Work Text:
..and that obnoxious little clock on their superior's desk is ticking time away as it always does, filling every second of silence with awkwardness that has no place in this office - at least, not between them.
“You understand, don't you? We can't afford any more failure or losses. I expect nothing less than perfect collaboration between the two of you. Dismissed.”
Fucking finally, Miyuki thinks as he salutes and turns, eager to get out of this claustrophobic cubicle filled with impossible expectations.
“And, boys? By the books, alright?” He sees the stern gaze narrowing in on his collegue -partner, now- and barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. What a useless warning. As if Kuramochi ever did anything by the books. Not that Miyuki cares about that- he only cares about the fact that the dumbass managed to get caught and have the whole department's eyes upon him now. Really, the art of subtlety and good lies is wasted on the vast majority here.
They step out together and Kuramochi rolls his shoulders like he's preparing for a race rather than a crime scene investigation and Miyuki finds it ridiculous, but keeps his tongue. Get along, he tells himself. Don't make him hate you yet. It wouldn't do if they ended up disrupting the blast site because he couldn't stop provoking his fellow officer and ended up receiving one of his world famous round kicks to the chest.
“So, you want to drive or should I?” His new and shiny partner asks as they set course towards the parking lot.
“Is that what you were warming up for? I wouldn't want to steal your thunder.” He smirks and laughs as the other grits his teeth and casts his eyes at the heavens above.
“Ugh, you're as frustrating as ever.”
So much for that.
?
..but when the radiant brunet looks at them a second time and his gaze lingers, Miyuki knows they've not been deemed as irrelevant as they'd hoped. He turns his eyes back to his partner, smooths a hand over the other's shoulder, adjusts the collar of his jacket and trails his fingers through hairs on the back of his nape.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Kuramochi asks, voice barely perceivable through the muted sound of cars from the street just outside their alley. Miyuki is a little impressed that he maintains calm.
“He's coming our way. I think a little context to our being here would be advantageous...” And he leans down and forward, hovers his lips right in front of his partner's and breathes out softly against them. With another barely audible complaint Kuramochi closes the distance between them and the kiss is better than what Miyuki had expected from the joker: pleasant, warm and full of empty promises of things to come.
Out of the corner of their eyes they can see the steps faltering, a little shuffle of indecisiveness, before their purpose shakes his head and continues until he stands right besides them.
“Excuse me?” he says. Miyuki likes the sounds of it, smooth and young and pure, despite the impossibility of it. Maybe it's just because he had a very satisfactory pair of lips upon his own while hearing that voice and seeing that face for the first time, but it does something to Miyuki. He likes them a little too much, and he hopes it won't be a problem.
“Huhm?” Their lips make a light popping sound as they disconnect, and Miyuki takes only a quick minute to catalog the slightly distracted expression on his partners face before turning his full attention to the young man whose golden eyes are trying not to stare at their lips (his lips).
“You might not want to linger here... it's Dousei territory.” 'And they're a bad crowd,' goes unspoken.
Miyuki has to bite his tongue to not respond with wouldn't you know.
?
..so when things go wrong all these notions start losing value, all the drills and protocol become void when screams and gunshots become the air you breathe. Why does this always happen? Why won't these guys ever just drop their weapons when surrounded, go down with style and order instead of chaos, death; a rain of bullets and a sea of fire?
Kuramochi skits to a stop behind a small wall, back slamming against the hard cold stone, his breath coming in short gasps. His partner is next to him and he wishes now more than ever that it wasn't that asshole, Miyuki. It doesn't matter that he knows he can trust him, knows he's more than capable in the middle of a crisis (and a crisis this is): all he really wants is a harder than necessary hit against his skull and a cruel smile from behind an eager mask.
He shakes off his worries, grumbles a request for cover, and speeds to the car skeleton to his right. Sliding down besides it, elbow in the dust and gun at the ready, his eyes dart to all the corners until they lock on target: but as he spots the retreating gang members fleeing into a basement, his mind, full of fuzz, suddenly stills.
There is a head of soft pink hair, locks softly flowing back and forth as it moves, air crispy and stale from bullets and fire around him. He knows that colour so well, was just missing the presence of it. So it can't be, but he sees it clearly before is smoothly disappears down into the hatch, and time comes back with a vengeance, in overdrive: he sees the blown full plastic bag, tunes into the lack of opposing fire, knows his own are preparing to kick down the front door, and can't afford to hesitate.
“Find cover!!” He yells, his lungs bursting with the effort of it, the explosion following by only a beat.
?
..but he doesn't want to hear it. His partner looks at him with sharp eyes from a sterile tight bed in a painfully bright room and he doesn't even want to believe what he saw - what he knows is the truth. He doesn't want to accept that the one who mattered most to him did not have him in the same regard. That all their time together was meaningless in the face of facts.
“Have you told anybody?” He says and it's all Youichi ever wanted to forget. He shakes his head, wishing he could shake himself back into peaceful ignorance. It doesn't work, and his partner – former partner, but in which way?- continues talking. “He is my younger brother: Haruichi.”
The silence in the room is heavy, oppressive, and he wants to flee, wants Ryousuke to be in top condition so he can kick his ass and move on beyond this. Wants to believe that they could, but he doesn't know. Isn't sure how much has been lies as the man in the bed keeps breaking down the foundation of their everything, decides to test if they really had moved beyond their origins.
“I haven't talked to him in ages, but... he is my brother, Youichi. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him.”
“Nothing you haven't already.”
And Ryousuke doesn't deny his words, and Youichi feels himself shattering. His heart splinters in his chest, held together with hatred and indignation; shards poking at old wounds of when he'd seen himself in a similar tight spot, conflicted between loyalties and justice. He feels now more than ever judged for his decision.
The pink haired man had made his choice long ago, and whether he'd mattered to the outcome was irrelevant: he hadn't come out on top.
Kuramochi leaves.
“Please don't hurt him.” He hears the request, tries to ignore it, but it wasn't him that ended this. He never wanted that. He nods and closes the door behind him.
?
..though, all in all, Miyuki was quite happy with where he was, the downwards tilt to the young man's lips making him more gleeful than would be acceptable while on the job. Nobody has to know.
“So, Sawamura, was it?” He asks, teases, because they had introduced themselves but a moment ago, and he knows he won't be forgetting that name anytime soon.
“Yes.” Comes a grumbled reply and his eyes burn. Miyuki loves it.
“Is this pure?” He studies the small plastic bag in his hands, stares down the sparkling blue content. “I got a bad fix around here a while ago and wouldn't want to make your pretty face resemble that of the poor unfortunate soul that sold it to me.” He smirks widely, their eyes meet, and it's a thrill to see a threat answered like this, to see those big yellow eyes fierce and unafraid.
“Try and see.” Is the grunted reply, but nothing can hide the soft dusting of red on the man's cheeks.
“Oh, I couldn't possibly!” And he winks, takes the tip of a finger between his lips before dipping it into the bag and bringing the substance to his lips, knows that those listening in on them will never be able to prove it, knows this clears his name for the dealer in one smooth move.
In silence they wait a moment, allowing the drug time to act, Sawamura confidently meeting Miyuki's eye while the latter ponders his reply. And then the effect comes and it's strong, as a good batch always is, his head spinning and his feet locking themselves into place to keep him stable. Only this much and already the rustle in the distance is loud, the scratch of his shoes mesmerizing, his mind freed of any and all worry, and if he weren't prepared for it, used to it, he'd have been lost to the high.
He grins. “I deem it satisfactory.”
?
..and Miyuki can't help him, not beyond keeping the suspicions that this is no news to his partner a secret. It'll affect them both negatively, but there is no avoiding it, so he keeps silent. Not out of acceptance towards the choice of the traitor- he has never had siblings, never felt the need to care and protect- but out of respect for his new partner. It seems, after all, that they'll be stuck together for a while.
“Miyuki, you're dismissed.”
The ticking of that horrible little clock fills the space again and Miyuki nods before turning on his heel. Kuramochi will get an earful, will surely be treated as the carrier to an infectious disease for the future times to come. Miyuki won't care; has his own worries and objectives to face, eager to get behind the screens of an interrogation happening on the floor below his feet.
It was rash and he'd said so time and time again, but his superiors were antsy, the whole department thrown off balance and into paranoia, like they'd never even considered the possibility of betrayal and infiltration. Miyuki scoffs. How pathetic to imagine your enemy couldn't use the tricks you're continuously trying to bestow upon them.
He is strolling down the corridor, eager to see the frustrated hue to those strong yellow eyes, expecting a good show without results. Sawamura won't crack, he'd told them. We'll only risk losing his trust, he'd explained. We don't have enough to hold him, he'd insisted. But they hadn't listened.
And when a door opens and the young man steps out, he curses all levels of heaven and hell, as risk becomes certainly, his eyes locking with that blazing set he'd been looking forward to seeing, but not without blinded glass inbetween. They widen, and he's too late, there's no feasible excuse to keep his persona alive.
“Yo, Sawamura.”
“Miyuki Kazuya...!”
?
..so they hide behind a corner, glad for the cover of ignorance that comes with being the first wave of attack, finding benefit in punishment where they can. They have each other's back, sneaking into the lion's den- and Miyuki isn't sure if he hopes they are right about this being the main production base or not. It just depends on whether he's thinking about the cause, or his own hide. It is with the same duality and some added apprehensiveness, that he can't decide whether he is glad or not that they have yet to encounter anybody. The silence of the old beer factory is eerie.
The world couldn't have lined things up more uncooperatively, as the first set of footsteps coming their way belong to the only person in the building he doesn't want to harm. And yet maybe it is a blessing. He turns to his partner, sends him a sign. If Kuramochi is surprised at seeing Sawamura when they jump their target, Miyuki makes sure to not notice.
Huddled together in a small room, once an office, Sawamura's eye spark with the same strength and surprise as they had when they'd last met. The gun to his temple is cold, but the hand on his lips is warm, and he searches the brown eyes behind visors. “I'm going to let you go and you will stay quiet, got it? You will tell us where to find your boss, and then you will leave through the back and stay out of this shit. Do you understand?”
Sawamura nods, chopped and angry and while Miyuki removes his hand slowly, Kuramochi stares, perplexed, but wastes not a second to take advantage. “Is Haruichi here?”
Yellow eyes and search the other man, mumble only half a surprise before the room erupts into flames.
?
..which isn't good, isn't good at all. If only it'd stop, but it won't and he knows it should hurt more, but it doesn't and he knows why too. He tries to find solace in the knowledge that the tall young man - the one that had shot him, the one that he'd shot – was equally numbed. Probably barely noticed the last shiver of life flowing out of him while those sharp blue eyes went glassy.
It doesn't help, nothing helps, he needs to find Kuramochi, hadn't seen him since the blast, knew this was a bad idea, ingredients too dangerous, enemy too well armed. But nobody had cared to listen, nobody had given him the time of day. Now his shirt sucked up the blood that seeped from his stomach and soon he'd meet that blue eyed boy- little more than a boy- again.
But not before facing a by-now-already-familiar shine of yellow globes and the well acquainted end of the barrel of a gun. He still has his own in his hand, points it up without even thinking. His leg shakes; he'd forgotten the scrape there, succumbs against the wall, leaning heavily against it, cursing every hit he had ever taken.
“Miyuki Kazuya.” His voice sounds cold and distant, yet Miyuki likes it none the less. It's stupid, but he can think of a worse end.
“Sawamura... Heh.” A chuckle, dry and tired. “What's your given name, anyway?”
“Eijun.”
“Sawamura Eijun. Is this the part where I say, we meet again, and cackle like some villain?”
“Did you really intend to save me?” Asks the young boy, tired, hurt, unwilling to play this game. Curious.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I can't say.” At the sight of the deepening frown, he laughs and he feels the blood gush against the hand on his belly and he knows he should stop, but he doesn't, not until he is done. “I mean I don't know.”
Their arms still facing off, they are still, neither inclined to lower their guard first. Not until a shot echoes in the alley.
?
..so why does he feel so heavy? Is it dead weight, has the other already gone? No. No, that can't be, he won't accept it. He still feels the warm body against his back, still comfortable and wet, so wet. (It's the blood, all that blood that flows and flows and won't stop flowing, why won't it stop, why-)
Step after step, Eijun shuffles forward, struggling with the burden on his back, a man he met four times, a man he'd wanted to meet many times more despite his horrible personality and backwards morality. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe the one who'd been backwards had been him all along, maybe the one on the wrong side was none other that himself. He didn't care, didn't care who had been right and who had been wrong or how things could have gone different. All he cared for was the limp person on his back, keeping those weak breaths rolling, that slowing heart beating.
He comes out of the alley and sees the police cars in the distance, a barricade stretching across the road, hesitates not to set towards them. His breath is stuck in his throat: he tries but can't get the cry for help to come out and his back is still wet, wet with blood and sweat and despair.
Eijun has never seen somebody die before. Doesn't want to. Ever.
Maybe Miyuki had been right. Maybe he should get out, should never have gotten close to any of this. He proves his point now, a strain on his spine and conscious.
“HELP!” He bites out, finally and there are guns pointing at him, somebody screaming, ordering him to drop, hands on his head, throw away his gun, show his hands, but it's wrong, all wrong. He needs to keep moving, needs to get the person on his back to safety. Why, why don't they get it?
Foot after foot he struggles forward, might see a tuft of pink hair in a car, another vaguely familiar brunet next to him. It doesn't hold his interest- his mind is foggy, empty, and maybe the blood is his too, he isn't sure anymore, can't feel anything, but the effort is too much, too much, he's tired, feels cold, so done. Why won't somebody just help him already, don't they see, can't they think, don't they care?! Eijun closes his eyes and he screams.
Guns cock and more yells join his and why do they keep telling him to stop, can't they see he can't?! Another step, and he hears that familiar cop, the partner of the man on his back, hears him shout the same as all the others, but it doesn't sound like it's for him, desperate and strange-
and then there's fire everywhere. Blood and pain and shrieks of flesh tearing and bones snapping and he's lost his legs- no, he needs those, he can't make it without them, can't take Miyuki anywhere- but Miyuki is gone too and so are his arms and then suddenly he knows:
so is he.
Finally,
nothing.
.