it illuminates. Kataoka lowers the window and lets the cars’ dank air out.

It’s a shady corner they’re parked in. The darkened edge of a rundown convenience store. The area doesn’t look particularly reputable, and Kataoka considers, if they weren’t yakuza themselves, he wouldn’t step near this side of the road.

He leans back against the seat and checks his phone. A burner. Odajima had given him on the first day they set off. Doesn’t have internet or even anyone’s number but Odajima’s.

When the screen lights up, there are only two bars of battery left; Kataoka shuts it off...

His eyes travel to the rearview mirror. He can spot Odajima in his old black and white shirt, stepping out from the store. A white plastic bag of cheap ramen and onigiri swings in it.

Kataoka sighs, his eyes tracking Odajima’s walk, and then his eyes narrow and eyebrows rise. Odajima had stopped walking, his left hand disappearing into his pocket, as he gingerly fished out his phone.

Even from a distance, Kataoka can tell the screen is flashing: an incoming call.

Odajima hesitates for a second before he picks it up and moves, holding the phone to his ear, into the shadows beneath the low-voltage streetlight.

Kataoka knows who it is, and he smiles to himself. Kirii is impatient; his brother never really possessed the virtue of patience. And his thoughts drift off, like would Kirii ask Odajima if Kataoka was a good lover, better than him, or would he be jealous if, IF Odajima said yes.

Kataoka runs a hand through his hair. He knows he is better than Kirii, in making love at least. They had shared women before, and everyone wanted Kataoka over Kirii, even if it meant losing their lives. Wasn’t it why Kirii hated him in the first place?

He laughs out loud at the thought. His arrogance puffed up! Only if Kirii knew that now dying by Odajima’s hands wouldn't be too bad. Truth be told, Kataoka relished the thought of breathing his last in those rough hands. To die looking into Odajima’s eyes… it wouldn’t be too bad. And the thought of dying anywhere, or at any moment that could be his last, brought a thrill, an adrenaline spike Kataoka hadn’t felt in a long time.

If only Kirii knew, death wasn’t what he feared, not really.

“What took you so long?” Kataoka pouts, looking at Odajima holding two packets of ramen and an onigiri, “The noodles are soggy already!”

“Ah... sorry, boss,” Odajima’s eyes are downcast, and he holds out one of the cup ramen and chopsticks.

Kataoka accepts and opens the lid, exaggeratedly blowing. Odajima doesn’t; he slurps the noodles immediately, curls of smoke rising as he gulps them down.

“Yah, is your tongue made of metal?” Kataoka asks wide-eyed, “How can you eat it so hot?!!”

“Uhh… It’s not too hot for me,” Odajima replies, looking up. His gaze barren, tired. And even if he lies to himself, that it doesn’t matter, Kataoka really wants to know what transpired on the phone.

But he doesn’t ask.

They don’t rent a hotel room for nights; it's safer this way, Odajima says. When sleep takes over, they push the car seats as far as they would go until sleep pushes them over to the land of dreams.

When stars rise high up in the sky and the heat of the day evaporates from the asphalt, Kataoka feels sleep start to creep in, and he hears Odajima say softly, “Kataoka san I… I can’t do it again…”

“Shh,” Kataoka replies sleepily, “I won’t. I don’t like forcing anyone. Go to sleep, Odajima.”

He doesn’t hear a sigh of relief, or feel an intense gaze linger on him, or watch the way as Odajima’s breathing eventually evens out and he finally falls asleep.

It’s an old fisherman’s town. The cliffs are all worn down, with black jutting boulders smoothened by time standing like little piers. The sea mist bellows in and out, and Kataoka crouches in front of a crying boy.

“Is he one of ours?” He asks, tilting his head to one side.

“No, boss,” Odajima shakes his head, “Probably of the fishermen’s sons.”

Kataoka nods.

He isn’t great with kids. From the looks of it, Odajima is even worse.

“Yah, kiddo,” He tries, “Why are you crying?? Huh, you can tell Uncle anything! Did someone bully you? We can go and beat them up.”

The child’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, his lips wobbling, and Kataoka thinks he has just said something gravely wrong.

“Yah, yah, yah,” He hurriedly rushes, trying his best to console the boy, “Look…”

His words stop on their own when the boy thrusts his small fist at him.

At first, Kataoka scratches his head in confusion if the little boy is inviting him to a hand-to-hand duel, but then, as he peers a little more at the small fist, he sees what it is.

A tiny bird is wrapped in the palms of the child. It’s barely alive, only little speckles of long apart shallow breath indicate any life in the animal at all.

“It’s gonna die,” the little boy explains, his voice choked with emotion, “I found it over there,” he points to a big banyan-like tree by one of the old boulders, “I don’t want it to die. Uncle, can you help?”

Kataoka stares; he knows nothing about children, or animals, or birds, or even dying birds. But he glances at the child, his small face scrunched up in heartbreaking sadness, and looks back down at the almost lifeless bird.

He nods, impulsively, almost unconsciously.

“Uncle will try his best to save the bird,” he says with fake joy and confidence, a stupid dummy smile lighting up his face.

It takes a beat or two, and the little kid smiles. He gingerly passes the bird’s body to Kataoka and bows down in respect.

“Thank you, uncle,” he says, a radiant glow spreading across his face, “I will come back tomorrow to check!”

“Uhh… sure,” Kataoka nods, no thoughts in his brain.

“Do you think the bird will live?” Later, he asks doubtfully in the isolation of the car, when the kid’s gone and no one is in earshot.

“No,” Odajima says, “I think it will die before tomorrow.”

It’s the truth, and yet Kataoka grumbles, “Can’t you be a little less harsh?”

Odajima doesn’t answer but doesn’t look away either, his eyes glued on the little bird nestled in Kataoka’s hands.

Kataoka feels the tiny dot of lingering warmth within his fingers, the barely there movement of a little life trying to live its last moments. He feels what he has seen countless times before: imminent death, the complete end of a pointless existence, the loss of a life in one’s own hands.

“You think, Odajima,” he asks truthfully, “After all this time, after everything, I would be able to save a life?”

Odajima takes a few minutes to reply, “What’s got to die, will die, I guess. I don’t think anyone can prevent that.”

Kataoka nods.

And when that night Odajima feeds him with his own hands, Kataoka thinks death might not always kill, but maybe let you live too.

They bury the bird in the sand the next morning. The kid doesn’t cry anymore, only solemn and somber like an old man who lost his old bud at sea.

Kataoka plants a burning cigarette to commemorate.

He misses it, but Odajima’s gaze softens, his hands running over the edges of the revolver unmindfully, as he looks at the yakuza leader eulogizing a little bird with a strange child, interrupted only by the roar of breaking waves against the old stones.

They do laundry at off, broken-down laundromats located usually in the middle of nowhere. Shirts, underwear, socks, all mixed into a pile, thrown together

Odajima, for one, doesn’t have more than two shirts; Kataoka knows this for sure. And so, when one of those shirts, a colorless grey one (not the one with dark leaves and flowers, thank God), comes out with stains of bleach and holes in it, Kataoka doesn’t enjoy the way Odajima’s face crumples.

He holds it up, inspects it once and then twice, and heaves out a sigh. Small but painful, nonetheless.

“Wear mine,” Kataoka offers, the least he can do.

Odajima stares at the red, flowery, Hawaiian shirt for a minute more than necessary and then opens his mouth to say something.

“Take it,” Kataoka playfully shoves it to him.

“You are letting me borrow your shirt?” Odajima questions in a low voice.

“No,” Kataoka smiles, “I am giving it to you. It’s old, though, but I especially like the color. I think it will suit you as well.”

Odajima doesn’t reply, but he takes it and then gratefully whispers, “Thank you, Kataoka san.”

A seed of a thought germinates in Kataoka: the intense desire to drape Odajima in colors. 'Cause in all honesty, neither black nor white is really his color, Kataoka decides.

“Hey, do you have a girlfriend?” Kataoka smiles and asks over lunch with salty noodles one day. The blistering sun’s rays filter in through the cheap window covers of the crowded restaurant where they sit.

“No.”

“Ah, so a boyfriend, then?”

“No.”

“Huh,” Kataoka asks with a mouthful of soba, “Don’t tell me you're married then?!! Or, wait, divorced??”

“What?” Odajima flashes his eyes, “NO.”

” Hmm..”

“Is it an unrequited love kinda thing?” he muses, swirling the tasty broth, “the other party doesn’t want you back?”

Odajima chews his food and swallows carefully.

“I am not in love with anyone.” He pauses, then, looking directly into Kataoka’s eyes, says, “I don’t think I am capable of loving anyone, Kataoka san.”

It’s perhaps the earnestness of those words, or the familiar freezing gaze of Odajima’s, that every time leaves a trail of singed nerve endings that bewitches Kataoka. He breaks away and, tilting his bowl up, noisily slurps away the remaining broth.

Then, wiping his face with the back of his hand, Kataoka leans down on Odajima’s shoulder and conspiratorially whispers, “Neither am I!”

When Odajima jerks up, Kataoka winks. “That makes us the perfect team, don’t you think?! The unlovable Yakuzas!”

“Boss,” Odajima implores, soundly unimpressed by his leader's bluff, “Please keep your voice down.”

Kataoka ignores.

“Although, maybe not love,” He continues, uninterrupted, “I don’t know if anyone told you this, but you’re beautiful, Odajima Ren. Kirii should’ve warned me how beautiful my exile partner was going to be.”

And as he watches a myriad of expressions paint a rainbow across Odajima’s face, Kataoka lets out a full-chested laugh.

It’s just then the elusive flush of the faintest pink rises to color the edge of Odajima’s ear, the tip of his nose, and the highs of his cheekbones. It’s gorgeous, like the last hues of an everlasting sunset.

“Kataoka san…” Odajima tries.

“Don’t deny it,” Kataoka cuts him off, still smiling. A desperate urge to pull Odajima closer and press his nose to the crook of Odajima’s neck, bubbles like one of those vintage bottles of champagne his old man only popped during celebrations.

“It is the truth, Odajima. You are beautiful.”