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Neito isn’t a fan of these kinds of parties.
They all kind of follow the set script, in which he ends up bored out of his mind and then drunk out of his mind. By now he knows all eligible bachelorettes of Camorr’s high society by heart. How can he not, when his mother parades every woman around as if a single whiff of their perfume is enough to suddenly persuade her poor son’s stubborn whims.
“Neito, darling, are you sure? She’s very-”
“I’m not having this discussion again.” He says, cutting her off in what feels like a rehearsed play by now. A wry smile lingers on his features in apology, because he isn’t heartless. Just…tired, really.
Women just never interested him, that’s all.
That is, until he meets her.
She glides through the crowd with a type of ease he isn’t used to seeing. Not in these parts of the Northern District at least. It’s almost…exciting. For a woman. Of course.
Tall, lean, her hair the color of baron copper coins, a dress not unlike the first rays of sunlight on the canal’s waters.
Many clearly interested men get brushed off with a small smile and a calculated touch against the wrist or shoulder, after which she continues her journey through the crowd towards where the drinks are stashed. Neito watches her painted lips move, the barkeep’s eyebrows lifting a few inches. She smiles again, more self assured this time as he turns around and she motions to the cask of ale rather than any bottle of wine.
Neito bears witness to the whole scene from a distance, not entirely sure what to make of it, or why he’s watching in the first place. It makes him look down into his own glass of burgundy alcohol, forcing himself to avert his eyes from something that should not hold any meaning. And yet…maybe it’s destiny, Preva’s will, that brought her here.
When his gaze settles back on the crowd and suddenly spots the woman walking over, now with her cup of ale in hand, he instantly wonders if this is just all one big joke. Perhaps Preva wasn’t aware yet that corsets and stockings held no interest to a man like Neito. Honestly, he figured that by now everyone had gotten that information. Even the gods.
The woman’s friendly, and talks about trivial matters like every guest here does. Yet, with every glass of wine in Neito’s hands and the ale that doesn’t seem to diminish in hers, Neito can’t shake the feelings of curiosity and eagerness at every new sentence she utters. Because with each passing minute, she grows more bold. Bold like the colors in the sky as the afternoon turns into evening. In what feels like no time at all they start laughing at the guests, pointing out the flaws in their attire as the alchemic lights flicker truth onto the extravagant dresses and coats. Her inventory of gossip is enough to surpass any fisherman’s.
She’s pleasant company, more than Neito would like to admit. He takes another sip of his fourth glass of wine in an attempt to drown his obnoxious laughter at her next remark. A pointed observation about the Duke’s recent endeavors that most definitely did not involve his wife.
Suddenly though, her body moves closer, enough for Neito to feel the fabric of her dress against his hand not nursing a drink. His gaze flickers from the Duke to her, her face close enough for him to see the dusting of shimmer on her eyelids.
“You should teach me a thing or two about that.” she offers -not asks- as the insides of her pint of ale casually turn like the dancing people around them. It looks absolutely untouched.
Neito gives a calculated smile, at least impressed by her straightforwardness. “And why should I do that?”
The upturned twist of her mouth doesn’t waver, yet she doesn’t look at him either as she replies: “I thought we were getting along, we should...get to know each other better.” As if it is a normal thing to say in social circles such as theirs. As if the rumors about him barely allowing any women to his house haven’t reached her web of apparently very sticky gossip yet.
Maybe she thinks herself clever, or special, the lucky one to reach his bedpost now that they’ve talked the night away. Neito wonders suddenly if all this might actually be a bet, or his mother’s doing. How much of this is truly genuine. Yet he doesn’t want to turn her down either. He cannot deny she indeed isn’t like the others, more a subtle type of crudeness rarely found within the confines of Camorr. He has enjoyed his evening so far, that much he has to admit to himself. But the prospect of sex makes him uneasy, like it always does with every woman his mother tries to shove at him. “You should know-”
A hitch of breath, that’s all it takes for her to grab him by the lapels of his frock coat and pull him even closer. His heart stutters, for a moment convinced she’s pulling him in for a kiss. Her painted lips reach right next to his ear instead of on his own, however, and when Neito hears her talk it’s an octave lower than what it was for the past few hours.
Sh- he talks slowly, deliberately.
“Oh I know, don’t worry. I know you don’t like women, too much curvy waves on a rough sea for an unskilled sailor. You go by different waters. I’m here to help you out, Neito Monoma. A convincing show for the high folk, some fun for you behind closed doors.”
“Why exactly should I even take this offer?”
“Because you already like me with fake breasts, imagine what it would be like without.”
His name is Shinsou, and that’s about everything he can get out of the guy in between locking lips and leaving the party towards his home. With the bedroom door closed behind them, Neito detaches himself from the other’s mouth long enough to tug at the lacings of his corset with the franticness of a man about to lose his life. To his great delight, the breasts do turn out to be fake, falling onto the floor as the heavy gown fabric pools along Shinsou’s ankles.
When Shinsou turns around, there are no breeches. Of course there weren’t any under that dress. For fuck’s sake, Neito believed this to be a woman a mere hour ago. It still leaves him to stare at the now naked man before him, the realization kicking in that this is most definitely happening.
Yeah, the lack of breasts is definitely an upgrade.
Shinsou doesn’t give him too much time to process everything. Neito nearly misses the exasperated eye roll before deft hands begin undoing buttons and stripping him off of his clothing without much grace or finesse.They kiss during the whole process, hungry and desperate and all consuming.
Once naked, he’s grabbed by the wrist and tugged towards the bed. A shove, and his back hits the soft bed sheets. If Neito listens closely, he can hear his own heart flutter.
His legs draw up slightly, knees falling open to let the other man in between them. Shinsou’s enthusiasm is utterly unreadable if not for the obvious hard on between his legs as he settles where Neito left space for him. His arm comes to rest on Neito’s knee, cheek cupped in his own hand as he stares lazily at the man splayed out on the sheets beneath him. Neito feels the other hand inching closer and closer to his aching cock.
“Is this how you want to go about it? Didn’t take you for a bo-”
“Can I fuck you?” The words leave Neito’s mouth before he can stop himself.
Shinsou laughs, short and sweet, and Neito is willing to move the sun if it means he can hear it again. It sounds so utterly different from the gaudy little laughs from earlier in the night. Less restrained at the actual pitch Shinsou speaks in, dipped in the sugary dregs of honesty. It sounds like a promise, and Neito is ready to make vows over it in these soon to be crumpled sheets.
Purple eyes flicker to the rest of the room, one clean sweep of the entire place, before they settle back on Neito with a type of intensity that leaves him breathless and devout. His hand stops moving, making Neito groan out in frustration.
“How much are you willing to give for it?” Shinsou asks as the arm previously balancing on Neito’s knee comes down to rest on the sheets beside his head, caging him in. Ginger locks trails past his shoulders, tickling Neito’s ear as it tumbles down onto the pillow.
Of course there are rules to this. Shinsou getting the honors of being fucked by Neito wouldn’t be an equal exchange in the slightest. They don’t know each other, for fuck’s sake. Still, Neito doesn’t want to think about money being the only motivator for this man to wrangle his way into his bedchambers. Despite the rules being laid out in the open, it feels more intimate than words convey it to be.
Maybe that’s just his dick speaking though, or his already smitten heart.
Neito hesitates for a second too long, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Long enough for Shinsou to sigh and pull himself back up in a sitting position. The distance between them suddenly feels too big, snapping Neito out of his haze and back to the situation at hand as Shinsou presses on: “Or did you forget about my proposal?”
“You help me out, a convincing show for the high folk, some fun for me behind closed doors.” Neito parrots without missing a beat, still slightly wide eyed. Whether at Shinsou or his own willingness in this situation, he’s not sure.
Shinsou grins in response, hand finally wrapping around Neito’s cock as he speaks: “Good boy.”
“Now, Neito Monoma, how much is your reputation worth?”
To say it was a great night would have been an understatement.
10 solons had been the deal. Until Neito catches Shinsou in the morning stealing more than just a few silvers, hair a mess but already laced up in that corset again. It almost makes him pity him, but not in a bad way. But still enough for Neito to untangle himself from the bedsheets and press some extra money he has on hand into a leather purse and send Shinsou on his way.
Though not without the promise to see him again soon.
Shinsou seems hesitant, as if weighing the pouch on solons in the palm of his hand together with his options. It doesn’t take long for him - now her again - to depart, leaving Neito alone and naked in his own bedroom to contemplate his choices of the previous night.
Neito sees him again two weeks later, adorned in a different dress - more lower class, something dreadfully unsuitable for the party they first met at - and dark brown hair. It catches him off guard at first, almost not recognising the other man from his location across the street. Even his voice, once again an octave higher, sounds different from the one used during their first meeting.
He doesn’t know how he recognizes Shinsou, but he does. Maybe having a man suck you off with such vigor that your soul seems to leave your body does that. Nevertheless, he watches the interaction with great curiosity.
Crimson lips hold a subdued conversation with a man selling alchemic lamps right by the waterside. Shinsou’s way with words is evident even from a distance. Money gets exchanged in a manner that shows this interaction is one not to be witnessed, and it makes Neito smile.
His smile is still there when he later has Shinsou by the wrist when he turns into an alley. It disappears the moment there is a dagger at his throat.
So maybe he has no clue about what goes on on the south side of the main canal. His very compromised position, the ruddy building’s outer wall uncomfortably scraping his back and head in this alley makes him hyper aware of the fact that Shinsou doesn’t belong in Neito’s world at all. That the persona from that night is as much of a facade as this one is. In a way, it makes obvious sense. Enough that he should see the errors of his ways and abandon this stupid idea right this instant.
Oh, who is he kidding?
Neito clears his throat as much as he dares to with the imminent fear of being cut open, and easily lets go of the other’s wrist. Both his hands fly up to rest against the wall. A peace offering rather than defeat, Neito would argue. Shinsou’s face looks puzzled for a moment before recognition flashes across his features. He huffs, let’s go of Neito, and puts the blade away in a thigh high under layers of skirts.
“For a second I th-”
“Please come see me again.”
Shinsou stares, a baffled frown tugging in between dark brown brows. At least the eyes stay the same, a type of purple that reminds Neito of wild indigo flowers.
It takes a minute or so before he answers, not angry, but not happy either. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
Neito harrumphs, a pleased smile nonetheless spreading across his face at the lack of an outright rejection, “It takes more than one time to… how did you describe it? Put on a convincing show for the locals in order to help me out?”
“You are aware that I would just be doing it so I can rob all your money?”
Neito smiles. “Yes.”
Post-coital cuddles with Shinsou can be bought with just enough promises of solons. And actual solons tucked into the palm of his hand afterwards. He insists on leaving before sunrise, but for now the night is still young and Neito is adamant on enjoying it. Which leaves him to play with a long strand of hair coloured to make it resemble rich dark ink.
It’s always a surprise, always a new look. But the eyes remain the same. Neito would admit to himself that that’s the reason why he always insists on fucking while facing each other, to remember it’s still Shinsou who he picked up from the streets and not some elevated concept of a whore.
He tells himself it’s more than that, that Shinsou’s nothing like the whores in the alleyways. It’s definitely more than just sex, and it isn't merely about money either. Shinsou evidently has the skills to rob people blind without needing to involve sexual favors. Clearly there is some gratification for the both of them in this arrangement. They can stop at any time, but choose to come back to each other. Right?
Shinsou doesn’t talk a lot, not as much as on the night they met at least. Which is more than fine, as Neito talks enough to fill any silence before it drags on too long.
They’ve been laying in sheets made of fine silk for a few hours now. Each time they lay together Shinsou gets coaxed closer like a stray cat in need of learning trust. Neito catches Shinsou as he lets the fabric slide through his fingers, as if weighing its value by eye. He wonders out loud about Shinsou’s life, where he’s from, if his job is solely based on criminal activities involving dress up, what his childhood used to be like.
The answer is simple and concise, yet incomplete: “Coalsmoke, Orphaned at the age of four and raised in Shade’s Hill afterwards. Gotta do what you gotta do to get by in a place like this.”
Neito tries not to think about how much of it he can trust as being the truth, and opts for something more light hearted to redirect that train of thought:
“Okay, but what is your natural hair color, really?”
For thrice the amount of money it takes for Shinsou to be bedded, he is willing to go out with Neito during the daytime. Granted, Neito had tried for less, but apparently sacrifices must be made to spend more time with the man outside of the hues cast by alchemic lamplight.
They’d agreed on a time and place, meeting a few streets away from the little cafe. Far enough to be mistaken for a couple arriving together, but close enough as to not spook Shinsou out of giving up more information about his whereabouts than he’s willing to give. For now.
To say Neito’s excited would be an understatement, really.
He waits patiently by the dockside, fingers idly rearranging the frills at the cuffs of his frock coat. But Shinsou’s late, and the longer Neito waits and stares at his pocket watch, the more embarrassed he gets about his choice of clothing. Perhaps it’s a little too much for some afternoon tea? Most parties these days aren't even worth dressing up for anymore, and so it had felt right to don one of his finer ensembles for the occasion. Right now, standing around while people pass by and give him odd looks, Neito suddenly starts to rethink his decisions.
Even more so now that his date doesn’t even bother showing up…
Checking his pocket watch one last time, Neito feels ready to abandon this stupid orchestrated idea and admit defeat. He came on too strong, clearly having scared off the stray cat in the process. With an overly dramatic sigh he tucks away his watch and turns on his heels, only to be faced with the woman from that one party coming out of the street up ahead.
It’s the first time Shinsou has repeated a disguise, Neito notes.
Their eyes lock, purple on blue, and all Neito’s feelings of insecurity and disappointment fizzle out under that striking gaze, replaced by excitement once more.
He practically runs over, the delighted grin on his features big enough to startle some expression onto Shinsou’s face. It makes Neito pause, the rhythmic tik tak of his heels against cobblestone slowing down until it comes to a stop. But as soon as it appeared, the emotion on Shinsou’s face evens out again. Too fast for Neito to pinpoint exactly what it was that crossed the other’s features.
Shinsou clears his throat, the last remnant of masculinity before his voice settles into that higher range he commands like an orchestra conductor. “Apologies for being late.”
“Where were you?” Neito doesn’t want to admit how desperate it sounds, when he should be angry instead.
Confusion ticks between Shinsou’s brows for a fraction of a second, “Nothing for you to worry about, dear. Now, about that lemon cake you were bragging so much about…” and it’s gone again, replaced by the role of a perfect date to fool Camorr’s high society.
The realization makes Neito’s heart sink into his stomach. He won’t be talking to Shinsou today, but rather the meticulously put together persona in the shape of a woman he had the honors of meeting that very first night. It’s a bigger disappointment than being stood up could’ve ever been.
He just hums, adjusts the lace peeking out from under his cuffs one more time, and offers his arm for Shinsou to take.
Neito gathers that Shinsou doesn’t actually like talking all that much, because conversations are as much part of the persona as the make up is.
“What do you actually like?” Neito asks, fingers curling around a long lock of hair as he raises himself up on his elbow, peering down to his left at the mess of make up still left on the other man’s face.
Shinsou’s eyes find his, a cheshire grin coiling across his cheeks. “When you grab my hair close to the scalp and thrust in just right, when you’re mouth is occupied sucking my co-”
Neito throws a pillow on his face and huffs, turning back onto his back to stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom. “You dickwad! Stop… performing! I mean, generally!” His hands gestures widely into the air as soon as Shinsou removes the pillow from his field of vision again. “Would you actually order lemon cake? What do you do in your free time when you’re not robbing me off of my life savings? Do you have a favorite vegetable? You know, what makes you you!” Both his arms drop back onto the bed as if weighing a ton, and Neito heaves out a dramatic sigh.
When he looks back toward the other man, he catches Shinsou’s relaxed face staring at him still. The sleazy smile replaced by something more timid yet genuine. Those purple eyes quickly look away again towards the other end of the room though, and a long silence stretches between the two of them.
Neito feels the ghosting of fingers against the back of his hand.
“In here I’m not doing anything I don’t like, if that’s what you’re asking.”
They have reached a point where Neito doesn't have to go looking for the other man anymore, nor make precise arrangements and plans for next time before he leaves. Shinsou shows up at his door willingly, a perfect illusion for the masses indeed. In return Neito lets him take his leave with more money than promised, and even little gifts that show affection more than gratitude.
The presents are impersonal at first: necklaces and earrings. And by those few seconds of unguarded wide-eyed staring, Neito is sure Shinsou is very aware of their value. The obvious surprise that crosses those handsome features before they’re reigned in again is what Neito lives for, satisfaction laced into every smile as Shinsou utters his usual performative ‘thank you’.
He reckons Shinsou is smart enough to put them to use. Though he tries to not let his stomach churn at the idea of him offering sexual favors similar to their own arrangement to multiple people around town.
If anything, Shinsou can sell the precious stones and pearls to whatever salesman he snares with that voice sweet as honey. Neito sure feels ensnared as he empties out his bank account time and time again. But it never stops feeling like it truly means something.
It’s only with time, that Neito learns to give gifts that make the other’s heart strain, in ways that a full coin purse simply cannot achieve. Or at least, that’s what Neito wants to believe.
“Please tell me you like it. I felt like an absolute idiot when making the request, I’ll have you kno-”
“It’s better than anything else you’ve gotten me.” And before Neito can even respond to that with smug satisfaction, Shinsou elaborates further with almost breathless wonder, “It’s…perfect.”
His thumb swipes across a delicate nose carved out of brass, then towards the stub where a little paw is supposed to be.
“The artisan regarded me as if I was mad, Shinsou! Mad! Like I lost my mind when I asked for a three-legged cat sculpture of a very specific stray. But it had to be that ginger thing that always insists on following you wherever you go.”
Shinsou doesn’t reply, merely keeps making the smallest circles on the little statue’s nose as if it were the real thing. Neito notices, resists the urge to smack at the other’s hand when his face looks utterly enamored. Is it weird to feel jealous of an object? In a way he should feel touched, mostly he just feels absurd.
And so he decides to cock his head to the side, coming to sit on the edge of the bed next to Shinsou. “Stop that, you’ll discolor the poor thing. I desperately wanted white iron, you deserve no less. But the creature is a ginger, so it wouldn’t have made sense-”
He feels hands on his cheeks, the remnants of metallic tang clinging to those deft fingers on the left side of his face. He blinks, forgetting where he was even going with his sentence as all outside elements suddenly bleed out into oblivion. Because Shinsou kisses him like a man desperate for air that he can only find in Neito’s lungs. It’s almost weird; they don’t kiss outside of sex. And never like this. Shinsou’s lips move as if they’re spilling every word he doesn’t say right into Neito’s eager mouth. And Neito accepts it all, each push and pull, the swipe of tongue, the breath that ghosts over his upper lip for just a second before Shinsou pulls back.
They both stare at each other, chests heaving, that kiss having lasted both a second and an eternity all the same.
Shinsou’s the first to break eye contact, the way he always does, eyes darting back down to the gift in his lap. His thumb swipes across the nose one more time.
Neito feels the same gesture mirrored against his own hand on the bed.
“You should meet my mother sometime.” Neito pants, hips rolling forward and back again in long and easy strokes. Through the open window, the district sounds alive. Lights flicker across the channel’s edge as people laugh and dance and get drunk right outside Neito’s bedroom. Yet nothing can pull him away from this moment: Shinsou open and bare, sweating on a new set of sheets. Still wearing a set of earrings Neito bought for him weeks ago.
The other’s face contorts from utter bliss to wrung out, and Shinsou opens one eye to glare at Neito. “Really?”
“Why not?” Neito retorts with a quick and effective thrust. It leaves Shinsou gasping, grasping around until one hand finds a pillow and the other lands on Neito’s thigh with an almost vice-like grip. “I’m sure she would love to meet you, honestly.”
Shinsou huffs, or pants, Neito’s not sure. “No, I mean… Can we-” He halts, swallows, looks at the ceiling as if praying to The Twelve. “Not have this conversation right now?”
It pulls a laugh out of Neito, awfully fond as he grants Shinsou mercy in the form of jerking him off in the same rhythm as his thrusts. “What? It’s not like you ever stay until morning.”
Turns out, Shinsou does stay until morning.
Not by choice it seems, as Neito wakes up with the sun in his eyes and a cacophony of muttered curses somewhere in his room as something drops to the floor with a clang. He digs the heels of his palm into one eye, forcing himself upright with a yawn.
Like a startled cat, Shinsou stops moving and the room turns quiet once more.
Maybe he hopes Neito will go back to sleep, or doesn’t comment on him still being around. None of these things happen, however, as a bird’s call from outside jolts both Neito and Shinsou to full alertness. The window is still open, rustling curtains carrying the smell of the nearby fish market up to the second storey where Neito’s home resides.
Neito gathers his breeches from where they landed on the side of the bed and pulls them on as another identical whistle carries through the room. It makes him frown, enough to actually get up and check for the source of the noise.
But before he can properly stand up, Shinsou is on him, the heap of clothes he’d been gathering unceremoniously discarded back onto the floor. There is a knee between his legs - is that one of Neito’s breeches he’s wearing? - not close enough to cause any friction, but enough of a promise - or warning, for Neito’s sleepy brain to understand.
Or he thinks he does, until Shinsou opens his mouth to speak. “We should stop doing this.”
“What?”
His hair is cut short, the now ear length strands swept back and away from his forehead. Combined with the lack of make up on his face, he suddenly looks so much more like the man Neito knows is hiding behind all those disguises. For some reason it makes him look so much more human, and Neito hates how he will always remember this image with those words.
Another whistle, which leaves Shinsou groaning as he pushes against Neito’s shoulder hard enough for him to drop back onto the bed with a quiet ‘oof’.
Neito watches him move towards the open window, as he himself pulls himself up onto one arm and tries to plead his case: “No, Shinsou. That’s absolutely preposterous. What do you mean? Surely we can work this out.”
Shinsou doesn’t pay him any attention, gaze locked onto something, someone, down below on the streets. Fabric? Clothes? Are flung through the open window, almost hitting Shinsou in the face as he tries to catch it all. Some items tumble to the floor, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the other man. His hands make a gesture, middle finger aimed at the street. But the person, yeah definitely a person, down below apparently isn’t satisfied, as a voice hollers back. It takes a moment for it to dawn on Neito that he doesn’t quite understand the words not because they’re so far off, but because it’s a different dialect altogether.
Something about an agreement, feelings, last warning? Quite an amount of cursing too.
The person down below receives another big fat finger and a turned back from Shinsou in response.
It makes Neito hopeful the other will come back to bed, at least explain himself a little. Or declare his previous statement mute. Once again Neito’s left disappointed and heartbroken, as he is forced to watch Shinsou gather the clothing items around his feet and pull them on one by one. Neito stares as the person he’s shared a bed with on many many nights finally wears an outfit that does not consist of a corset or a skirt.
Instead a proper man now stands in his bedroom, from the dark pair of culottes to the brown vest with simple embroidery. It’s terribly out of fashion, and not high quality in the slightest.
Shinsou suddenly looks so much like himself that it feels like a secret Neito isn’t supposed to witness.
Purple eyes finally settle on him, suddenly utterly unreadable and hard set.
Neito sighs as he sits up properly, defeat surely plastered all over his face. “10 solons, you know where to find them…”
Neito tells himself it is curiosity and not jealousy that makes him move towards the window as soon as his bedroom door closes. Down below, a blond man paces in front of the building. Agitation is readable even from where Neito is staring, from the high rise of his shoulders to the defensive way his arms are crossed over his chest.
Both the way he paces around and the appearance of his clothes make him somewhat stand out in this neighborhood. It once again reminds Neito how he knows nothing about Shinsou’s actual life. Then again, he never lied about being a con artist who was only in it for the money, now did he?
The front door of the building closes and Shinsou comes into view. The two exchange a few words, neither of them happy. The blond man shoves at Shinsou’s arm and receives a hit to the shoulder in return. He calls out a few more words, but Shinsou seems to have heard enough and is leaving towards one of the barges on the waterside.
The other man looks up, his dark crimson gaze settling on Neito as if aware he’d been watching the whole time. A second or two pass before the blond offers Neito a middle finger of his own and strolls after Shinsou.
Neito throws Shinsou’s clothes from yesterday down to the streets below in childish retaliation.
The gossip about Neito’s nonexistent love life have stopped, but by now Shinsou’s visits have too.
Because he doesn’t show up for weeks on end.
Neito waits, and hopes, but there is just no sign of the other man. No messages, no clues. Shinsou seems to have disappeared from the streets and channels of Camorr, as if swallowed by the waters. Neito knows Shinsou is too smart to have drowned or gotten killed by some gang or another around here. Yet the lingering sense of dread remains, fearing for the life of someone who suddenly feels as much of a stranger as on the day they met.
Neito grows desperate by the third week. He checks all the places he knows Shinsou has been to. But the longer he lingers around the more unsavory parts of the island, the less welcome some faces become. Nobody seems to know about this woman, or man, Neito describes. Maybe all of Shinsou’s disguises just seem to blend together. It’s hard to remember a person who never seems to look like himself, Neito realizes. And nobody on the streets is here to hear his lament about eyes the color of wild indigo and a voice one is ready to go to war for.
Neito is sure it’s him.
Sure enough to drop the bag he was carrying without much of a second thought and run after the man.
Enough to be blind to just about any obstacle in his way, because he is getting away, ready to disappear into an alleyway and-
Neito tumbles, having walked straight into someone’s stall by the canal side. Boxes crash down, a chicken or two running astray, a commotion of voices all around. But all he can focus on is keeping his gaze on the back of the stranger moving further and further away.
Turn around, turn around, turn ar-
The man does; the crescendo of angry voices and tumult enough to grab his attention.
Eyes the color of wild indigo find his, and Neito doesn’t miss the flash of shock and recognition that paints an otherwise almost unrecognizable face.
But Neito remembers how he looked the last time he saw Shinsou. Even if it’s somewhat different now. That much he can tell from this distance already.
His hair is shorter than Neito’s ever witnessed it, a shade darker than those familiar eyes. Exactly the way Shinsou described it would be. It’s all swept away from his face that’s once again devoid of any make up. There is no feminine grace to be found in those features. Hell, Neito can even spot some stubble on a jaw that always felt smooth under his own two hands.
Shinsou’s handsome, and everything Neito could possibly wish for.
All too soon their eye contact breaks. Neito’s forced to watch as one of Shinsou’s companions tugs him along, steering him away from the noise and upheaval. His gaze turns away without a single acknowledgement, while Neito is faced with an angry merchant yelling in his face and demanding compensation for her destroyed wares.
When Neito finally has the chance to turn back into the direction of Shinsou, pockets lighter in the most painful of ways, the other man is nowhere to be found.
Two men stand in his bedroom, both imposing and absolutely terrifying. Like prime embodiments or Camorri street filth they occupy the space in Neito’s bedroom. Their clothes ruddy, the telltale sign of sharp metal glinting on their belts against the dimmed light all around.
Neito, already dressed in his nightgown, feels small in comparison. There isn’t much he can do now that they’ve already made their way inside. It’s late, the yellowjackets won’t make it to his house in time no matter how hard he’ll scream.
“We’re colleagues of a good acquaintance of yours,”, one of the two starts, slow and methodical. His long dark hair barely hides the scars that run across one side of his face, an eyepatch seemingly hiding most of the damage.
This visit is personal then, and not just a stroke of bad bad luck. Everyone in Camorr runs into crime at one point in their life. You just pray it’s only a lousy pickpocket and not a garrista out for blood. Neito, in a hurried panic, wonders what exactly the phrase ‘acquaintance’ entails. Which nobleman did he most evidently insult in one way or another at the most recent social gathering. Why else would these muscles for hire show up at his door?
The other thug cuts in, and something in Neito’s terrified mind clicks as he recognizes the man as the blond from under his bedroom window. He smirks, laughing at a punchline that’s yet to come. “we’re here to...cut the friendship short.”
“For his sake. Not yours.”, Eyepatch says.
Neito carefully raises both hands, barely registering how they tremble as much as his voice does when he tries to reason, “Gentlemen, gentlemen. I’m certain we can come to an arrangement here. What is it you want? I can pay you more than your patron promised you, surely.”
He’s interrupted by the blond once more, though the words he speaks aren’t for Neito.
“He likes this guy? You gotta be fucking kidding me!”
Eyepatch has enough glare in his remaining eye to shut the guy up. Though not without some moping grumbles that would make Neito chuckle if this situation wasn’t so absolutely dire. Because he knows he isn’t getting out of this with a few light scrapes.
The remark makes something in his brain itch, however, and it isn’t until the blond speaks again that it dawns on him.
“We don’t have a goddamn patron.” The last word is said like it’s an insult, spit out onto Neito’s expensive rug. “If anything, you’re the one who's been filling our pockets quite well these past few months. Too bad it had to end, huh?”
Shinsou.
Neito’s breath catches, both arms finally falling to his sides when faced with his imminent demise. There is so much he wants to say, and ask. But the thugs leave him no second to gather his thoughts.
Eyepatch sighs solemnly, as if already tired by a task that is yet to be done. “He’s very sorry-”
“But we are not. And isn’t that all that fucking matters.” The blond’s leer is ravenous, like a shark that has smelled blood.
In the end Neito doesn’t get a single word out. All of it distills into blinding dread instead, as the blond man takes a few steps closer and something sharp and lethal presses through the pristine white fabric of Neito’s sleeping attire.
“His name’s Hitoshi, by the way.”