Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"The lotus root may be severed, but its fibered threads are still connected."
– Chinese proverb

"Makino-san."

Ah, I knew it. Kazuya sighs internally, letting his steps slow and come to a stop. He turns in place, making sure to bring his briefcase a little closer, but it's hard to tell whether the gesture is noted behind the sunglasses worn by the man addressing him. He's an imposing fellow, broad rather than tall, standing by the open door of a car idling by the sidewalk.

"Please come with me."

"Why should I?" Kazuya counters. He keeps his tone light, his posture just a bit wary. 'Makino-san' is neither stupid, nor one to back down. It's not a difficult persona to pull off but Kazuya does have to take care to moderate his response. Too much provocation won't do him any favors. He smooths the edges off his smile but his grip on the handle of the briefcase tightens when the man slowly reaches into his suit jacket.

With a deliberate, almost delicate movement, the man pulls out and presents a phone. He dials in a number before handing it over to Kazuya.

"Makino-san," greets a recognizable voice on the other end. "I apologize for the inconvenience but could we meet somewhere else?"

Do I have a choice? "This is quite sudden. I'd have appreciated more warning."

"I'm sure you would have."

Well, that sounds foreboding. Kazuya maintains an air of mild annoyance and thinks fast. If they're onto him, he'll be walking into a trap for sure, but it's possible that they're merely being overcautious. They're a difficult group to get hold of without the exact right connections and he isn't armed or wired thanks to that paranoia of theirs. In any case, if he doesn't comply, they definitely won't try to deal with him again and whole operation will be a waste. "All right," he says into the phone. "Let's get this over with."

He's ushered into the car's backseat and settles his briefcase in his lap while the big man slides in after him. Kazuya glances around the car's interior but doesn't let his gaze search outside for his teammates. They must be scrambling in a panic over the change of plans and no doubt the chief will be raging pissed, but with any luck, they'll be able to keep track of him. It would be very unfortunate indeed if they failed to back him up. The briefcase contains money, an enormous sum at a glance, but if someone counted it, the total would come up lacking.

He spends the drive thinking up excuses. They don't travel far but the driver takes the long route, and Kazuya can't tell if the point is to lose a tail or if it's merely a precautionary measure. Regardless, either his teammates are skilled enough to keep up or he's well and truly on his own. There's only so much trouble he can talk his way out of. And even if he gets out of this alive, there's no guarantee the operation will continue. In fact, it's more likely that the targets will play it safe and vanish from sight.

Kazuya only has this one chance. All or nothing, and the odds are against him. But it's not the worst mess he's gotten himself into. Not even close, really. His reflection in the window stays impassive while his thoughts ricochet around in his head. If he was armed, things would be easier; just put a bullet in the big guy's head first because he'll be too much trouble if he's not dead right away, then stop the driver, get the location out of him, wait for the team to catch up…

Kazuya's eyes close briefly. The corner of his mouth sneaks up in a wry half-smirk. As if that could happen.

Whether it's due to orders from higher up or the chief's own distrust, ever since Kazuya transferred to the station in Okayama, he's only been allowed to carry his service-issue firearm when deemed absolutely necessary. The details of his assignment for the MPD remain, of course, highly confidential, but even he can recognize that it's not quite normal how easily he assumes a problem can be solved with violence. Perhaps something showed up on his psych eval.

(He blames a certain someone for that; spend too much time around a hotheaded criminal and that behavior can rub off on you.)

Luckily, Kazuya can rein in his foolish impulses. He slants an eye over his stoic escort, lingering on a telltale outline under the man's jacket—an outline that doesn't belong to a phone. But Kazuya only notes the gun's presence, there's no sense trying to grapple for it in a small space like this and against a muscle head like that.

Nothing to do then but wait and see where he ends up. The fact that they're not driving to the deserted outskirts of town is a small reassurance.

When the car rolls to a stop in front of a new hotel, Kazuya finds a reason to pause after getting out, head craned back to take in the height of the building. It's ritzier than the original meeting spot and he fusses over his off-the-rack ensemble as if it matters. If his escort takes it for nervousness, that's fine too.

Stealing the barest glance out of the corner of his eye, he can't be sure if any of the team made it here. Best to assume he's on his own. Kazuya straightens his collar as he starts toward the double doors of the entrance, not waiting to be led, and he crosses the polished lobby floor to the elevators with a hand adjusting the knot of his tie.

It's mid-afternoon on a Wednesday and there aren't many comings-and-goings at this hour. The elevator that dings open is empty. Kazuya stands towards the back and lets the other man push the floor button. As the doors slide shut, Kazuya drops the briefcase, pulls his tie loose, and by the time the man notices the movement or hears the sound of the briefcase clattering to the floor, a taut length of fabric is digging into the flesh of his neck.

Kazuya twists the ends of the tie in his fist to keep hold, his free hand groping for the gun and nearly getting his fingers broken in the process. Yeah, okay, this isn't the most elegant of plans. Fighting up close and personal is so not his forte. "Useless in a brawl," he'd been told on more than one occasion, to which Kazuya would reply that big-shot yakuza bosses shouldn't be getting into brawls in the first place.

He tightens his makeshift chokehold with a grimace. This meathead is nothing compared to Tokyo's underworld elite. He's still strong as a bull though, backing up to rush Kazuya into the wall where a handrail smashes into his spine. Kazuya grunts and gasps but keeps his grip. Unfortunately, he loses ground on the scramble for the gun, which is enough to make him lose that battle completely.

The muzzle comes up to point over the man's shoulder, off target but still way too close for comfort. Kazuya tenses and jerks reflexively to the side. His hand comes up to try and grab at the man's wrist.

A shout erupts but it comes from neither of them. Kazuya's eyes swing to the front where the elevator doors are once again open, one of his teammates framed in the doorway with his revolver out in a two-handed grip and yelling, "Police! Drop your weapon!"

After a long, crawling moment, the man complies, although that may have something to do with the lack of oxygen to his brain. Kazuya doesn't relax his grip until the man is slumping forward, the anchor of his body pulling the tie loose from between Kazuya's fingers, and the man hits the floor with a heavy thud. He's breathing, still, and better cuffed than dead. Less paperwork to deal with that way.

They arrest the suppliers who are caught red-handed with the contraband, so the operation is a success, but that doesn't prevent Kazuya from being chewed out for ditching the plan and the team. As if he'd done so intentionally. He doesn't bother saying anything in his defense and tries not to let his eyes glaze over as he waits out the rest of the chief's tirade. At this rate, Kazuya might be transferred again. Maybe up north this time, where his face and reputation aren't likely to be known. A change of scenery wouldn't be too bad but he'd rather not spend the winter somewhere in Hokkaido.

"I don't know what the MPD let you get away with in Tokyo, but around here…"

Kazuya hides his sardonic smirk. You have no idea. His cases for the Okayama Prefectural Police have been short, lasting a month at most, usually shorter, and only skimming the top of the criminal operations. They're not without risks, as demonstrated by the latest close call, but that's part of the job. Get in, get out, put a few guys behind bars for a while. No blood on his hands. No one he's arrested has trusted him enough to call him a traitor, though some may wish him dead.

The police here don't mess with the local yakuza beyond routine busts. Some prefectures have taken a firmer stance against organized crime following all the commotion in Tokyo but here they've maintained the status quo. Kazuya wisely keeps his distance. Those he left behind don't have any footholds this far south but better safe than sorry.

Finally, the chief lets Kazuya go. "Submit your report," he says, huffing, "but take the rest of the day off. Take a few days off, even."

It's less of a "you've earned it" reward and more along the lines of "get out of my hair for a while." Doesn't matter either way to Kazuya; downtime between cases is the same whether he's at the station or at home, both equally dull.

He throws together his report and leaves it on the chief's desk, then stops by the supermarket for groceries on the way home. He doesn't live in the police dorms like most of his peers, partly due to the nature of his work and partly because he prefers to live alone, even if this way means paying rent. Although it's not as expensive as it was in Tokyo. Not that he spent much time in his own apartment in Tokyo.

His current place is small and still looks barely lived in after a year, but it's clean enough and in a good part of town. It has a separate bedroom and bath, and the kitchen and living room are combined into one space. He cracks open a window, the hinges squealing a little, and puffs on a cigarette. The breeze that stirs against his face is cool with a hint of the coming autumn.

It's no upscale condo with floor-to-ceiling windows and a spectacular view, but Kazuya never had an attachment to the finer things in life as a criminal. He's not greedy for money. He doesn't care about power. It's usually one or the other with yakuza. Some of the old-fashioned ones might throw around the word "honor," but in this day and age, it's only a word.

Enticed by neither greed nor ambition, he wouldn't make a good yakuza. Kazuya's honest enough to admit that he doesn't make a good cop, either, but maybe that's why he straddles the line like this. One foot on the side of the law, the other standing against it. He's gotten used to living by halves.

Blowing out one last stream of smoke, he stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray. He should probably cut back. They're expensive, bad for his health, and now they always make him remember grabby hands twisting in his shirt while a nose sniffs around his clothes and skin, an accusing stare stabbing upward and a dismayed mouth growling out, "Again, you…!"

Kazuya snickers under his breath. "Geez," he says to himself, pulling the window shut. "You just can't leave me alone, can you? Even now."

He steps away from the window and starts rolling up his sleeves. It's early for dinner but he doesn't have anything better to do. Before moving to the kitchen, he turns on the old TV that he picked up for sale at a secondhand shop because the background noise is better than nothing. A poor substitute for conversation, for the back-and-forth banter, for the living, breathing rhythm of someone occupying the space by his side. Kazuya used to be comfortable in his own silence. Maybe one day he'll grow accustomed to it again.

For now, he half-listens to the news and the usual topics make their rounds: the economy sucks, old men need to stop molesting young girls on the train, and school bullying is as bad as he remembers. Next up is the weather report, which announces a cold front moving in next week.

He's adjusting the heat on the stove when, fittingly, the next story opens with a cautionary word about natural gas leaks. The story focuses on a recent explosion in Tokyo and they play some footage taken from nearby security cameras. Glass and debris burst from the windows, smoke billowing everywhere, choking off the rest of the view, but an on-site camera shows the aftereffects of the blown-out building. A whole chunk of it is nothing but collapsed rubble.

"—happened early on Monday morning—"

Maybe if the whole property had been leveled, he wouldn't have recognized it. But no, he knows that neighborhood. That address. And in the hollowed-out remains of the building, Kazuya can just about see the blackened mantelpiece where only treasured belongings are allowed to sit. A family sword—not preferred for fighting but useful to keep on hand for threats—and a sake cup from a ritual signifying an ambition realized, and the end of an era. Another cup once joined it but that one must be long gone by now. Shattered, burned, utterly destroyed, there's no way it would have been allowed to continue to exist. On the near-impossible chance that it was, it wouldn't have survived this blast.

The ironic laugh evaporates from Kazuya's throat as the reporter continues:

"—resulted in fourteen injured and three dead—"

There's no way.

"—two have been identified as residents Shimura Ken and his wife Shimura Tsukiko. The third victim's identity has not been made public—"

There's just no way.

" The number you have dialed is not in service—"

Kazuya lets the phone fall away from his ear with a click of his tongue. He'd known before dialing that the old number wouldn't work but common sense hadn't stopped his fingers from tapping it in, nor had it softened the extra twist to the tight ache in his chest. "Well, shit."

He shakes out a grin because his hopelessness is hilarious. Just what is he expecting? Setting his phone aside, Kazuya digs out a cigarette with hands that tremble until he clenches both fists around the cheap plastic of his lighter.

He's not dead. He can't be dead.

Maybe he doesn't even live at that address anymore.

No, Kazuya's cold, rational side argues, why else would someone blow the place to smithereens? Accidental gas leak—as if. Maybe it wasn't a leak at all but he doesn't have the expertise to differentiate between types of explosions. The exact method isn't important though, what's strange is that there's been no mention of yakuza warfare. Could the MPD be covering it up to keep the public from panicking? No, that's not possible; if they could do that, they'd have done it before. The yakuza organizations involved make their own official declaration. They're not quiet about it. There should be rumblings at least and the media should be catching on like sharks scenting blood in the water.

The lack of media coverage isn't the only strange part. Kazuya's unlit cigarette twitches between his lips as he frowns. It's far too soon for the alliance to unravel; surely they haven't screwed something up already. He wouldn't put it past the Sawamura-gumi's new, painfully young kumicho to make enemies if left to his own devices, but that's why Chris and Aotsuki are still there. Those two supported and raised their boss up fine before Kazuya came along.

He has no idea what's been going on in Tokyo lately. It was better not to know.

The MPD would know. Detective Takashima must be on the case. Kazuya picks his phone up and stares at the screen, chewing on the end of his cigarette. But… would she tell him anything? What if she asks why he's interested?

She wouldn't have to ask, she probably already knows, but she'd make him say it. And then he'd be transferred to a tiny remote island that no yakuza would ever be interested in and the worst crime to occur in the last fifty years was someone sabotaging their neighbor's fishing nets.

Calling anyone on the force is his absolute last-ditch option. That leaves Kazuya with his second-to-last option.

He lights his cigarette and takes a few therapeutic drags of menthol and nicotine before dialing the number. Mentally, he calculates how much this will eat up his savings. The Kominato brothers are biased, after all. They're likely to wring Kazuya for all he's worth. Haruichi would be easier to deal with.

Naturally, it's Ryousuke who picks up. "Hello?"

Kazuya doesn't waste time with pleasantries. "I have a request for you."

"Is that so? Let's hear it." Ryousuke's professionalism extends only as far as his words; the predatory tone he uses is about what Kazuya expects. Both brothers can be ruthless but the elder one is far crueler, and his protective streak is no joke. The Sawamura-gumi's troublesome kumicho has a way of attracting those types. Chris probably wouldn't give Kazuya the time of day anymore and Aotsuki would shoot him on sight, but Ryousuke… Ryousuke would enjoy having fun at his expense.

Kazuya has to reach deep to find the words. "About the incident on Monday…" Being direct would be best. A straightforward question with a yes or no answer. Simple, easy, painless. He just can't get the words out. Is he dead? That sounds callous, even to him, and too concrete. Is he all right? That's just pathetic. Kazuya sucks in a lungful of smoke, breathing it back out with a poor compromise: "Can you tell me more about it?"

"Sorry," Ryousuke says with malicious delight, "can't help you."

Kazuya almost hangs up then and there. But—he forces himself to reason, even if his reason is petty—that would give Ryousuke too much satisfaction. Kazuya's eyes narrow, mind working past the unimportant distraction of his frustration and the persistent worry gnawing away at his belly. Ryousuke isn't that frivolous, even if he's being mean… probably. "Someone bought your silence on this matter," Kazuya concludes.

"Mm, theoretically, such a request could be made." Then, somewhat mockingly: "I see why they call you a genius."

He ignores the taunt because the request had to have come from the Sawamura-gumi. It's a tall order and the only other party who would want to lock down the info would be the ones responsible for the attack. The odds would be 50-50 if not for who the intended target was. Thank god for the Kominatos' favoritism.

So the organization is doing more than just keeping his identity out of the news, and if they're going this far to hide the truth…

The incessant gnawing stops, leaving a hollowness that soon fills with a flood of relief. Kazuya sighs and doesn't care if it's audible through the phone. He's alive. Maybe not well, but alive at least, and somewhere safe. Belated insight trickles in: if the Sawamura-gumi really had lost their kumicho to a rival's attack, they wouldn't keep it quiet. They're not that type of organization. The call for vengeance would have been swift and terrible, and they have plenty of allies to see it done. Kazuya should have realized this immediately. He ruefully puts out the remains of his cigarette.

When was the last time he'd panicked and acted without thinking? A year ago perhaps, in the summer, under a canopy of fireworks. The similarity isn't lost on him.

"So," Ryousuke says, condescendingly patient, "will that be all?"

What a waste of time and money, and Kazuya has no one to blame but himself. There's no helping it, though. It's an annoyance but his pride can take the bruising. "Yeah. How much?"

Ryousuke makes a considering noise and the little bastard is probably looking at Kazuya's bank account right now. "Technically, I couldn't fulfill your request. I am deeply sorry about that—" Kazuya quietly snorts "—so as compensation, I'll offer you something else instead."

Magnanimity from Ryousuke, now that's suspicious as hell. Kazuya would rather not accept it, but with the way things have turned out, he feels like he's the one who owes a favor and has a brief, paranoid moment where he wonders if Ryousuke somehow planned this. But no, that would be ridiculous. He's just taking advantage of the situation. It's what Kazuya would do. "All right," he says, steeling himself to lie in whatever bed he's made. "What is it?"

Ryousuke gives him an address, a time, and a date. Kazuya absorbs the info for several seconds, staring blankly into space, before finally confirming, "You want me to fly to Okinawa. Tomorrow. For… what, exactly?"

"Something worth your while. You have vacation time to use up, don't you? Aren't you interested?"

Kazuya almost laughs. Interested. Sure, he's good and curious now, as well as ticked off at how obviously he's being baited. Like he's not worth more effort than that. Like he's that easy.

But apparently he really is that easy. Damnit.

"Okay, fine. I'll bite. Do you have any other instructions? Hints?" He's going along with this because he'll be bored for the next few days otherwise. That's his excuse.

"Pack an umbrella. I hear it rains a lot."

"Wow," Kazuya deadpans. "That is ever so helpful. Thank you, Ryousuke-san."

"You're welcome."

Kazuya shakes his head. He's reasonably sure, at least, that he isn't being set up to get his ass kicked, if only because Ryousuke could simply give out his home address if that was his goal. No need to send Kazuya to Okinawa.

He'll have to look up flights. And hotels. And figure out where exactly this mystery address is. At least the vacation excuse will hold up and he's actually never been to Okinawa before. There were no family trips during his childhood, no holiday excursions with friends. Before he transferred for work, the most he ever traveled outside of Tokyo was for school trips, and there was that time when he had to drive out to Nagano for Sawamura family business (not organization business, family business, a distinction that lodges like a stone in Kazuya's gut and he's long since given up trying to get the uncomfortable thing out).

A thought occurs to him before he ends the call and he wonders aloud, "Should I carry my badge with me or not?"

Who's going on this trip—an off-duty police officer or…?

"Well," Ryousuke says with poison dripping from every word, "I believe that's up to you."

According to the cursory research Kazuya did the night before, it's the middle of typhoon season in Okinawa, but still a popular time to visit. Then again, with temperatures staying warm year-round, when isn't a good time to visit? Not to mention a big local festival is coming up, so prices are sky-high and traffic is a nightmare.

The skies are clear when he arrives at Naha Airport but they cloud over in the evening and rain comes rushing down when the time comes for his appointment. Luckily, he doesn't have to go far.

Kazuya wouldn't have been surprised if the address Ryousuke provided was for some abandoned warehouse, or a shady gambling den, or a club with a lot going on in the backrooms. They're movie stereotypes for a reason. Instead, the location is a hotel, and not your run-of-the-mill, family-trip getaway. It's the glamorously upscale kind of hotel that caters to foreign luxury because tourism, banzai! Such places have taken root in Japan's domestic-travel hotspot over the past few years.

The hotel might even be running clean—well, as clean as consumerism can be—because the yakuza here aren't as corporate as they are in the mainland. They're a bit old-fashioned from what Kazuya has heard. Some would say second-rate. However, the largest group did go head-to-head with some big names back in the day, so they shouldn't be taken lightly.

He ended up leaving his badge at home, reasoning that the average cop could only dream of staying at a place like this. As such, Kazuya's bank account is going to be in a sorry state for a while. Ryousuke didn't say anything about staying at the designated meeting place, so Kazuya could have found somewhere cheaper, but… some things shouldn't be done halfway.

(There's a lesson to be had about playing a role too deeply, but at this stage it's far too late for Kazuya to learn it.)

A high-end place such as this has a dress code. When evening rolls around and rain drums upon the balcony outside, Kazuya does his best to make himself believably presentable. His suit isn't bespoke but it'll have to do; he leaves the top couple buttons undone and foregoes a tie because he's not here for a business meeting (probably), and then he resigns himself to the arduous process of making his hair behave. He hasn't bothered to do this in a long while and it's a feat that can only be accomplished with copious amounts of product. The final result in the mirror makes him look very… yakuza. Which isn't the look he's going for, incidentally. Must be habit.

Kazuya frowns at his reflection and fusses with his hair some more. Covering up the scars with concealer helps tone down the wrong-side-of-the-law look, which he's used to doing on a daily basis anyway. The scars aren't a secret though, and he's caught wind of at least four different rumors going around the station regarding their origin. The one about getting into a knife fight with a yakuza is the closest to the truth. No one's guessed prison yet.

He adds a watch, dabs on some cologne, and last but not least, runs through a check of his gun. The 1911, not his service revolver. He loads a magazine, racks the slide, and pushes the safety on before sliding the gun into a waistband holster. The hotel seems to be on the up and up but who knows what's in store for him. He'd rather not get stuck in an elevator again while unarmed and facing an opponent. Kazuya tells himself that's worth the risk of carrying a highly illegal semi-auto that should by all accounts be in police custody.

Ryousuke didn't give him any other info aside from the place and time, but the top floor bar and lounge seems the likeliest place to go at this hour. It's raining so the pool is definitely out, and he doubts the gym is the right location. Hopefully looking like someone with money and time to spend, Kazuya pockets his room key and saunters out and down the hall to take the elevator.

At the top, the lounge is aglow with soft lights and the air hums with a meld of live music and low conversation. A significant crowd has gathered what with outdoor entertainment being on hold, but Kazuya manages to find an empty spot at the bar where he orders a vodka martini. He drinks mostly in peace, approached once by a woman looking for company but she moves on without a fuss when he turns her down. No one else pays him much mind. There are other singles, some of them cruising, but Kazuya doesn't meet anyone's wandering eyes while surveying the room.

He doesn't spot anything shady or out of the ordinary. A couple of bodyguards, vigilant, but with no underlying tension. The security cameras scattered around the room are positioned to catch just about everything. He'd read that the hotel is a favorite with celebrities and politicians, and sure enough, some well-known faces can be spotted among the rich crowd.

The air's thick with opulence and too many warm bodies for Kazuya's liking. He never enjoyed being dragged to clubs or bars back in Tokyo, either. Too much drinking, too many fawning hostesses, his boss being utterly unmanageable and overly friendly with every person he came across, laughing too loud like an idiot, eyes too bright and too alive, drawing all the attention in the room until it was second nature to always face in his direction.

Kazuya stops himself just in time before he shoves a hand into his carefully styled hair. The atmosphere is sticking to him, seeping under his layers and through his skin where it gets caught up in the rush of his bloodstream. He curtly rejects another invitation from a stranger and gets up, seeking fresh air. The rain has stopped but no one has ventured onto the terrace yet.

He finds out why when he steps into the wall of humidity left behind by the downpour. The sun's gone down but it's still hotter outside than it is indoors. People aren't kidding when they talk about Okinawan heat. It's partly his own fault for wearing a suit, but whatever, at least there are no people around. Kazuya breathes in deep for several moments, and when he's calmer he reaches for his cigarettes.

"Pardon me."

He's about to reject what he assumes is another company-seeker when he realizes that the person addressing him is a) male, and b) doesn't sound the least bit flirtatious. Then Kazuya remembers the reason he's here in the first place. "Yes?" he responds, turning to the young man he didn't even hear approach. Habit keeps Kazuya wary but instinct isn't picking up on any danger.

The lights of the terrace halo around pale hair that sweeps low over one eye. The uncovered eye meets Kazuya's gaze with neutral disinterest and the young man's tone is equally impartial. "Could you spare a smoke?"

"Ah, sure," Kazuya says, a little thrown. The guy doesn't look like a mooch. He looks like he has a classy upbringing and isn't lacking for money judging by his perfectly fitted clothes and straight-backed posture, but maybe he's in some sort of rebellious slumming phase. With a poker face like that, it's hard to get a read on him. "Sorry if you hate the taste," Kazuya says, handing over one of his Marlboro menthols and providing a light.

"Thank you." Wisps of smoke trail upward into the night. The sky is still overcast with no stars or moon in sight, but the city spread out below is plenty luminescent on its own. The young man barely glances at the view. "Should I say it's an honor to meet the person responsible for toppling some of the most powerful yakuza bosses in the country?"

No beating around the bush, huh? "The credit belongs to Detective Takashima," Kazuya demurs. It had been the detective's face and name splashed across every TV in the nation when the news broke and she barely mentioned her UC agent if she could help it. It's safer that way, and Kazuya doesn't want the fame and attention in the first place. He does wonder, though, if there's any truth to saying "out of sight, out of mind." For himself, it's only half true at best. Half and half, as always. He smiles crookedly. "Anyway, it seems you have me at a disadvantage here."

"A rare occurrence, I imagine."

"You'd be surprised."

The guy doesn't look curious at all. He doesn't even look interested in the conversation at hand. His words aren't oiled with flattery and he doesn't sound like he's being sarcastic. Honesty, then? Kazuya only knows honest idiots and liars who manipulate the truth at their convenience. Whichever kind this one is, he introduces himself as, "Okumura Koushuu. It's a pleasure."

"Okumura…" Now where have I heard that name before—ah, that one? Interesting. Kazuya flicks crumbling ash from the end of his cigarette. "I guess being a politician's son would keep you well-informed. Representative Okumura has become a prominent figure, hasn't he? His policies are very strict regarding the yakuza." But it's a close-kept secret that he's been indebted to the former Sawamura-gumi kumicho since long ago. Kazuya's never met the man and wasn't sure what stance he'd take when the leadership changed, but Chris would have kept an eye out for any potential betrayals (especially after the one that slipped by him). Taking another drag of scratchy smoke and icy burn down his throat, Kazuya breathes out with a sidelong glance. "I wonder how far the apple falls from the tree."

"You'd be surprised," Okumura echoes with a straight face.

Kazuya can't decide if he likes the guy or not. He isn't much fun but he presents an intriguing mystery. Logically, though, he's bad news. Kazuya wants nothing to do with the vipers' nest of Japanese politics even if he does possess a mental bank of blackmail material for several politicians. The mere fact of Representative Okumura's yakuza ties, no matter how far in the past, would ruin any future shot he has at the presidency of the Liberal Democratic Party, and more importantly, the prime minister's seat. Whether or not the son cares about that sort of thing, though… "So, what can I do for you, Okumura-kun? I'm rather out of the loop with certain going-ons in Tokyo these days, so I can't be of much help there."

"It's nothing like that. I'm only satisfying my own curiosity."

"Idle, aren't you?"

"If you want to see it that way, I won't stop you."

This brat is really uncute. Kazuya grins nonchalantly. "All right, then. What are you curious about?"

A tilt of Okumura's head uncovers his other eye, letting him peer at Kazuya with an unsettling intensity before he finally asks, "Do you enjoy your work? You've continued to take undercover cases."

Easy question, Kazuya has a ready-made answer for that one. "I'm not suited to be a beat cop. Can't picture myself stationed in a koban either." Surely that much is obvious. If Okumura did his research, he would know about Kazuya's performance at the academy. He didn't have to fake his low scores when it came to working with fellow officers or civilians.

"But you can picture yourself running drugs or laundering money."

"They're roles. Lesser evils, I'll grant you, but at the end of the day it's all to put someone worse behind bars."

A humorless smile ghosts across Okumura's mouth. "You aren't going to assure me that the drugs never hit the street and the money is always returned to its proper place?"

"It's unprofessional to shoot oneself in the foot," Kazuya says with equally dry amusement. For what it's worth, his jobs in Okayama have all been pretty clean. Tokyo… well, that had been an exception. Desperate times and desperate measures. Really desperate. The only reason he hasn't faced repercussions is because the MPD would then have to admit allowing him to do everything in the first place, which would be followed by a huge, messy rigmarole to determine accountability, and the media call-outs would negate all their achievements. Far better to look the other way and say the ends justify the means. If Kazuya wanted he could probably get someone to offer him hush money, and wouldn't that be ironic.

Okumura's stare turns knowing. "They did a very thorough job covering everything up. It's almost a shame how you and your efforts were swept under the rug."

"Yeah, almost." Kazuya puts out the remainder of his cigarette and drops it in a waiting receptacle. "I don't really care. I'm happy enough that I haven't been shipped off to rot in a remote island village."

"So you're content with things as they are."

"I don't have any aspirations to become commissioner general if that's what you're getting at."

"No," Okumura agrees, gaze finally shifting elsewhere. "You're not the type to grab glory for yourself. Is it a belief in justice that keeps you with the police force?"

Kazuya's only answer to that is to laugh.

"Then—"

"I don't know," Kazuya cuts Okumura off before he can venture further down that line of questioning. He isn't anyone Kazuya has to answer to. "Maybe I'm just lazy."

"I doubt that. No one does what you do out of laziness. It takes a certain loyalty."

The hot spark of anger flaring from Kazuya's core catches him by surprise. It surges up his spine and warms his throat, leaping from the hard edge of his mouth. "Not loyalty," he corrects. "Responsibility."

"Responsibility for what?"

What other reason could there be for a liar with hands as stained as his? Kazuya shrugs like he's casting a weight off his shoulders and his gaze escapes to the dark sky above. "For one's own actions, of course."

It's raining again. That's the first thing Kazuya notices when he comes up out of sleep, blinking into the blurry darkness of the room. The incessant patter on the balcony pings on the edge of his awareness and then it's muffled, drowned out by a much more immediate presence. Kazuya is awake and alert in an instant. Adrenaline rushes electric through his system but the only movement he can afford is the barest tip of his chin, putting a hairsbreadth of distance between his throat and the cold line of a blade pressed against his skin.

His thought process stutters. He barely even breathes but feels his mouth shape into a smile—the kind of smile that has zero regard for self-preservation, it's reflexive on Kazuya's part, when he lacks the will to fight and the means to flee. His vision is fuzzy and full of shadows but instinct guides him to lock gazes with the figure leaning over him.

"Fancy meeting you here," Kazuya murmurs, receiving another sharp kiss of steel for the comment. If it hurts he can't tell, and if this is a dream he doesn't care. "I see you're alive after all."

A low, harsh growl rolls over him, and Kazuya's fingers twitch in the sheets. He starts to lift a hand but two bitten-off words snap at him in warning. "Don't. Move."

Kazuya swallows. Suddenly he's conscious of the sting and trickle of blood on his neck, and then he's hyperaware of it, of the violent crash of his heart inside his chest and the echo thundering in his ears. So noisy he can't hear himself think—not that there's much thinking to be had. There's just the old, familiar heat boiling up from within. He wets his lips. "I can't believe I didn't notice you come in. You've learned to be sneaky, huh."

"Shut up." The blade flattens when it presses down again, to crush instead of cut. "Don't you dare say another word."

A thin "heh" escapes from Kazuya, proof that he can still breathe, albeit barely. He might black out if the bruising pressure doesn't let up.

"Eijun," Kazuya says, and the name is little more than a whisper, but once released it's everything he has and hasn't thought these past several months. The ghost isn't in the back of his mind, it's right in front of him, snarling and hot-blooded and mean in a wounded kind of way. Vicious and hurting. Kazuya dares to disobey again, reaching up with searching fingers that brush the curve of a cheek, half of an unspoken apology, and only half because the way his nails rake over Eijun's nape is anything but.

The blade leaves his throat, he hears it clatter somewhere on the floor, and an interrupted gasp is all the air he can suck in before Eijun's mouth covers his. The kiss is voracious, demanding—he's always demanding, this young dragon Kazuya guided into being with his own hands, pushed him and pulled him up and released him into the sky with nothing to bar his way. Brilliant and golden and soaring is the way he should be, with bloodied teeth and claws to mark his passage. He has a voice that can resound for miles, in joy and triumph, in passion and rage, and when he laughs the whole world shakes.

Kazuya had thought it would be enough—more than enough—to know that Eijun is fighting, flourishing, and free. He's kumicho like he always wanted. He's learned how to use his connections. He has able, loyal followers. That was supposed to be enough.

Yet something as instant and inescapable as an explosion could have erased him from existence and Kazuya only found out by pure chance. It's a foolish fear, he knows that, when violence is an intrinsic part of the yakuza world, with its wars and rivalries and payments made in blood and body. How many times has Kazuya made his point by pulling a trigger? How many times has he stood at Eijun's back and watched, followed, and admired every arc of his sword, every twist and turn of his form as he cut down one foe after another?

Karma will catch up someday and then they'll both be accountable for their actions, one way or another. Kazuya knows the facts, he understands the logic, and he accepts whatever happens to him—whether that means a dead-end job transfer, a second go at prison, or another kind of end at the hands of an assassin. But if it's Eijun about to get caught, or if he's being targeted, that's something Kazuya cannot accept. Absolutely cannot. Not while he exists on this earth.

His fingers clamp over the back of Eijun's neck, feeling for the scars he left, claiming what shouldn't belong to him. The marks could have faded by now but there's still a tangible unevenness to the flesh. Kazuya squeezes until Eijun growls into his mouth; he gets a fist in his hair that forces his head to tilt. Then Eijun ducks his face to the exposed column of Kazuya's throat and drags his tongue over the break in his skin, licking the cut until twinges of pain fade into the throb of a bruise forming, and Eijun helps it along with ravenous sucking and biting. He marks Kazuya with a vengeance, making a mess of his neck that all the world will see for days to come.

A frisson of pleasure surfaces through the ache and Kazuya slides one hand into the tousle of Eijun's hair, the other pulling up the loose fabric of his shirt until the warm skin of Eijun's back lays bare for his touch.

Oh, his back. Kazuya's breath catches, hand resting in the dip of Eijun's spine. Kazuya has memorized the shape of the flower there, the curving lines of its petals and the blush of color filling them in. The pristine beauty of the lotus emerging out of darkness, and the perseverance of the carp swimming up the waterfall. The mythical beast winding down Eijun's front. It must be finished now, his ambition realized, the dragon that was always inside him finally showing through his skin.

"Eijun," Kazuya breathes out, voicing just a small fraction of the want filling him to the brim and spilling over. "Eijun—"

"No," Eijun denies him with a snort that's more amused than disparaging. His weight shifts on top of Kazuya, caging him in, and he bites the ridge of a collar bone. Sheets rustle as Eijun peels them out of the way and cool air hits Kazuya's skin, bare from the waist up. "You don't get to look, you bastard. Maybe, if I feel like it, you can earn the right. Until then, use your imagination."

His imagination is a fertile ground with memory as nourishment: all the times he's stroked the pattern of scales with fingers and tongue, until he swore he could feel and taste the difference on Eijun's skin where ink bleeds through his flesh; the long moments of listening with his ear to Eijun's chest, being swallowed up in the drumming beat of a dragon's heart; the sight of the powerful creature spread out under him, rising above him, holding him fast.

He can imagine it vividly but that doesn't stop him from wanting, reaching, pulling at Eijun's shirt with a desperate lack of finesse. The thin material strains where it's buttoned. Eijun curses when threads snap, shoves Kazuya deep into the bed, and snarls wordlessly.

Kazuya's unrepentant grin melts away at the press of Eijun's hand on his cock, freed from his underwear. He's circled in a grip that tightens the more he hardens, and the blood inside him aches. Part of him wants to squirm away from the trapped, helpless feeling, too vulnerable by far, too deep in trouble of his own making. The other part is in a weightless place, carried on the cresting wave of each dull throb spreading a tingle throughout his body. Eijun jerks him with a rough touch, dry skin on skin, and the keen edge of pleasure-pain knifes through Kazuya's senses.

He digs blunt nails into the ugly bite mark on Eijun's neck, past caring about transgressions. This is what Eijun does to him without even trying. All he has to do is exist in Kazuya's space, enter his field of vision, get close enough for Kazuya to catch his scent, and instincts Kazuya didn't know he had clamor to chase after him, claim him and keep him. But Eijun has a troublesome tendency to rush headlong into the worst situations, pumped full with reckless abandon, and look at where that leads Kazuya time and again.

Not that he would have it any other way.

But if he could have just one thing…

"Hey, Eijun…" Kazuya's hands slide around to frame Eijun's face and pull him close. He resists only a little, stubborn and tense, but he follows Kazuya's lead with the simplicity of habit and the hard set of his mouth softens under the persuasion of a kiss. His forgiveness is easily won (but not so easily deserved). Kazuya sighs against him. "Hey… tell me you're invincible."

It takes a second for Eijun to process that. "Huh? What are you—"

"Tell me you wouldn't die even if someone killed you."

Another baffled pause, and then Eijun huffs out, "You're so fucking weird. If you're going to talk nonsense at least let me give you a good reason." He slicks his fingers through the moisture leaking from the tip of Kazuya's cock and spreads it down his shaft, stroking him smooth and easy.

A soft noise frees itself from the back of Kazuya's throat, and more follow when Eijun wriggles down his body, breath unfurling over heated skin. Kazuya's hips jerk into Eijun's hand, dick bumping his cheek. He can't count the number of times he's fantasized about that mouth, how loud and mobile it is, how well-used when those lips are sealed around him. The way Eijun's eyes glance at him, sometimes bright and focused, other times hazy and intoxicated with pleasure. The view of those pretty golden eyes is lost in the dark for now, but Kazuya can sense the intensity of his gaze, the predatory intent as Eijun licks a wet stripe up his length, tongue rolling over the fleshy crown.

"Eijun," Kazuya says, and the name turns into a moan when his cock is sucked into the heat of Eijun's mouth. Eijun pins him immobile as he works him into a shuddering, aching mess, taking him in deep and full. Wet noises and hot, heavy panting thicken the air of the room.

Kazuya's head lolls on the pillow, dizzy with it all. He half expects to wake up from a dream, sheets sticky, self-incriminating. His fingers wind through Eijun's hair, seeking an anchor as he rides wave after surging wave, building closer to the peak of a tide Eijun draws from him with irresistible mouth and tongue. Kazuya is caught and captured under him.

He's a heartbeat from coming when Eijun's fingers cinch tight around the base of his cock and the only thing Kazuya releases is a strangled, disbelieving groan. "Eijun," he cries out, bucking uselessly. The pressure around his dick doesn't loosen one bit.

"Not yet," Eijun says, low and husky, his voice shivering through Kazuya's exposed nerves. "Don't come yet. Not until I say you can."

"Fuck," he hisses, but all he can do is twitch under the tease of Eijun's tongue lapping at his stiff, straining flesh. Kazuya's fingers tighten and then briefly relax, tighten and relax, alternately pressing and petting the back of Eijun's head. When Eijun's mouth leaves his turgid cock to bite the inside of a thigh, Kazuya is both gratified and even more piqued. "At this rate I'm going to turn into one big bruise because of you," he says, grounding his focus on something, anything, other than the stifled nearness of his orgasm.

Eijun mutters unintelligibly into his skin, sucking and biting some more. Making some kind of point, probably. He likes to put his mark on everything that belongs to him.

"Should I take care of you first?" Kazuya offers, running the tips of his fingers gently across Eijun's scalp, brushing the sensitive curves of his ears. God, he wants to see his face. His myriad of expressions and his glorious eyes. There's nothing else like them in the world. Kazuya's voice dips, desire pooling where he can contain and direct it. "I bet you're hard as a rock. You really like going down on me, knowing how good it makes me feel. Should I use my mouth too? You can come up here and feed me your cock."

"Oh fuck you and your filthy mouth," Eijun groans, pulling away and sitting up. The clink of a belt buckle, the rasp of a zipper being undone, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

"You can if you want," Kazuya says, wetting his lips. "C'mere and let me taste you. Let me touch you. Do you want my fingers inside? Or…" He folds a leg, hitching it up and nudging Eijun with his heel. "Do you want to be inside me?"

"Yes," Eijun answers through gritted teeth. "But—"

Kazuya's too impatient to wait as well. He smirks, trusting that the expression will be heard if not seen. "You didn't plan ahead when you decided to ambush me in my sleep. Typical."

"Shut up," Eijun retorts, "or I'll never let you come." He emphasizes the threat by running his finger along the thick vein pulsing in Kazuya's cock, eliciting a jolt of sensation. He's not teetering on the edge anymore though, and if he stays untouched and blind in the dark he can probably last as long as Eijun wants. Pulling in deep, steadying breaths, Kazuya lies still and obedient (he can do it if he tries) while Eijun's hands spread over the muscle of his legs, lifting them together. Kazuya's feet point up in the air, legs splayed at the knees and propped on Eijun's shoulders, while Eijun presses flush against the backs of his closed thighs to slide his cock between them. He gives an experimental thrust, and he's already dripping enough to make a smooth, wet glide that feels good for both of them.

A little too good for Kazuya, who isn't so sure anymore that he can hold back his orgasm or his sanity when Eijun rubs against his perineum and balls like that. It's just enough stimulation to be maddening, to make him ache for more, and unable to ask for it.

He doesn't say a word but somehow Eijun just knows. "This isn't about you," he says, the languid roll of his hips turning into a snap. His hold around Kazuya's legs tightens and he turns his face to sink teeth into the swell of a calf. "What you want doesn't matter. That's how it always was; you gave me whatever I wanted and the rest you held back. So hold it back."

Fair enough, Kazuya thinks, and the part of him that isn't a needy mass of yearning is somewhat impressed. He squeezes and releases his thighs, letting Eijun use him however he wants.

If only it could be that simple.

He keeps inching a little closer to the precipice, the slick, hot hardness of Eijun driving between his legs spreading a heady flush throughout Kazuya's body. His dick lies heavy and throbbing on his stomach, and with just a bit more he could come, if Eijun would just touch him, or put his mouth on him again, or even if Kazuya could lay his eyes on Eijun's face, see him properly, see what kind of erotic expression he must be making right now. Or the sight of his tattoos, that alone could send Kazuya over.

He wants it, he wants to reach out and touch Eijun, grab him close by the nape of his neck that shows he belongs to Kazuya beyond the shadow of a doubt. Wants to mark him all over again. Kazuya moans, frustration stringing him taut, hands twisting up fistfuls of the sheets. "Eijun, I…"

"If you're going to lie, I don't want to hear it," Eijun pants, his thrusts getting erratic. "You're not—this isn't supposed to mean—damn you, you just had to appear in front of me again!"

"Bound to happen," Kazuya says. He's trembling all over. "You and I both know it. And I'm not lying about how much I love the way you move, and how good you feel against me. You're really close, aren't you? It hurts, right? I'm dying here, but I don't mind if it's with you. I'll do anything for you."

"I told you not to—" The sound that breaks from Eijun is a pained, angry sob that makes Kazuya's chest constrict to hear it, but in the same moment he burns with the satisfaction of leaving such a deep, permanent scar.

He doesn't care about leaving a mark on the rest of the world, but if he could be said to have any kind of ambition, it's only this: carving some part of himself into Sawamura Eijun that won't fade even if everything else does. If that means being resented and hated, that's fine with him.

Eijun shudders, splashing Kazuya's thighs and belly, and Kazuya is so unbearably hard that the briefest touch of Eijun's hand on his cock has him spilling immediately. Beyond pleasure and pain, the shock of release sunders through him, followed by the rush of relief as his lungs remember how to fill with air. His legs slip from Eijun's shoulders, falling open and relaxed, and he lies there catching his breath. Dimly, he notices that the rain has stopped.

"You're such a bastard," Eijun says after a minute, mustering an attempt to get his temper going, but post-coital lethargy is already seeping into his voice. The most he can manage is an exhausted grumpiness, so familiar and benign that Kazuya smiles to himself.

"Stay," he says, the word soft and singular as it hangs in the air between them. Kazuya is too spent to feel strange about it. Awkwardness can wait for morning—awkwardness, threats of bodily harm, and more blood to spill, in all likelihood. But all of that can be dealt with later.

Eijun sighs loudly and pointedly before lowering down beside him. "You're a mess," he informs, and something lands on Kazuya's stomach. Eijun's shirt by the feel of it.

"This is a designer brand, isn't it?"

"You already tore the buttons off, asshole. What kind of caveman have you become since I last saw you?"

Kazuya wipes himself off and lets the ruined shirt crumple somewhere on the floor. Instead of pulling the sheet back up, he wraps around Eijun's dependably warm body, the sleek muscle of his figure matching what Kazuya has filed away in his memory. His hands wander, not with any intent to arouse, just contenting himself with the feel of skin and the confirmation of no unfamiliar scars. No injuries. Mouth pressed to Eijun's sweat-damp temple, Kazuya tells him, "I'm only half of who I am without you."

"…Miyuki…"

"It's the truth."

So noisy, is Kazuya's first thought when he wakes up, eyes squinting open in a room that's flooded with sunlight. He turns his head to find the curtains swept back and the door to the balcony wide open, letting in a warm breeze that carries Eijun's animated voice all the way to Kazuya's ears. He's not full-on yelling but it's close enough.

A grin surfaces on Kazuya's lips. He bothered to step outside and yet he's still too loud. By the sound of the one-sided conversation, it's work-related, some squabble with the executive board. That would explain the pissy tone.

A year and a half ago, Kazuya would have liked to take out a few of the geezers that were so opposed to Eijun as a candidate for succession, but he couldn't find the time for it once everything was in motion. Plus, doing so might have weakened the organization too much. All his efforts would have been pointless if the Sawamura-gumi wasn't standing above the others by the end.

It had worked out regardless, and Eijun can handle the conservative old guard with Chris to help him.

When Kazuya gets out of bed his foot bumps into a knife—sheathed, thankfully—and it spins along the floor. A traditional tanto, which makes him snort. He hadn't been thinking about it last night but it's obvious now that Eijun can't go around with his usual katana at his side. Not in a place like this, and not when he's probably assumed to be dead back in Tokyo. Still, a tanto of all things. He's really keeping to his aesthetic. Kazuya briefly entertains the thought of outfitting him with a concealable switchblade as a more efficient backup option. But that's not his job anymore.

He pauses with his underwear pulled halfway up his legs, suddenly frowning. On second thought, maybe that's his job after all, or close to it.

Eijun is finished with his call by the time Kazuya gets himself half dressed to step out onto the sun-warmed balcony. Whatever he was planning to say flies out of his head and he simply stands there for a long moment to fully take in the sight. It's nothing particularly unusual, in fact it's very mundane, the relaxed slouch of Eijun's back as he leans on the railing, hair mussed from sleep and wind. He had the unfortunate good sense to put on his pants and a borrowed shirt that sits just a tad loose on his lean shoulders, his tattoos faintly visible through the thin cotton. He's grumbling to himself but doesn't startle when Kazuya comes up behind him to hook a finger in his collar and pull it down to bare his nape.

The teeth marks are still there, as he thought, but they're mostly faded. Layered over them are a scattering of lines like scratch marks, not fresh enough to be from last night.

Kazuya experiences a singular flash of what he can only assume is incandescent rage, which is entirely irrational and unfair, he knows this very well, and he tells himself it's never bothered him much before, knowing and even having to interact with Eijun's previous lovers, but all the logic in the world won't mollify the seething under his skin.

Then he notices the redness that's crept up Eijun's ears, and the way Eijun's hand has frozen halfway up his neck, like he's been caught in the middle of a bad habit.

Oh.

Well.

That's all right then.

His sigh stirs through the wisps of Eijun's hair and he bends down to press his mouth over warm skin. Eijun allows it for only a second or two before he elbows Kazuya off, complaining, "It's too hot—hey, quit that!" His fist socks Kazuya in the arm while he holds the front of the shirt closed with his other hand, denying him a peek.

"Stingy," Kazuya says with a quirk of his mouth. They fall into the old patterns so easily.

Eijun's expressive features go through a whole gymnastics routine as he realizes the same thing, then settles on a scowl as he catches sight of the pack of Marlboros in Kazuya's hand. "Ugh. No way, give me those."

"You're not my boss anymore," Kazuya points out because they might as well get the conversation over with. Like ripping off a band-aid. He's really going to need a cigarette for this.

Eijun punches his arm again, harder, which reminds Kazuya of his black and blue throat. His voice is awfully hoarse, too. Eijun doesn't take his cheek for an answer and snatches the pack right out of Kazuya's hand, but generously offers him just one cigarette to keep before pocketing the rest.

The smoke scratches more than usual when he inhales, holding it in, and blowing it back out. They stand side by side overlooking a view which has less city than they're used to and more sea than they know what to do with. Kazuya never considered himself attached to Tokyo but he finds himself missing it now.

"I hate that habit," Eijun states, not looking at him. "Don't let Koushuu bum one again, I'm trying to get him to quit."

It takes effort not to choke on his next drag. Kazuya had suspected a connection; guess that solves that mystery. It would be lame and cliché to insinuate are you two…? so instead Kazuya asks, "Do you trust him?"

"He hasn't given me a reason not to."

Kazuya supposes he deserves that. "And the representative?"

"He won't meet with me, just passes everything through Koushuu. He's paranoid though, hardly ever met with Gramps either—not that it's any of your business in the first place!" Eijun shoots him a glare. "What are you doing here, Miyuki?"

Kazuya fiddles with his lighter. It's nearly out of fluid. "Technically, I'm on vacation."

"Miyuki Kazuya, you—"

"Ryousuke-san sent me, more or less."

"Huh?" Eijun blinks. "Why would—wait, he told you where I was? That was supposed to be a secret!"

To be fair, Ryousuke hadn't told Kazuya anything, but Kazuya's not feeling charitable enough to speak in his defense and he's not above redirecting some of Eijun's ire. "I didn't know you were going to be here, so he played both of us." Kazuya hadn't thought that Ryousuke would bend his own rules to this extent, but he's a pragmatic sort. He knows that putting Kazuya in Eijun's vicinity in this situation would be equivalent to assigning a bodyguard. Plus, from Ryousuke's perspective, Kazuya is expendable.

By the look on his face, Eijun is coming to the same conclusions. "I don't need your help," he declares, eyes narrowing. "What would you even do, put me under guard at the station?"

"As amusing as that would be, we're a little outside my jurisdiction." He taps ash from the butt of his cigarette and lets it dangle loosely between his fingers. What should he do, now that he's here? He hadn't planned to stay long. "Is it just you and Okumura?"

"Koushuu's on a plane back. He set me up here but it would be bad for him to stick around."

"I can't believe you're running around alone."

Eijun bristles. "I'm not running around, I'm hiding out! Also, I can take care of myself!"

The beginning of a familiar headache starts to pound behind Kazuya's temples. "If you're hiding all the way out here, that means the organization hasn't figured out who was behind the attack yet, but it could be someone close." Trust would be at a premium; Kazuya wonders if anyone besides the Kominatos is aware he's with Eijun now.

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

He sucks in another lungful of nicotine before turning to Eijun with an elbow propped on the railing. "Yes," he says without flinching through the haze of smoke, "I would know. So consider me a consultant if you won't accept any other kind of help."

"You've gotta be kidding me…"

"I think you should find somewhere else to stay," he continues while Eijun comes to terms with the arrangement. "Even if Okumura is trustworthy, his father is another matter. He's aiming for the presidency of the LDP so I'm sure he'd love to remove any trace of his connection to the yakuza." One other suspect lurks in Kazuya's mind, but voicing it would unearth more complications than he wants to deal with right now. Besides, he can't quite bring himself to believe that person would go so far. "On the other hand, you shouldn't be alone. Do you have any other connections here? Maybe through the Kunitomo-gumi?"

"No," Eijun says sourly. "And before you ask, Sanada-san doesn't know anyone in Okinawa either."

Kazuya controls his reflexive twitch at the mention of that name. "All right. For now let's—"

Eijun's hand flies up to cover Kazuya's mouth and in an instant his adrenaline spikes. He drops his cigarette and goes tense all over, but Eijun only cocks his head to the side, listening, and a knock comes from the door within. A muffled voice calls through it.

Kazuya lifts both his eyebrows at Eijun. "You ordered room service?"

"I was hungry," Eijun says in his defense. "And breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Strategy meeting's on hold, you shouldn't scheme on an empty stomach."

Kazuya shakes his head, smiling a little, and follows him inside. "Button your shirt at least, you don't want to give the staff an eyeful."

"Not everyone's a pervert like you!"

"I meant you don't want to show off that you're yakuza—hiding out, remember? Geez, you're as hopeless as ever."

Eijun fumbles with the buttons, giving Kazuya a dirty look. "And you're still a smug bastard."

"Yes, yes, I was born this way."

The morning after is going so well with only a couple halfhearted punches thrown and no blood spilled that Kazuya makes the mistake of letting his guard down. He's thinking of the room service charge and how Eijun will probably call him a cheapskate if Kazuya makes him pay for it (which of them is the big-time yakuza boss here?), so when the door opens and instead of a hotel attendant an unknown man shoves his way in with a gun in hand, Kazuya isn't in any position to do a goddamn thing about it. His weapon is buried under his clothes in a drawer and Eijun's knife is still on the floor several feet away because they're both idiots, but by the time Kazuya registers these facts it's pointless for him to make a move for either.

It's pointless because Eijun moves first. He sidesteps, grabs the intruder by the arm so the gun is aiming at the wall, and strikes the back of his elbow to break the joint. The man shrieks and barely resists as he goes down to the floor with Eijun's knee digging into his back.

Kazuya glances up and down the hall before closing the door. Nobody else is around, but someone could have heard the scream. "That settles it," he says, going to the dresser to retrieve his gun and put on a shirt. "You're definitely not staying here anymore."

"I didn't even get breakfast," Eijun whines. The man he's pinning down looks young, amateurish, and he's cursing them out in a mix of Japanese and Chinese. A low-level underling or someone from a street gang, he had to have been tipped off by an extremely knowledgeable source, but a person like that wouldn't be careless.

"He's not going to know anything useful," Kazuya says, picking up the fallen gun. A Glock, fully loaded. "You want this or did you bring your own?"

"In my room."

"We need to go quickly."

"Then I'll be right back. You take care of this." The man seems to get the gist of what that means and struggles in a panic. Eijun slams his face into the floor to daze him before getting up.

Kazuya almost tells him, "wait," almost changes his mind to, "be careful," but Eijun clearly can take care of himself and they really are in a hurry so Kazuya says nothing until it's just him and the doomed man. "Damn," he mutters, the Glock suddenly heavier in his hand. A gunshot would be far too noisy though, so he wipes it down and leaves it on the table. Eijun's tanto, he finds, is kept as sharp and serviceable as his katana.

He rolls the man onto his side and places the blade against his quivering neck. "Just checking, but if you want to tell me who you're affiliated with and how you found this place, now's your chance."

The reply is a garbled mish-mash along the lines of "go to hell."

"Thought so," Kazuya says softly and jerks the knife—shit, the arterial spray gets everywhere. He knew he had a good reason to prefer the distance of firearms.

Stripping out of the shirt he just put on, Kazuya steps into the bathroom to wash his hands. Then he redresses and packs his overnight bag—bloodied shirt and knife and all. He makes sure not to leave footprints in the spreading pool of red around the corpse but there's nothing he can do about the body itself.

That's going to be an interesting thing to try and explain to the authorities later.

"Got it. Thanks, Harucchi. Let me know if you find anything." Eijun hangs up, then shakes his head. "It's no use, there are more where that guy came from. Apparently the cat's out of the bag and now a bunch of small-time punks think they can finish the job."

"It's because you're running around alone, exactly like I said." Kazuya glances over when the bell over the door of the shop jingles but it's just a gaggle of young girls entering. If one of them is hiding a weapon in that kind of outfit, she must be a magician.

Ice clatters and bobs around in the plastic cup that Eijun slams down on the table. "I can handle dozens of guys like that! Let 'em come!"

"That's not really the point, but whatever." Kazuya sips his own drink and checks the local news stories on his phone. Still nothing about a hotel murder but it's only a matter of time, they won't be able to stay in the open like this. "With all sorts of people gunning for you now, you're better off returning to Tokyo, even if you haven't found out who's behind this yet."

"Yeah," Eijun agrees, slumping a little and chewing on the end of his straw. "But Harucchi said to wait, there's too many eyes on the airport right now." He suddenly straightens and meets Kazuya's gaze dead-on. "Including the MPD."

"Obviously," Kazuya says with thick-skinned sarcasm. "With this many minnows making a stir, a big fish must be involved and they'll be aiming to net you."

"What about you?" Eijun asks, totally blunt. "Think they'll wave you on by if you show 'em your shiny badge?"

It's not like he hasn't thought about the consequences of his actions but they're a distant problem for now. "One thing at a time. First, let's figure out our next step. We need a place to stay."

"About that… I, uh. I might have remembered something when I was on the phone." Kazuya raises an eyebrow and waits for Eijun to continue. "I do know someone here who maybe owes me a favor. It was kind of a weird situation. But I have his number."

"I don't think you should be getting a civilian involved…"

"No, he was totally shady. I didn't tell him who I am, obviously, but he's gotta be in the business. If he's not I'll—I'll eat natto!"

Kazuya's shoulders shake with contained laughter. "Heaven forbid. Okay, fine, but do you think you can trust this guy?"

Eijun's face contorts in what passes as deep thought for him. "Well… I don't know for a fact or anything, but I get this feeling like… he sort of reminds me of Raichi. That kind of feeling, you know?"

Kazuya has no idea what Eijun is talking about but Kazuya has never been on the same wavelength as Todoroki Raichi in the first place. He's an extremely troublesome young man, but in terms of trust, Kazuya prefers him over the likes of Sanada. He goes ahead and nods. "If that's your instinct, then let's try it."

"Eijun…"

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Kazuya had figured something was off when the taxi driver stammered and went pale after they gave him the address. He hadn't expected something of this magnitude, however. "This place is…"

"I swear I didn't know!"

The house is as large as the Sawamura family home back in Tokyo—or maybe larger given the freedom of space. They'd driven a little ways beyond the urban crowding of the city. It's built in the local style with a red-tiled roof, faded with age, and limestone walls that fence around the building. Two snarling lion-dog statues guard the gate and mean-looking guards of the human variety are stationed further within.

Kazuya turns slowly to face Eijun. "How could you not know? Present conditions aside, you're one of the top yakuza bosses in the country. And you came to Okinawa without knowing who the Umemiya-gumi is. They once went to war with the Kunitomo-gumi, your sworn brothers."

"That was like fifty years ago! I know who they are! I just didn't realize the guy I met was—look, I didn't think I'd see him again, okay? I didn't even save his name in my contacts." He shoves his phone in Kazuya's face as proof, displaying a contact with the illustrious moniker of "Toilet Pompadour."

Only Sawamura Eijun could have that kind of abnormal encounter. Knocking Eijun's hand aside, Kazuya returns his attention to the Umemiya family home. They'd certainly be powerful allies if they can overlook Eijun's connection with their former enemy, but Kazuya's not inclined to trust in yakuza goodwill. Still, there aren't many other options available to them at the moment. "All right," he says, noting that the guards have been eyeing them suspiciously since their arrival. "We're here so we might as well go through with it."

"Of course! After coming all this way it would be rude to just leave."

"How is it that you don't have any sense of danger at times like this… no, don't argue, just be quiet and conduct yourself like a proper kumicho." Ignoring the glare being drilled into the back of his head, Kazuya approaches the gate where he's stopped by a guard and asked to state his name and business. He gestures to Eijun. "Sawamura-kumicho of Tokyo is here by invitation from the young master."

Someone is sent inside to confirm. Kazuya can't fault them for checking; the two of them don't look like they're here for an official visit, dressed down to blend in among vacationers. It's only been a few minutes and Kazuya is sweating already, especially under the cheap scarf that Eijun said was kitschy but it does the job of hiding Kazuya's conspicuous bruises. He hasn't washed since last night either.

The messenger returns and promptly relays, "The young master has no knowledge of such a person."

"What!?" Eijun roars before Kazuya can attempt a more diplomatic response. He flings an arm out to block an incensed Eijun from marching through the gate.

"There's been a misunderstanding," Kazuya says evenly, though it's not like he doesn't understand Eijun's anger. The Umemiya heir has some nerve to mess with them.

"I'm afraid we must ask you to leave."

"Like hell," Eijun snarls, shoving his way forward and straining against the grab and lock Kazuya has on his arms. "Oi! Get out here, you ungrateful pompadour bastard! You aren't the man I thought you were!"

"Eijun," Kazuya hisses in his ear. "This isn't going be solved through force!" More guards start to gather at the gate. "Eijun, damnit—"

"What's all the racket? A fight?" The new voice doesn't come from the front. Everyone turns to where a head has popped up over the edge of the wall, peering down with eyes that squint before flying wide. A grin spreads across the man's face. "Ohhh? It's my savior from before! Why didn't you say so?" He disappears below the wall and then strolls through the front gate as the guards make way, raising a casual hand in apology. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't know you were such a big-shot."

You're kidding, Kazuya thinks, but that's not the face of someone who feigns ignorance.

Eijun's thunderous expression remains in place for all of three seconds before draining away. The tension leaves his frame but he's still miffed enough to grumble, "You should at least be able to recognize one of your peers."

As if you're one to talk! Kazuya barely stops himself from face-palming.

Umemiya grins toothily, the scar under his eye tightening, and maybe he's not so oblivious after all. "Well, we're clear now. I gotta say, I'm not too sure about getting involved in the Sawamura-gumi's affairs, but you are my savior and I'm a man of my word. So please, come in."

Fortune does them the favor of keeping the Umemiya kumicho away on vacation with his wife for the next week. The son is young and uninterested in bad blood from before his time, and despite his earlier words, he pays keen attention to the news Eijun brings from Tokyo. The two of them end up sharing a drink of convenience; Eijun needs an ally while he's stuck in Okinawa and Umemiya is probably thinking ahead to when he succeeds his father. Time will tell whether this bond will prove beneficial down the road, or if the Sawamura-gumi will find itself burdened with an unpleasant debt.

Not that it's any business of Kazuya's. He isn't Eijun's right-hand man anymore.

He might not be a cop for much longer, either.

As the day turns dark and ceremonial drinking turns social, Kazuya excuses himself to step out onto the veranda where the heat of the Okinawan summer envelops him, though it's become bearable at this hour. The sun's flaming blaze dyes the horizon red and shadows creep into the yard. Kazuya craves a smoke but Eijun still has custody of his cigarettes (if he hasn't thrown them away on the sly).

Cicadas buzz noisily, almost drowning out the sound of a car engine approaching the house. Moments later, the guards out front utter a chorus of, "Welcome back, Matsubara-san."

"Good evening, everyone. I'm home."

The young man who wheels up the ramp to the elevated floor of the building is dressed professionally with a leather briefcase in his lap. Kazuya had noted the modifications to the original design of the house and assumed they were for a family member, but close family friend seems nearer to the mark.

Instead of heading in, the young man detours to where Kazuya is loitering. "Hello," he greets pleasantly. "Seiichi informed me about our guests. I'm Matsubara Nao, legal advisor."

"Miyuki Kazuya. Thank you for taking care of us."

Flipping open his briefcase, Matsubara pulls out a tablet and turns it on, adjusting the screen's brightness before handing it over. "The latest news, in case you were wondering."

The hotel story finally broke, although the details are noticeably lacking or changed. Instead of a deliberately slashed throat, the victim is said to have been stabbed. "Neighbors reported sounds of a struggle"—that could be true, Eijun did get rough for all that it was over quickly. The article also points out the man's immigrant status, a detail that is sure to discourage sympathy. Kazuya notes with rising suspicion that he isn't mentioned by name or occupation and raises his eyebrows. "This isn't your doing, is it?"

"No. The Umemiya-gumi isn't involved." And it will stay that way, he doesn't have to add. "I'm sure the hotel is happy to downplay the incident as much as possible but the censoring of the media is coming from somewhere else."

The Sawamura-gumi…? But they don't have any influence down here. Okumura might have some pull but it would have to be very, very discreet of him. The third possibility… Kazuya hands the tablet back with an uneasy feeling rolling around in his gut.

"One additional thing," Matsubara says. "I heard that the security footage was tampered with."

"I see." That would be the Kominato brothers, they don't need anything except their technical skill to do that much. Damn, now Kazuya owes Ryousuke again. "Thank you for the update."

Business concluded, Matsubara excuses himself to go inside, and leaves Kazuya with his accumulating thoughts as the twilight deepens.

It's good that the security cameras won't reveal precisely who entered and left the room, probably to protect Eijun, but it was still Kazuya's room. One might guess he was taken somewhere against his will, but that would be a stretch with his belongings gone as well, and he hasn't contacted any authorities. He's the primary suspect. Being a police officer might give him some room for explanation—especially when he's made as many enemies as he has through work—but the lack of reporting on the matter is far too unnerving.

He's being protected and he has a good idea by whom. He just doesn't understand why.

Reaching into his pocket, Kazuya withdraws his phone, and after a pause he turns it on, ruefully admitting that if he had been really committed to going on the run, he wouldn't have hung onto a device that could track his location. It's not like he wants to be arrested and charged for murder but… he expected to get caught, or to give himself up when the time came. No fall guy for this one, no yakuza-paid lawyers defending him. He'd been prepared for that.

There's no telling what's in store for him now. Kazuya scrolls through his contacts, highlights the one, and puts the phone to his ear while cicadas sing and late-season fireflies glow and vanish in the dark.

It's late when Eijun sneaks into the room. He has his own separate guestroom prepared but Kazuya can't say he's surprised, sitting up and shifting over on the futon. Eijun crawls in besides him, grabs his face and kisses him with intent, and there's sake on his breath, but he's not as stumbling drunk as Kazuya thought he'd be after that much drinking. He probably does more social drinking now whenever he's rubbing elbows with fellow yakuza bosses who vastly outstrip him in age and experience. They're probably amused by him, this young greenhorn who seems to be in way over his head, who got his position through a series of lucky breaks. With the exception of Todoroki, who knows better, they'll all underestimate him in the end.

If he doesn't do something stupid and inane like get alcohol poisoning first.

"Hey," Kazuya says quietly in the dark once Eijun allows him the opportunity to breathe. He reaches up and encounters damp hair. Did he take a bath at this hour? He smells like it, fresh and clean with a hint of the mild pear-scented soap available in the bathroom. His skin is soft under the trail of Kazuya's fingers down his neck, the glancing touch making Eijun shiver. "Hey," Kazuya says again, "make sure you take care of your health."

Eijun snorts. "What am I, an old man?"

"You'd better live to be one."

"Like Gramps, huh." There's a weighty pause, and then finally, decisively, "That wasn't your fault. Not that part anyway. He was way too old to be living this kind of life."

"He was a good kumicho. The police respected him."

Eijun props himself up on his elbows, chin in hand. "You're acting suspicious. Out with it."

Kazuya closes his eyes, not that there's much to see in the dark. He breathes in slowly, steadily, and says, "I'm flying back tomorrow. You'll stay here. I think Umemiya is trustworthy for now, but just in case, Aotsuki will be coming with one of your bodyguards."

Silence descends. Kazuya braces himself for an outburst, never mind the disturbance that would bring to the rest of the household, but the shouts and violence never come. Eijun simply remarks, "You spoke with Wakana and lived to tell about it? She must be getting soft."

"I'm sure if she was capable of destroying me remotely, I would have been obliterated on the spot." Eijun laughs next to him and Kazuya is seized with the ridiculous urge to try and capture that sound to keep it with him at all times. Awkwardly, he says, "You're taking this better than I thought."

"Yeah, well." Eijun's tone flattens. He sits up so he can plant a hand on Kazuya's chest and lean over him. "I think you're being stupid but I'm guessing you have a plan in mind."

"Something like that," Kazuya admits.

"At least you told me this time," Eijun mutters pointedly, the words flavored with bitterness. Apparently he's still mad about that part.

"You want to know? I'll tell you whatever you want."

"Not what I want." Eijun thumps him on the chest. "What do you want, Miyuki Kazuya? What are you getting from this?"

"You not getting blown up or shot or shanked. I'll have you know that it wasn't easy getting you to the top and I'd hate for my hard work to go to waste."

"I was almost touched for a second there, you bastard." Another thump, and an ache starts to spread—not over his ribs, but under. Kazuya reaches for Eijun's hand and holds it over his heart, fingers curling together. "Don't think you can distract me that easily," Eijun warns.

Kazuya's free hand cups the back of Eijun's neck and pulls him down until they're pressed together. "I'm being sincere. Make it through this alive, Eijun. That's all I want."

"And you think leaving is going to help with that?"

"It's for the best."

Eijun pushes away from him. "Says who?" he demands, and there's a spark igniting in his tone. The fire that's been long-smoldering between them flares up anew. Eijun scoffs, "The police? You and your misplaced responsibility? Koushuu told me, you know, about what you said. This isn't taking responsibility, it's just running away!"

"Eijun, lower your voice."

As usual, Kazuya is ignored. Eijun curls and tightens a fist in the front of his shirt. "You're always like this. You hold back on me all the time."

"Eijun—"

"But fine," Eijun spits out. He swings a leg over to straddle Kazuya's hips, leaning down until they're breathing each other's air, and Eijun speaks low and prophetic against his mouth. "Fine. You want to run? Better run fast because it'll catch up to you someday, and when that happens, you won't be getting away from me."

He doesn't let Kazuya argue, kissing his mouth open and forcing him to accept the words as truth. They burn as he swallows them down and Eijun's intoxicating taste floods his senses. Kazuya's hands drift up of their own accord to clutch at Eijun's hips, responding to him, to the words he says and the way he says them like an absolute authority. Like the dragon he's become.

Kazuya doesn't stand a chance. He never did, ever since the beginning.

"What time is your flight tomorrow?" Eijun asks, flexing on top of him. The tip of a tongue traces the thin scar over Kazuya's mouth.

"Early. I'll have to leave by six." Mostly he wants to be gone before Aotsuki arrives; she really might destroy him if he's in her sights.

"You can sleep on the plane then. After all…" Eijun grabs his hand and guides it underneath the thin layer of a borrowed yukata, between the valley of his thighs, where Kazuya's fingers glide over slick skin that yields warm and soft when he presses inward. Eijun purrs in the back of his throat. "This time I planned ahead."

Kazuya isn't fully awake when he steps off the plane after two-and-a-half hours of not-quite-napping. He's the sort who can't tolerate light and noise when trying to sleep, no matter how exhausted he is, and in his auto-pilot daze it takes him a moment to register the person standing in his path.

His sleep-lidded eyes travel slowly up from a pair of sensible shoes, over a loose pantsuit that doesn't entirely hide the full figure underneath, and finally land on Detective Takashima's serene, smiling face. After a pause, her smile deepens in amusement, just a little.

Kazuya blinks himself into more awareness. The bustle of the airport gets louder, announcements flying overhead, and the size of the crowd flowing around him serves as a reminder that he's at Narita International in Tokyo, not Okayama Airport.

"Welcome back," Detective Takashima says once Kazuya has come to. "I apologize for cutting your vacation short. Are you ready to get to work?"

Kazuya shifts the weight of his bag on his shoulder and nods. "Of course, Detective. I look forward to working with you again."

"Likewise. Let's go and I'll brief you on the way."

He follows her to a car and the familiar scenery of Tokyo flies by as they drive. Almost like home, but not quite. Not completely. Kazuya's own scarred face gazes back at himself from the window. He's awfully recognizable in this city. There's a saying for this turn of events: out of the frying pan and into the fire.

But this way is for the best. (For now.)

I'm back, he mouths silently, and shuts his eyes to block out everything but his own thoughts. Once more, he has a mountainous task ahead of him.