Work Text:
Reporters are like vampires. They can't come into your home without your invitation,
but once they're there, you won't get them out till they've sucked you dry.
Gillian Flynn
The day starts off in a rather familiar tune.
Kuramochi scraps his story in favor of Kominato’s—something to do about HK Group’s embezzlement scandal, or something in the lines of that—once more.
Eijun has to hold back the—he reluctantly admits—childish scream that’s threatening to be unleashed after weeks of frustration. But now’s not the time to cause a scene, especially when he’s in hot water with the executive editor.
“I’m sorry, Sawamura,” Kuramochi says in that "tired of your bullshit" tone he always fucking does. “It’s just—this whole investment fund deal you dug up… people aren’t interested in finance at the moment with elections coming up, you know? Why don’t you write some nice little piece about the parks and rec bill? The one with the dog parks? They say it’ll pass—”
“Sir,” Eijun interrupts. “I’m sorry, it’s just—you know you hired me because I’m a political journalist, not some—some—”
“I know you’re a political journalist,” Kuramochi sighs, exasperated. He clicks on his ballpoint pen rhythmically. “Look, Sawamura. I like you, I like your writing, and I know you’ve got it in you… but you have to write something people would want to read. It’s as simple as that. People love scandal. They want dirt, something to sink their claws in and rip apart. If you’re not bringing that to the table, then go ahead and write about that parks and rec bill. I’ll put you on page six.” With that, Kuramochi turns his gaze back to the papers he’d been correcting.
Outside, a phone rings in the office, and that’s when Eijun knows the conversation is closed.
Eijun glares at his head before turning on his heel and making his way towards the door, his shoulders hunched and rigid.
“Oh, and get some cute photographs of dogs while you’re there!” Kuramochi shouts behind him.
He slams the door.
It’s another start to a dreary Monday.
Sawamura Eijun knows he’s good at his work. He was editor-in-chief for his college’s student-run press, and since then he’s long moved on from just being the deadbeat Starbucks slave-slash-intern to finally becoming a journalist at The Washington Tribute at twenty-three, despite it being a big move from his hometown in Texas. He’d worked at the Tribute for two years before Miyuki Kazuya arrived. Even though Eijun had seen many reporters coming and going, Miyuki had been the first one who’d piqued Eijun's interest, much to his irritation. Miyuki Kazuya was a young, good-looking photographer born and bred in the city, armed with nothing but a sharp tongue and a Nikon D5, and was—in Eijun's eyes—a cocky bastard. Eijun had soon noticed that he probably wouldn’t get along very well with Miyuki if they were forced to work together. As a result, he had avoided Miyuki’s company whenever possible.
This arrangement had worked well for about a year, and Eijun paid no mind to the charming photographer who was slowly making his way up the food chain. It was all fine, until present time, two weeks later, when a recent story surfaces about a burglary that had occurred in the head office of the Democratic National Committee. Eijun immediately snatches it up, just desperate for something good for once, and not another fucking story about D.C. hiking trails and shit.
“It’s not a big story,” Kuramochi says.
“I don’t care.”
Kuramochi looks at him. Finally, with a long, drawn-out sigh, he leans back in his chair. “Alright, it’s yours. Get something good out of it. And take Miyuki with you for photos.”
He nearly drops the cup of coffee in his hand. “E-excuse me? Miyuki, as in Miyuki Kazuya?”
“Yeah,” Kuramochi replies mildly. “Is there a problem?”
Eijun clenches his jaw. “There isn’t, sir,” he firmly answers.
“Good.” Kuramochi’s lips stretch into a thin smile. “And please. Close the door gently this time.”
Miyuki Kazuya is, for lack of a better word, a total fucking asshole.
The courthouse hearing for the four arrested burglars is a long, grueling one. Hesitant, thinly-put-together white lies exchanged back and forth that certainly isn’t winning over the jury, their answers constantly changing and going around in circles. Eijun is wondering if this really is a dead case, just some petty crime nasty offenders did to spook the Democrats. It wouldn’t be the first time anyone’s tried to attempt it, especially during election year—a time when politics is the only thing that seemed to matter.
“Huh, wonder why the big boss put me with you,” Miyuki says, stretching out his long limbs. They’re tucked in Eijun's beat-up Toyota Corolla E80 and headed back to the office after the hearing. “It’s not like there’s gonna be shit here.”
Eijun's grip around the steering wheel tightens.
Arrogant prick.
“I thought you’d know by now that if there’s a story, you follow through with it no matter what,” Eijun snaps. He feels annoyed at himself, how he’s letting some asshole get under his skin. He’s better than that, goddamnit. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know.”
“Really?” Miyuki hums. “And who’s this so very experienced Sawamura Eijun we’re talking about? The one who came from some backwater town with little to no experience under his belt, or the one who wrote that very fine piece about the new jogging path? Very cute dogs, by the way.”
Eijun swallows thickly, brows furrowed.
Miyuki chuckles. “Sorry, sorry. Bad joke.”
He grinds his teeth.
“I’m better than what they have me doing,” he says, determined. “I just need my opening.”
It’s quiet in the car. Miyuki turns to him, giving him a quick, contemplative glance before returning back to face the window once more.
“Then you better get to it, Sawamura Eijun,” he says, and Eijun can hear the faint acknowledgment in his shielded words. It’s enough, he supposes.
In the beginning stages of their rocky partnership, they communicate only when making sure they don’t call the same sources to ask the same questions or otherwise do the same job twice. At the end of each day or the first thing in the morning, they collect their notes and information, trying to figure out how to continue from there and decide what leads are worth taking a closer look. Most of the time they don’t work together, though sometimes it would have been much more practical; so far everything’s coming up fruitless, nothing but loopholes and dead ends and blank spaces. Why break into the DNC’s office? What were they looking for? What was their motive? Who was behind it? Were the burglars acting alone, or was there someone, or maybe multiple people, who was pulling the strings?
Too many questions, not enough answers, and it’s driving him up a wall.
“You’re still going at it?”
Eijun startles in his rolling chair, fingers clashing down on the keyboard. He’s been staying late in the office to write one of his articles. Only now, looking out of the window, does he notice how dark it’s getting, and that everyone has already left.
He clicks the undo button and hisses quietly, rubbing his eyelids. God, how long has he been staring at the screen? He slightly tilts his head towards Miyuki, who’d just entered the office dressed in a black turtleneck, tan trench coat, and matching slacks and dress shoes. In comparison to Eijun, who probably looks as though he hasn’t showered in weeks, Miyuki looks as though he’d just gotten off some goddamn runway, his appearance both lethal and drop-dead gorgeous. It’s really not helping Eijun's case at all.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he snaps. “This isn’t the time to go dress up and have a nice evening night out. You still have a case to do.”
Miyuki sighs. “O ye of little faith,” he says. He drops a travel-sized notebook on top of Eijun's desk. Eijun eyes it suspiciously.
“What’s this?”
“Information, of course.”
Eijun makes a grab for the notebook, but before he can get it, Miyuki snatches it out of his grasp. He scowls.
“What the hell, Miyuki Kazuya?”
“How about a drink, hm? You look like you need one.” Miyuki smiles, and it’s so pretentious that Eijun wants to punch it. However, information is information: his entire career relies on it. And so, he takes his jacket and follows Miyuki outside.
The bar he’s been taken to is a small one, a few people milling about in it; the perfect place to discuss these kinds of things without fear of stray eyes and curious ears. After their glasses of beer arrive at where they’re seated, Miyuki giving the waitress a nauseatingly coquettish grin while thanking her, he slides the notebook across the table. Eijun opens it, gingerly padding through the pages and reading—and then rereading—the messily scrawled-on content.
He jerks his head back up to Miyuki, eyes narrowed incredulously. “Where did you get all of this?”
Miyuki shrugs. “I have my ways.” He takes a sip of his beer. “While you were off slaving yourself away in meaningless reports—”
“No, they were not meaningless—!”
“I’d met up with this pretty little lady who’s on the investigation team. After two drinks, she gets a little chatty, you know? Haha.” When Eijun doesn’t laugh, Miyuki continues, somewhat miffed, “Anyway, turns out the address book one of the burglars had on him? Yagihara Hitomu’s name on it.”
“Yagihara Hitomu,” Eijun repeats, letting the name sink in. “Didn’t he work for the CIA?”
Miyuki snaps his fingers. “Bingo.”
“But why would the burglars have a connection to the CIA?” Eijun muses to himself. That’s the point when his instincts start to tell him there’s something more going on in the story than just a mere burglary.
Miyuki shakes out a cigarette and lights it up, inhaling and exhaling the smoke with practiced ease. Eijun scrunches his nose. He’s never been a fan of smoking—after all, his grandpa nearly died due to that bad habit of his—but he doesn’t voice this concern out; it’s not like Miyuki would listen to him either way.
“Hey, Sawamura,” Miyuki says, after a stretched-out moment.
“Hm?”
Another exhale, and Miyuki looks directly at him, shaggy brown bangs being pulled aside to reveal sharp, calculative eyes glinting behind glasses that can’t be described as anything else but intense.
He grins.
“I think you finally found your opening.”
Their working days become longer and longer after that.
The breaking and entering into the Democratic National Committee’s building never makes it to the front page; Kuramochi says it’s not “monumental” enough for that yet. When Eijun and Miyuki start their research, they soon seem to find more questions than answers. At the end of every new lead, they only find new strings of new leads and new people and only meager pieces of information, which they aren’t sure they can trust. Though despite the delicate, unbalanced seesaw they’re working on, they still manage.
“Look at this.” He sets down files and files of detailed financial records. “A $153,000 cashier’s check, earmarked for the President’s re-election campaign, was deposited in April in a bank account of one of the burglars. The check was made out to the former Secretary of Commerce, who now serves as the President’s chief fundraiser. In addition, one of the other burglars caught was on the re-election committee’s payroll as GOP security aide. This whole incident practically reeks of suspicion and foul play, but they keep insisting that it’s a ‘third-rate burglary’ or some bullcrap.”
“Not to mention the Attorney General bastard who’s denying any involvement in the slush fund,” Miyuki says.
“We still don’t know his role in all this,” Eijun points out. He flings his pen across the room, vigorously rubbing his face. “Fuck.”
Miyuki hums in agreement.
“Sometimes I have a feeling this case might be the end of us. I really don’t like that feeling.”
“Mm.”
“Every lead we follow only takes us deeper into this bottomless shithole. Whatever the ending is, I’ll be surprised when we finally see it.” Eijun lets out a deprecating chuckle. “Damn it, Miyuki Kazuya, why can’t you just fuck the truth out of someone, have them spill everything before this case of ours gets nasty?”
Miyuki rolls his eyes. “That’s not how it works, stupid.”
“Then how does it work?” Eijun drops his hands down to his lap. “How can you do all that, without a single shred of remorse? Do you enjoy it?”
“I’m not afraid to use my body in my line of work. It’s all for the job, of course,” Miyuki says. “I get the scoop, they get to enjoy their night: it’s a win-win situation.”
“You’re despicable.”
“And you are a prude.”
“Not a prude,” Eijun grunts, and Miyuki scoffs, smiling.
“Okay. Whatever you say, Superboy.”
Eijun smiles back. He spins around in his chair before heading back to writing up the report that is to be sent to the press in a few hours. It’s only when, while skimming through their latest interview with the committee bookkeeper earlier in the day, does it finally hit him.
They are—and Miyuki must have recognized the signs long before Eijun did—flirting.
On the single TV their office holds, the reporters crowd around to watch the President’s bright, plastered-on smile, all teeth and shiny for the press, as he waves to the crowds after his second term re-election by one of the biggest landslides in political history.
Miyuki crumbles up the paper cup wadded in his hand, and Eijun knows exactly how he feels.
“Well,” Kuramochi starts, and Eijun moves his gaze from the TV to him. “As you know, he won by a landslide. This election wasn’t even a competition, really. At the same time, we are writing a story implying that he and those closest to him are criminals. It would be nice if you were right.”
Eijun and Miyuki’s eyes meet, and they both turn to the executive editor.
“We’ve got good leads, sir,” Eijun says honestly.
Kuramochi purses his lips, eyeing them wearily. “Alright. Just make sure you get information we can actually trust,” he says, caution in his tone. “If it turns out you’re correct… this is going to be big news, bigger than what you can ever imagine.”
He then sighs and motions them to leave, and Eijun practically runs out of the room. He’s feeling nauseous again. Miyuki walks to his desk, looking slightly amused at his misery.
“What made you want to become a journalist?”
It’s another late night held back in the office, two bottles of Corona Light cracked open and a sprawl of files and documents laid before them across the tiled floor.
They’re pressed by Kuramochi to get more information, to find someone who they could actually quote in their articles, but it’s chaos at this point, nearly spiraling out of their control. Eijun looks at the piles of paper, coffee cups, and pens on his desk and knows it’s just a small version of how their homes look at this point. He’s grateful for being single and unattached from any other man in his life, because any resemblance of a relationship would have ended by now due to his work. Except for, of course, the perplexing relationship he has with the ever-elusive Miyuki Kazuya.
“I’ve always had a knack for writing, I guess, and seeking out the truth,” Eijun says. “I want to bring justice my own way. When I have a pen in my hand, I feel like I can do anything, and with the power of language, I can be heard.” He scratches his cheek bashfully. “Of course, this is just some lofty idealism of mine. I haven’t been able to shake it off after all these years.”
“It isn’t lofty idealism,” Miyuki says straightforwardly, just like he always does. “You’re just a good writer.”
It’s so quiet in the office that even a pin drop can be heard. Miyuki’s staring at him with an almost indecipherable expression, but—and this might just be Eijun's imagination running wild from sleep deprivation and alcohol—Eijun sees the faintest trace of something like want, something almost like desire, cross Miyuki’s face for a fleeting moment.
This is dangerous territory they’re breaching here. They’ve been good for five months, keeping their hands to themselves and maintaining a healthy, professional distance.
But it’s nights like these, with alcohol and thinly-veiled conversations and Miyuki’s cigarette smoke the only things between them, do the walls start coming down.
He clears his throat, licking his lips. “So, uh, what made you…?” He hesitates.
“Want to become a photographer?” Miyuki finishes, a look of amusement flickering across his face. “Don’t worry, I get that question often. At least you didn’t mean it as a backhanded remark, unlike some other people.”
“I’m just curious.”
“Hm.” Miyuki hums contemplatively, taking a drag. He’s always had this objective beauty about him, Eijun notices; his confident, self-assured demeanor and tall, lean physique are undeniably attractive features. At this moment, though, Eijun thinks that he’s a lot more than that, that the face he always shows to the world just barely scratches the surface of what really lurks underneath.
“Photography for me is like writing to you. It’s how I want my voice to be heard,” Miyuki finally continues, tone smooth yet strong. “But I guess there was a natural calling for me to this profession. I want to ruin lives, ruin years and years of carefully built reputations and shiny, shiny appearances, and shred them to pieces, all done with a single shot of a camera. And when they sit in a cell barely bigger than a coffin, they’ll remember the exact page number where everything came crumbling down right before their eyes.” He smirks. “But I guess you can call that lofty idealism too, no?”
Eijun grins at him sharply.
“I feel like I’ve met the real you just now, Miyuki Kazuya,” he says.
Miyuki raises his glass towards him. They clink them together and down them all in one go.
Their scoops are being downplayed by the media.
Despite the reports Eijun made revealing that the President's chief of staff had made payments from the secret fund, no other news outlets dared to publish that information; after all, with such an unpopular claim being made toward the crowd-winning, newly re-elected president, why would you? And to make matters worse, the White House - by now very aware of the Tribute's coverage being on the President's back - made sure that their unwelcoming message towards the Tribute came across by publicly attacking the newspaper.
"I personally feel that this is shabby journalism by The Washington Tribute," the President's spokesman - a pompous, haughty man - said early that morning during a press conference. "It is a blatant effort at character assassination that I do not think has been witnessed in the political process in some time."
Simply put: things are not in Eijun's favor. If he fucks up, not only would it be the end of his career, but also the newspaper would go up in flames all because of him.
"Don't listen to what those assholes have to say, Eijun," Kominato sternly tells him. They're sitting by the rooftop of the Tribute during their break time. It's hell down there; with the public majority against them and practically waiting for the reporters to slip up and get humiliated, the morale within the room is at an all-time low. And yet, despite it all, they're all here to still support Eijun through and through - especially Kuramochi, who had told the public that the Tribute stands firmly by the story. "You know you're right, so just trust yourself and keep moving on. They're just scared that you're on the President's tail, and they're acting up."
"I know I'm right," Eijun grouses, "but I need to break new ground with the story, and fast.
"I'll show them, though," he says, grinning determinedly. "I'll show them that their President is a liar and a cheat, and then they'll regret ever doubting us." He stands up, brushes off his slacks, and stretches. "I need to find that Miyuki bastard and get back to work: we've got a long day ahead of us."
“Ah, you and Miyuki, huh?” Kominato laughs. “Didn’t you hate him?”
Eijun wrinkles his nose. “I never hated him.” Kominato quirks an expectant brow, and Eijun makes a resigned sound. “Okay, maybe I did. But we’ve been at this case for more than half a year together. Things are bound to eventually change. Plus,” he adds, this time in a much more gentle voice, “he’s great at what he does.”
Kominato is now looking at him with a knowing smirk. Eijun flushes furiously and looks away.
“We’re just partners working on the same case.”
“I know, I know,” Kominato says, amused. His face then clouds, sporting a more serious expression. “Joking aside, things are going to escalate quickly from this point on. It’s going to get ugly very soon, and I hope you know that, Eijun. You don’t want to make enemies with those kinds of people.”
Eijun's skin prickles.
“Of course I know,” he says, briskly. “We knew that the moment we published our first article.”
“Alright. Just… be careful out there,” Kominato tells him. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
Eijun nods, watching as Kominato disappears into the building. It’s the calm before the storm, is what they always say. This is it, the mere moment before all hell broke loose. Whether that hell was reserved for the government officials doing dirty politics behind closed doors or Eijun himself, he had to face it all, through thick and thin.
After all, he’s a journalist. He’s got a job to do.
They spend a lot of time in the courthouse, hearing the burglars plead guilty and the conviction of Yagihara for burglary, conspiracy, and wiretapping.
Another bombshell is soon dropped when one of the burglars, seemingly tired of being used as a scapegoat by the President’s men, writes a scathing letter to the presiding judge revealing that high-ranking White House officials associated with the President had known about the break-in and alleges that perjury had been committed in the trial.
The media’s now getting stirred, whispers of corruption and abuse high in the air. Good, Eijun thinks. Seems that their selfless Mr. President isn’t so honorable after all; it’s about time people started to see this.
“I knew from the start the White House had something to do with this,” Eijun says, smug.
“Of course you did, right after I figured out Yagihara’s role in this.”
“Oh come on, that was months ago!”
“Get to writing that story. Bring peace and justice to our cowardly nation, Superboy.”
“Jackass,” Eijun bites back, and Miyuki huffs a laugh.
They walk past a small Vietnamese restaurant and step inside, where they talk about the case over bowls of phở and lukewarm glasses of beer. It gets dark outside before they know it, so they have to leave to write their article. It had just begun to rain, but Miyuki insists they stop for a second so he can light his cigarette. Eijun tells him not to bother because of the rain, but Miyuki, of course, doesn’t listen to him.
There’s a man walking towards them, a man neither one of them recognize. He is wearing a dark raincoat that covers his face, holding something in his hands. He looks like a reporter holding a small recorder or a notebook, which makes him wonder if the man has recognized them as the DNC reporters and wants to ask their opinion about the case.
“Hey,” Eijun cautiously says to Miyuki, who’s standing with his back turned to the man.
The man comes closer to them, allowing Eijun to see that no, it’s not a recorder he’s holding, but a gun.
Eijun looks around, anxious. The people around them are so focused on running away from the rain they don’t realize anything out of the ordinary. Eijun doesn’t dare look at Miyuki, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees the photographer going stiff. It means Miyuki has seen the gun, too. They’re now sitting ducks, waiting for their moment of escape.
The man is only a few feet away from them when he raises his gun. Eijun notices his hands are shaking. But before he can do anything about it, Miyuki steps in front of Eijun to cover him. When Eijun tries to push him back, Miyuki punches him with his elbow, never taking his eyes away from the gunman.
“Hey,” Miyuki says to the man in a low, even voice. “Let’s talk about this.”
“STOP!” The man’s screaming, high-pitched and wavering, makes Eijun wonder if it’s because he’s scared or just very young— maybe even both. “Just fucking stop!”
“We’ll just leave then,” Eijun says over Miyuki’s shoulder and takes a step away from Miyuki. The man shoots at the ground almost exactly in front of his feet.
“I'm warning you. Just... just stop,” the man says. He sounds like he’s almost going to cry.
“What do you want us to do?” Eijun asks, distressed. He wonders if the man realizes he’s not making any sense. Slowly, Eijun lowers his hands. He doesn’t remember raising them.
The man looks at them with a shifty look in his eyes and then bursts into a run, leaving them just standing there, without looking back.
For a moment, Eijun and Miyuki are so stunned they don’t know what to say or do. Eijun snaps out of his paralysis first, whirling around and punching Miyuki square on the jaw.
“What the hell do you think you were doing, playing a fucking hero like that?! Do you really want to catch a bullet for me or what?!”
Miyuki is looking at him with a cold, even look. “There’s no need to get angry. It was just instinct.”
Eijun scoffs. “Instinct, huh? Having a fucking death wish is instinct to you?”
“I don’t have a death wish. Stop being so childish, Eijun.”
“Oh really? Then what would you call your hobby of going inside empty buildings and garages in the middle of the night, huh? To go meet a mysterious man whose identity no one else knows, or screw some politician by any means necessary because it only benefits you? What the fuck is that, Miyuki Kazuya?”
Miyuki huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, I’m so sorry I’m not as respectable as you, Eijun. How about you stop worrying about me and start looking after yourself? Surely you don’t want to be associated with a good-for-nothing scum like me, isn’t that right, Superboy?”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Eijun hisses, voice shaking from—what? Anger? Fear? Care? “Fucking insane, conceited piece of shit. I should’ve never done this case with you—fuck, I can’t even stand you. You’re such a fucking bastard, and I don’t—I don’t—” I can’t bear the thought of you getting hurt because of me. He doesn’t finish his sentence, though. Too dangerous.
He stops, clenching his jaw tight.
Miyuki lights a cigarette. Takes a drag, lets it out.
“You done now?”
Eijun rubs his forehead and sighs. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Miyuki says. He looks down the empty street. The gunman has already disappeared around the corner. “What the hell was that anyway?”
“Maybe he was a messenger of someone who would rather have us stop investigating the case,” Eijun suggests.
“Don’t you think that’s slightly paranoid? Maybe the guy just wanted money but couldn’t focus on us long enough to rob us.”
“He could have never robbed us anyway. You saw him, he was a wreck.”
“So, what do you think then? That the White House hires wrecks now in order to scare us good enough to make us stop writing about the break-in?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said it’s a possibility.”
Miyuki stays quiet for a while before saying, “I’m not worried.”
“Me neither.”
“You never are, Superboy.”
Now they are both soaking wet and would rather go home, but they have no choice but to go to the Tribute and write down their report. The uncomfortable silence weighs them down and suffocates the room, so unlike the other night, when they’d been drinking and flirting mercilessly. But this is what happens when you tread that line, Eijun reminds himself: you start to care, and people get hurt.
When Eijun gets home, he takes a hot shower climbs straight into bed. He stays awake for a long time, thinking about all the pieces in this great puzzle they seem to be unable to solve. He feels frustrated, angry, and worried because he doesn’t know where to go from here. He is slowly starting to lose his sense of what’s true, what’s a lie, who is to be trusted and who is fooling them. When he started his career he had dreamed of a case like this, a case that would be both complex and serious and mean something for the nation. In bed, he’s once again reminded why his mom had always advised him—back when he was still a little boy from Texas, just starting to grasp his real passion for reporting—to be careful about what he wished for.
Because sometimes, those wishes come true.
If he is wrong and he fucks up, there will be serious consequences. He’s not allowed to fail. But what if he doesn’t fail? Will more of what had just happened tonight occur, only this time not as forgiving? He can’t afford to put more people in danger because of him.
He thinks about Miyuki, wants to call him up and talk to him about random, nonsensical shit, anything that doesn’t pertain to the case: his dreams, his fears, his childhood, why he feels the need to distance himself from other people, the moment he fell in love with photography, what made him choose Washington D.C. of all places, why he’s so captivated with dethroning corporate hellhounds, what he’s truly like when all the iron walls are down, what sensation the heat of his skin radiates, how he tastes like, what sounds he makes when he—
Fuck. He rubs his eyes. God, he really needs some shut-eye.
After sitting in the silent darkness for long enough, he decides to go to sleep so the morning would come more quickly. Sometimes things looked brighter after a good night’s sleep.
Eijun knows better than to expect to sleep well, though. Right now he would be grateful for getting some rest at all.
“What am I looking at?” Kuramochi asks, lifting the hurried, haphazardly-written notes which lay on his desk with innate suspicion.
“An interview, of course,” Eijun tells him.
Kuramochi’s eyes scan the pages.
“It’s thin,” he sighs. “I mean, how can you—”
“It’s a direct statement made from a former member of the presidential council,” Miyuki speaks up from the back of the office, leaning against the wall nonchalantly. “A shifty guy, locking himself up in his apartment with no light in sight, but he seemed very confident in his proclamation.”
“And that is?”
“That the Attorney General controlled a secret GOP fund used to finance intelligence-gathering against the Democrats, and that the President had tried and planned to cover up the break-in case,” Eijun answers.
Kuramochi looks up at him, and then at Miyuki.
“Shit,” he says weakly, running a hand through his hair, and Eijun can’t help but agree.
The next day, the article’s out, front page. A single photograph eclipses the cover, showcasing the President in the midst of vicious words and paragraphs. Behind the podium, with no one backing him up like they used to, he stands alone, no longer carrying the courageous front presented all those months ago. No, it’s futile to lie to the lens of a camera: it’ll just shatter through your barriers and rip you into pieces. Captured in the photo was not a man of great integrity, but a man filled with utter fear and panic, boldly displayed on paper for all to see.
Underneath it, in fine print: MIYUKI KAZUYA/THE WASHINGTON TRIBUTE
Eijun has already lost count on how many cups of the shitty automat coffee he has drunk in the span of this political smackdown, but that doesn’t stop him from having one more. He brings one to Miyuki too, even though he always complains about how Eijun can “never make the damn coffee right”, putting it on his desk. Miyuki is focused on reading some of his notes so he doesn’t raise his gaze when thanking him. They had—once again—spent a whole day inside, going through their notes. Eijun had written up a report confirming the FBI’s suspicion that the break-in was part of a massive campaign of political spying and sabotage on behalf of the President’s re-election committee. The public interest towards the case has grown hugely since the Senate Committee’s hearings started to air on national TV.
“I’m telling you, it doesn’t take long before the guy denies all this on national TV, saying that he’s not a criminal and has no idea what he did wrong,” Miyuki says. Eijun thinks he might be right.
“Welcome to the storm,” Eijun murmurs to himself, and takes a sip of his morning coffee.
The days all start off in a familiar tune.
Papers shuffling. Pens scratching. Clacking keys of a beat-up laptop. Coffee cups being filled, then drained in record time.
The President, standing before hundreds of hungry eyes with flashing cameras and recorders clinging to his every word, saying with a solemn, sickly pale face, “I’m not a criminal.”
Miyuki smirks. “Told you.”
Eijun snorts into his drink, and curses when some of it gets on his shirt.
It’s a whirlwind of stories and interviews. With the FBI successfully penetrating the White House denials, the public’s having a field day reading scandal after scandal being unraveled. The administration, now facing massive scrutiny for perjury and obstruction of justice, are keeping their lips tight and the President even tighter.
It’s far, far away from what it had been a year ago, a mere burglary that flew underneath the majority of the general public’s noses. Now the entire nation is waiting, breaths baited, for what is to happen next.
They spend more time doing the research at Eijun's small, cramped apartment that can barely manage to fit one person, nevertheless two. It offers more privacy now that nearly the entire country knows of their existence. It’s almost surreal to think about it: only a year ago he was writing about parks and recs bills no one cared about. He has to see to the end of this mayhem now, whether he likes it or not.
After finishing up a rough draft of their next report—taped conversations the President had stowed away in his office, dated back from before the break-in occurrence—Eijun rubs his tired eyes and yawns. The clock is ticking on the wall. It’s 2:30 a.m., and they’ll have to be at work in four hours.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Miyuki says. “Are you having second thoughts?”
Eijun shoots him a withering glare, although he’s aware it’s not as menacing as he’d like it to be. “No I’m not, Miyuki Kazuya! Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Good,” murmurs Miyuki, tilting his head towards him. “Because we’ve long reached the point of no return, and there’s no turning back from all this.”
“O-of course,” Eijun stammers as Miyuki trails his fingers up Eijun's wrist, eliciting goosebumps. “This is the soap opera everyone’s been waiting for. How can I possibly sit back?”
Miyuki chuckles softly. “That’s why I like you, Sawamura. You’re always jumping on the first thing that lands on the table, ready to write whatever you can get your hands on. Insatiable.”
“You just described every reporter out there,” he points out.
“But you’re different.” Miyuki side-glances him with those clever, mercurial eyes. “I’ve been following your writing for a while.”
Eijun scowls. “You talking about the dog park one?”
“No, I’m talking about the exposé where you exposed collusion between the police and some of the country’s largest private ambulance companies to restrict service in low-income areas.”
Eijun's eyes widen. “But wasn’t that—”
“Four years ago?” Miyuki flashes a crooked smile. “Didn’t I tell you? I’ve been following your work for a while. You’ve got a way with words, you know. You somehow command attention on paper, force people to see things your way. But what’s the greatest thing about you is that you always stay true to yourself. You stick by your clear-cut morals and never stray from them. It’s admirable, really. When I found out you’d been moved to D.C., I think that was what finally drew me here of all places.”
Eijun furrows his eyebrows. “But you said—”
“I know what I said, and I’m sorry. For insulting you, back in the court hearings.” Miyuki inches forward, barely two inches away from Eijun. “I think you’re an absolutely brilliant journalist.”
They stare at each other for a while. Eijun's heart is hammering against his chest. The air seems to be charged with something he can’t name; thoughts race in his mind, loud and urgent and disjointed, culminating in what seems to be a huge migraine. And, because he obviously still isn’t thinking, he blurts out, “You should probably kiss me.”
Miyuki doesn’t hesitate and does exactly that. He grabs hold of Eijun's face with both hands and presses their lips together. Miyuki’s mouth tastes like ash and Eijun wants to scold him to quit smoking, though that is all quickly forgotten as soon as Miyuki opens his mouth and presses his tongue against Eijun's. Both of them groan lowly as Miyuki pushes him against the wall and kisses him until he’s weak in the knees.
“Bedroom, bedroom,” Eijun keens, yanking at Miyuki’s hair, and he’s pulled inside the dark room, sprawled across the bed and underneath Miyuki’s lascivious stare.
Miyuki fucks him thoroughly, setting a punishing pace with each snap of his hips until Eijun is a writhing, incoherent mess of sobs and moans. He’s sure his neighbors can hear his screaming, probably well aware by now of what kind of shameless late night he’s having, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t even think he can care with Miyuki’s sweat-soaked chest flushed against his back and Miyuki’s slender fingers around his leaking cock and stroking it in-sync to his thrusts, the overwhelming sensation so good and so perfect that tears start beading his eyes as he gasps and pleads Miyuki for more.
Eijun doesn’t think about how Miyuki had probably done all of this to strangers for intel, had probably slid into their bodies just like this and made a wreck out of them. He doesn’t think about how beautiful Miyuki’s grunts sound next to his ear, how he’s chanting out Eijun's name like a prayer. He doesn’t think about the fond warmth that’s blooming in his chest and what it can possibly mean. He doesn’t think about anything else and lets himself be dragged into this oblivion.
"God, Eijun—you feel so good, I love being inside you," Miyuki groans - praises, sings - and Eijun absolutely falls.
Miyuki bites his shoulder, and Eijun comes all over his sheets with a sharp cry, eyes fluttering close.
"I'm almost there," Miyuki pants, kissing Eijun everywhere - the shell of his ear, the back of his neck, his shoulder blades - while never stopping his thrusts. "God, I'm so close."
"Kazuya, please," Eijun whines, tears beading from his eyes as he grips his blankets and pushes back against Miyuki's cock. "Come inside me."
"Fuck!" After a few more thrusts that send sparks throughout Eijun's overstimulated body, Miyuki climaxes, his hips moving languidly as he rides out the last waves of his orgasm. Eijun gasps as he feels Miyuki's come filling him, humming with satisfaction. After staying like that and basking in the afterglow, Miyuki discards the soiled condom and collapses beside Eijun on the bed. Their legs are tangled together as they stare at each other in quiet contemplation.
“I’ve wanted you ever since the bar,” Eijun admits. He plays with the dark tips of Miyuki’s hair. “When you told me that I finally found my opening.”
Miyuki chuckles, pressing a kiss against Eijun's neck. “I’ve wanted you for ages, probably since I came to work at the Tribute.”
Eijun chuckles. “I hated you back then. Thought you were a cocky bastard.”
“What about now?”
“Still think you are one,” Eijun snorts. He runs his thumb across Miyuki’s knuckles, smiling softly. “But I guess you’re not so bad.”
A tape is released that finally proves, without a doubt, that the President and his Chief of Staff were planning to block the investigations. It is the final nail in the coffin.
Four days later, the President announces his resignation, officially drawing the case to a close.
Underwood Resigns
After Nearly Two Years of Facing Massive Scrutiny, the President Gives Up the Battle to Remain in Office
By SAWAMURA EIJUN
WASHINGTON, D.C. — Lewis Graham Underwood, 45th President of the United States of America, announced tonight that he had given up his long and arduous fight to remain in office and would resign, effective at noon tomorrow.
Less than two years after his landslide re-election victory, Mr. Underwood, in a conciliatory address on national television, said that he was leaving not with a sense of bitterness but with a hope that his departure would start a “process of healing that is so desperately needed in America.”
Underwood himself spoke tonight only of how painful it was for him to give up office, his voice similar to that of a eulogy to his political career.
“I would have preferred to carry through to the finish whatever the personal agony it would have involved, and my family unanimously urged me to do so,” Mr. Underwood said. “I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is completed is opposed to every instinct in my body. However, as President, the interests of America come first.
“Therefore,” he continued, “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow.”
As he has many times in the past, Mr. Underwood listed what he considered his notable accomplishments in his political career, and stated that he was leaving “with no bitterness” towards those who had opposed him.
Vice President Kristin H. Colston of Michigan will take the oath as the new President at noon to complete the remaining 2 ½ years of Mr. Underwood’s term. With the country left betrayed after witnessing the misuse of the Presidential office for the last two years, Ms. Colston must shoulder the duty of rebuilding the American people’s trust for the White House and its integrity.
It would soon be time, she said, “to unite, to heal, to come together as a nation.”
The day starts off in a rather familiar tune.
Eijun arrives at The Washington Tribute, a mug of coffee in one hand and a fresh, new story in another. He takes it to Kuramochi, who skims through it before rolling his eyes.
“Finance again?”
Eijun smirks. “Of course.”
It’s January, and although the case may be closed, it’s not easily forgotten. It has changed many lives, including Eijun's. He’s the first who got interested in the case, following it from the very beginning till the end. But duty calls, life moves on, and he’s more than happy to move on from anything that even resembles the scandal for a long while.
“How does it feel to be famous?” Kominato asks him. He makes sure not to spill over the accumulating rows of letters (a few of them being laughable death threats and egregious complaints, but Eijun has learned not to bother) that have piled on Eijun's desk, carefully setting them aside.
“Still broke, but it’s nice to hear that I’m inspiring a whole new generation of journalists out there.”
It’s another dreary Monday, not unlike any other day. He’s rooted in his office chair, already typing up something new, when he feels an arm sling over his shoulder.
“Robbery in Avenue. Wanna check it out?” Miyuki sing-songs in his ear.
Well, it’s almost not unlike any other day, with the exception of Miyuki Kazuya.
Smiling, Eijun puts on his jacket, relieved that he finally has something to do. “Sure!” he replies. “As long as there’s another story.”
“Oh, Sawamura. Don’t you know?” Miyuki reaches out and entwines their fingers together, grinning sharply. Eijun has learned to love that grin. “There’s always a story waiting for you.”