Chapter Text
It has been a pretty good day for Haruchiyo. Any memory of the previous day is absent, and the heroin he smoked in the morning (or the afternoon?) is still floating around in his bloodstream. It is comforting—the warmth buried under his skin. It soothes the pain that flares up on cold days like these, old scars throbbing with a dull ache, impossible to ignore.
Haruchiyo steps out of the car and into the DVD rental store that inhabited the corner of a desolate street, the few surviving shops around it already locked up for the day. What little people still out at this time scurry back to the little holes they call homes before the deeper night brings a worse winter chill.
The store itself stands out against the dim outside with its bright white lighting, and he has to squint when he enters. The old tile is polished until it reflects the fluorescents above. Heroin gives him a mellowness he rarely possesses. The world around him has a hazy glow to it and the quiet sounds of a dozen televisions playing different films start to make him a little sleepy.
“Hi, how can I help you?” A soft voice greets him from behind the counter. It’s a man with dark hair, someone who has no idea who Haruchiyo is, but someone Haruchiyo knows everything about.
Takemichi Hanagaki. 26. Male. Beta. Lives alone. No living relations to speak of. He is scrawny with eyes that look too big for his face. Rather pathetic, if Haruchiyo is in any position to judge, but he is the exact type of person Bonten looks for to bring into their operations. The kind of person no one will miss if they disappeared without a trace.
Haruchiyo rests a hand on the countertop. “Hasegawa.”
Hanagaki blinks, surprised. “Oh, okay.” He gestures to the storeroom door. “I’ll go get her from the back.”
He leans into the storeroom, door cracked open to show stacks of cardboard boxes that undoubtedly housed CDs and DVDs. “Someone wants to see you.”
“Haven’t you worked here long enough to deal with customers?” An irritated voice chides. “God, why were you even hir—”
The manager’s complaint trails off once she sees who is at the counter. Haruchiyo drums his fingers on the painted wooden surface, fingernails making a tic-tic-tic sound as she hurriedly shoves past a confused Hanagaki back into the storeroom to grab a binder. She passes it to him, ducking her head nervously. “Sorry for the wait, sir,” the woman squeaks.
She keeps her head down until Haruchiyo pushes back through the glass doors and steps back into the cold night. He catches the tail of Hanagaki’s question, “—was that guy?” To which he receives no response.
Haruchiyo exhales, his breath visible. Back to headquarters it is.
Headquarters is a lounge in a penthouse in the heart of Shibuya. Mikey is reclining in an armchair in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing at the Tokyo skyline below them. Koko is in his usual corner, typing away on that laptop of his.
Haruchiyo strides in and tosses the binder to Koko. “It’s the accounts for the DVD rental. You’re welcome.”
Koko catches it without looking up from his laptop. “Why? Isn’t one of the grunts supposed to pick it up?’
Collapsing on one of the sofas, Haruchiyo pulls out a cigarette. “He was trying to sell information. I got rid of him.” A lighter clicks and he takes a drag. “Also, I’m in a good mood.”
Koko looks up. “Jesus, Sanzu. How many times have I told you to tell us before killing one of our men. And don’t smoke in here. It stinks.”
Haruchiyo flips him off and puffs out a cloud of smoke. Stiff bitch.
There is a creak as Mikey gets up from the armchair. Haruchiyo stares as he approaches.
Mikey stands in front of him, dark circles framing abyssal eyes. His scent is overpowering at such close proximity, a tide of smoky charcoal and burnt chocolate. Haruchiyo can’t move. “Uh, sorry, I’ll stop smo—?”
An unexpectedly strong grip winds its way around his tie and yanks him to his feet. Haruchiyo drops his cigarette in surprise and Mikey closes his eyes and sniffs him. Fuck. His heart pounds in double-time and he suddenly feels very warm under his shirt. If he tilts his head a few more degrees forward, his skin would brush against Mikey’s.
After seconds that felt like centuries, Mikey pushes him back into the sofa and looks at him, gaze boiling with intensity. “Where did you go?”
Haruchiyo, still breathless, stutters, “Uh, um, I was at the DVD rental store.”
Without another word, Mikey leaves, blustering through the heavy doors without a coat or proper shoes.
Koko looks at Haruchiyo, who is stuck unmoving in the same position on the sofa, rolls his eyes and then resumes his typing.
Mikey only returns the next morning.
Haruchiyo spent the night sending men out to tail the car Mikey took, calling in contacts and getting reports on his movement. He was at the DVD rental and was spotted talking to a dark-haired man working there. He stayed there for hours until the shop closed and then it was reported that he left with the man and walked together to an apartment building where they both entered. It was dawn by the time Mikey called for one of their cars to fetch him back to headquarters.
Being up for twenty hours and then taking a tinge of ecstasy to keep himself awake is perhaps not the best move Haruchiyo could have taken. The sudden rush of adrenaline paired with his anxiety made him jumpy. It felt like a million microscopic bugs were crawling around his organs and the only way to get rid of them was to claw them out of his flesh. Usually the drug works itself out when he was out dealing with Bonten traitors, but this time all he could do was pace around the penthouse and chew through a dozen sticks of gum.
Koko got sick of him after a while and left, clicking his tongue at the sight of Haruchiyo scratching a notch into the wooden table with a fork.
What on earth can a nobody like Hanagaki be doing with the Mikey? How the fuck did Mikey find him? With that one sniff? It is impossible. Betas don’t have scents—not like those of alphas and omegas, anyway. There is no biological need for them. Alphas and omegas need scents because that’s how they release pheromones to attract mates but betas have no such craving to reproduce.
He throws the fork down with a clatter and resists the urge to pick at the corners of his mouth. It was a bad habit he fell into ever since those wounds scabbed over and now it’s just a thing to do when he feels antsy. He used to despise these scars when he was younger, hideous diamond shapes that made other kids stare at him from afar like a fucking zoo animal. But now he knows they are a treasure, something to set him apart, to make him unique.
Mikey dragged him from mediocrity and made him new.
When Mikey comes back, daylight is just breaking through the clouds outside and Haruchiyo is already on the verge of crashing. He peels his face from the table and watches Mikey walk unsteadily into the lounge with a green scarf he didn’t leave with, and collapse into the couch. He doesn’t know if it is the sleep deprivation or the ecstasy rush but he hears him say a muffled “Morning, Sanzu” before falling asleep.
Haruchiyo freezes, blinking the cloudiness from his vision.
Mikey has never done any of this before. He rarely strays out of the headquarters for purposes other than official meetings, usually staying in that worn armchair in front of that window, legs crossed under him. He would stay there till the deep hours of the night, retiring to his suite only for a few measly hours of sleep from what Haruchiyo could tell from the heavy bags under his eyes.
And he has never, ever greeted anyone.
Mikey lies there relaxed and dare he say…vulnerable, his white hair fanned out across the arm of the couch, chest rising and sinking with gentle, even breaths. He makes a noise and then snuggles deeper into the soft fabric of the scarf. Haruchiyo has never been privy to his unguarded face. He looks so young and yet so exhausted, a deep crease between his eyebrows even when he is unconscious. Haruchiyo’s fingers twitch out towards Mikey’s body and he has to force them into fists.
What the fuck did Hanagaki Takemichi do to Mikey? He must have drugged him or seduced him like a whore. It makes his skin crawl. If Mikey wanted to relieve some tension, he could have just visited one of the many brothels Bonten owned. He could have fucked any bitch he wanted, so why Hanagaki?
The doors to the lounge choose that moment to slam open. Haruchiyo snaps his head towards the noise, hissing a “Shut the fuck up” to the man strutting in. Ran Haitani is an overdramatic bitch who just has to announce his entrance to every room.
“Good morning to you too, Sanzu.” Haitani smiles sickly sweet and walks over to the couch, glancing at the sleeping man. “Hm. Never seen Boss like that before. Aww, he looks kinda cute.”
Haruchiyo slaps the hand that was reaching out towards Mikey’s hair. “Don’t wake him up.”
“Calm down, I wasn’t planning to.” He backs off with both hands raised, a smirk dancing across his lips. He disappears into the hallway that leads to his bedroom but not before he casts a raised eyebrow and a knowing look at Haruchiyo. “Have fun.”
Haruchiyo has to bite back a surge of rabid frustration lest he awoke Mikey. God, Ran Haitani has to be the most insufferable man in Tokyo. Rindou having a more tolerable personality than his brother is a small mercy.
He turns back to look down upon his boss’ sleeping face. Sano Manjiro is a shell of the man he used to be. An alpha, a born leader, now faded like a tarnished crown on a weary king. Still, Haruchiyo will follow him to the ends of the earth. The blood in his veins flows for him, belongs to him.
So when Hanagaki’s shift rolls around the next day, Haruchiyo tucks his hair into a beanie and arms himself with a mask, a hoodie and a little Xanax to counteract his buzzing nerves. It’s time to pay Hanagaki a little visit.
He is greeted once again with a cheery “Good afternoon! How can I help you?”
Haruchiyo nods back, eyes trained on the ground. He slinks around the metal shelving, pretending to browse through films he has absolutely no interest in. The shop is empty, save for Hanagaki and his manager.
He wonders if they have ever thought about how this shop remained open for the past six years when there is only ever the odd customer who wanders in because it is cold outside. Do they ever ask themselves who the mysterious men demanding for the accounts of the shop are?
Judging from the terrified response Hasegawa gave when he came the last time, she had some semblance of knowledge of who they were. Maybe she already had a taste of the heavy hand Bonten dealt out.
On the other hand, Hanagaki is completely clueless; blind to the writhing pit he has landed in and in for a nasty shock.
How will he react to the truth behind his little one-night stand? Sell Mikey out? Bring Bonten, one of the greatest criminal empires Japan has ever seen, to its knees over a fling?
Or is there something more, something they missed in their background checks? Hanagaki may have some sort of hidden motive to get close to the Bonten executives so he worms his way into their operations, gathering intel for a rival gang. Maybe it is a personal mission, and he is just waiting for the right moment to strike.
In any case, Haruchiyo cannot allow that. Complacency breeds fatal mistakes. It is his job to eliminate any threat, big or small.
He runs a finger across the spines of the plastic casings. The radiator buzzes in the corner of the room and he is so loose and calm he could melt. Hasegawa disappears into the storeroom and Hanagaki is alone sweeping the linoleum floor. Poor fool. He wouldn’t know what hit him.
The pistol in the pocket of his hoodie is freezing to the touch. It is one of the smallest on the market, perfect for stealthier jobs like these. Haruchiyo personally prefers his katanas—they have a sort of elegance to them. But unlike his usual jobs, this one requires a little…discretion.
The Japanese law enforcement is a bit of a joke. Half of them are in Bonten’s pocket already and Haruchiyo likes to play a little with them, leaving streaks of blood and sometimes a finger or two for the cops to find. This is different, though. Mikey knows the target personally so Haruchiyo has to make this work as quickly and as cleanly as possible.
He has to protect the king even from the weakest pawn.
Haruchiyo approaches Hanagaki slowly from behind, fingers wrapped around the pistol in the pocket of his hoodie. He already made sure it was loaded with hollow-point bullets and lubricated with petroleum jelly. Back turned against the CCTV camera in the corner, an eye out for the glass door. He fits the silencer to the pistol.
Quick and clean.
One breath and Haruchiyo draws the gun. Barrel pointed at that head of black hair and Hanagaki is still so unaware of the end of his life so quickly hurtling toward him. Haruchiyo is rarely—scratch that— never this merciful to his other prey.
His finger is on the trigger and he is about to pull it—when the glass door creaks open.
The sound of the afternoon bustle outside streams in as Haruchiyo stuffs the gun back into his pockets and Hanagaki whips his head toward the door. Fuck.
And then he sees who is at the entrance. Double fuck.
Mikey, dressed in a heavy black coat with that damn green scarf wrapped around his neck, is standing there. Haruchiyo can barely hold back a gasp before he ducks back through the shelves, heart thundering in his chest. Why the fuck is he here?
Lucky for him, Mikey doesn’t even spare him a glance. His eyes are fixed on Hanagaki.
“Manjiro!” Hanagaki straightens up and grins widely. “You’re early! It’s not even my break yet.”
Manjiro?
Mikey has this softness to his brow he hasn’t seen before. He isn’t exactly smiling per se, but there is a quirk to his lip, a tenderness that Haruchiyo thought was squeezed out of him a long time ago. “I was in the area. It’s okay, I’ll wait.”
He makes his way deeper into the shop and rests his back on one of the shelves, watching Hanagaki sweep.
So it wasn’t just a one-night stand. The realisation makes his stomach flip. It’s a feeling he doesn’t want to get into right now. Haruchiyo picks up a random DVD and pretends to peruse the synopsis on the back, making sure he keeps his face in the shadows and an ear out for their conversation.
“I see you have my scarf,” Hanagaki says with a smile in his voice. “If you like it so much, you can just keep it. I have tons of scarves at home.”
Mikey fiddles with the fabric. “Don’t mind if I do.”
They talk with a push and pull that feels enveloped in years of familiarity, a rhythm so comfortable Haruchiyo struggles to keep it in focus. One of the TV screens plays a scene from a Batman movie and the Joker speaks in a Japanese dub, his lips moving out of sync with the audio.
Haruchiyo remains where he is, Xanax forcing his heart rate to a crawl. He feels sluggish like reality is a viscous gel.
Idiot, idiot, idiot. Maybe there is some truth in Koko’s complaints about his overreliance on drugs to perform. He didn’t even realise that they lapsed into silence until Hanagaki emptied the dustpan into the bin.
Hasegawa emerges from the storeroom. “Hanagaki, you can go on your lunch break now.”
She eyes Mikey and nods in greeting. Mikey nods back. Hanagaki grabs his coat and gestures to Mikey. “C’mon, there’s a new ramen place I wanna try.”
They leave the DVD rental, Hanagaki chatting animatedly and Mikey listening with all the attention in the world. A scowl twists its way across Haruchiyo’s lips under his mask.
He pushes his way through the glass doors after making sure they had gone a distance, the hard set of his brows and hunched posture clear signals for Hasegawa to not approach. Once out of the shop, he can still see the faint shape of the two disappearing around the corner, a head of white hair pressed against a head of black.
Haruchiyo curses under his breath. What next?