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The moon is high, lighting up the sky in a soft glow of gray and white. However, Chuuya Nakahara is currently somewhere very dark. Where the moonlight is blocked by a tall building and thick trees.
His overcoat is draped over his shoulders, arms crossed, and back against a tree. He checks his watch, “ten minutes,” he grumbles. Blue eyes sharp and narrow; he waits patiently for a signal: a flickering light.
Today he’s on a mission with Atsushi Nakajima, Yokohama's resident waretiger. It’s a simple ‘infiltration and capture’ job; the target: Mason Smith, an American immigrant that moved to the city about a decade ago.
However, in the last year, Mason has been at the heart of a lot of disappearances. He’s also been suspected of smuggling and selling illegal drugs from overseas. He’s become a danger to the city, especially when one of his targets was a member of the Mafia.
Despite Chuuya being incredibly capable of undercover jobs, Atsushi insisted on capturing the target. Said it would ‘be a good experience and an opportunity to learn a new skill.’ And Chuuya allowed this— mostly to see how capable the Waretiger actually is.
“Eight minutes.” That’s how much time Atsushi has to capture the target before Chuuya does it himself.
If something happens while Atsushi is inside that building, the ceasefire truce will break, and the two organizations will be gun to gun again. Something Chuuya is not interested in.
He doesn’t wish to fight the Agency anymore, especially because they have been a lot of help recently with The Guild conflict. And, in his opinion, two organizations that protect the same city should already be allies.
But, when has his opinion ever mattered?
“Five minutes.” His back lifts off the tree he’s leaning on, body preparing to enter the building. The target is currently on the top floor— should be, anyway— and the bottom floors are filled with guards armed to the teeth.
His thoughts fill with a strategy: he’ll head to the first floor, ensure Atsushi is alive and safe, then capture the target. After that, he and Atsushi will go down the floors, taking hostages, killing when needed, and investigate the smuggled drugs.
Just as he’s about to check his watch again, the door to the building opens. Atsushi stands in the doorway, eyes glowing in the dark yet covered in a distorted and drugged haze. His clothes are dirty, covered in blood and gunpowder.
Chuuya pauses, wondering: what happened? Not that he gets much time to process his thoughts— not when he’s nearly crushed to death by a tight embrace. Whispered apologies spill from the taller’s mouth as he sobs into the shorter’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.. I’m sorry… I’m sorry..” He chants the words like a prayer, like he’ll die and get dragged to Hell if he stops.
A black overcoat is draped over Atsushi’s shoulders, a gloved hand patting the boy's head, the other rubbing his back. He doesn’t say anything, not for a while, opting to continue silently comforting the boy.
But, when he finally does speak, it’s light and gentle. “Let’s go. The clean up crew will be here soon, and washing blood out of hair when it dries is a pain in the ass.”
That’s when Chuuya realizes the boy had cried himself to sleep. His breathing even and gliding down his neck. Atsushi has a tight grip on Chuuya’s shoulder, another around the edge of the coat; the weretiger had wrapped himself in the warmth of Chuuya’s coat and begun curling into the warmth of the shorter’s body heat.
— — —
The last thing on Atsushi’s life bingo card is waking up in the arms of a Port Mafia executive. But, here he is, stirring awake, his head tucked in the crook of Chuuya’s neck. Astushi’s legs are wrapped awkwardly around the shorter’s waist, hand tightly clutching his clothes. His cheeks have dried from tears and his body feels warm.
He lifts his head slightly, mind foggy and memory hazy. Small, faded memories flash and bounce about his brain, before falling into the back of his mind, forgotten.
“You awake?” The voice is far— too far for Atsushi to really hear— but there, even if it’s just a blur of gibberish. “Atsushi?” Chuuya’s small hand pats his cheek, trying to clear Atsushi’s mind with gentle taps. Not that it helps much.
He hums, stirring more, adjusting his body to be more comfortable. Legs stretch over the length of the couch, head leaning back into the warmth of Chuuya’s shoulder, arms clinging to the shorter’s vest.
Sleep finds him again as he nuzzles back into the cozy and comforting warmth of Chuuya’s body.
— — —
At around 1:28am, Atsushi stirs awake again. He sits up, stretching his arms and yawning. However, his bed is more comfortable than usual and his space feels bigger— not to mention, the form of another body laying in the bed.
Atsushi’s eyes adjust quickly to the darkness of the room, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes who is beside him. Chuuya Nakahara, Port Mafia executive, lays asleep next to him. His harsh features are softer and his breathing is even.
He then realizes: this isn't his home at all, this is Chuuya’s home. No wonder it felt bigger and warmer. He just wonders how he got here in the first place. Then he notices: he smells different and his clothes have changed. Now soft and expressive material wraps around his body, fitting strangely perfectly. His hair is washed and soft, dried into a short, fluffy mess. And his skin no longer feels dirty and crusty.
He has a lot of questions. Questions that bounce and ricochet off each other like bouncing balls. Questions he knows he’ll have to wait to get answers too.
Moments pass, his thoughts becoming more and more unclear as he tries to remember what happened in that building. That’s when Atsushi remembers the strong smell of blood that clung to every inch of him, along with the feeling of it drying against his skin. He hated it, the feeling, the smell, the sight— a blood bath, one that Atsush filled and bathed in.
He feels sick as the memory becomes more real and hazy becomes clear. The need to vomit bubbles in his throat, causing him to jump from the bed and rush to find the bathroom.
Atsushi throws up everything until only water is left and he’s dry heaving, coughing every few seconds. Tears prick at the edge of his eyes, the flashing memories of dead bodies and blood dripping down the walls fill his mind.
He killed all those people, didn’t he? He hates that he can’t remember. Hates that he can’t say their names or picture their faces. He doesn’t deserve to forget something like this. How dare he forget the faces of the people he killed? How dare he—
“That’s enough,” A tired, yet concerned, voice says, grabbing his wrist gently. Atsushi turns his head, eyes glazed over with more tears and his vision blurred. Chuuya is kneeling next to him, a first-aid open next to him. The ginger cleans the fresh wounds on his arm— deep and jagged scratch marks run up and down his lower arm, stretching from his wrist to his elbow.
Atsushi hadn’t even noticed he did that. Hardly noticed the pain until Chuuya dragged him from his thoughts.
“Sorry,” he murmured, unsure of what to say in this situation.
“Stop.” His voice is gentle, like a brother or a parent. A thought that almost makes Atsushi punch a hole through his heart. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Atsushi, unsure of what to do or say or how to feel, remained silent. He’s afraid of his own mind. Afraid of the self harming thoughts that linger. Afraid of what he will find if he dares to remember more of what happened in that building. Afraid that he’ll
yet still choosing to get lost in it, like it’s the only thing he can do. He stares blankly as Chuuya cleans and wraps his wrist in bandages.
He feels himself get pulled up, his face cleaned with water, and he’s dragged out of the bathroom.
— — —
Chuuya sighs; he’s been through this song and dance a hundred times, yet he still feels uncertain. Unsure if he’s doing the right thing. Unsure if his methods will work this time. Unsure if his efforts will matter in the end.
Especially when he doesn’t know Atsushi. This is the first mission they’ve had together, and it ended in a drug induced blood bath. But, whatever he’s doing seems to be working, because Atsushi is more calm than before.
Compared to a few hours ago when Atsushi was hysterical— scratching his arms raw, crying, and muttering apologies to no one in particular— he’s now sitting peacefully at the table, nibbling on the large, hot bowl of Chazuke Chuuya brought to him. The first thing, other than apologies, Atsushi has said to him his hours.
He sits across from the younger man, his own bowl of food in front of him; a large bowl of chicken udon. They eat in silence for a while, Chuuya observing every move Atsushi makes— he doesn’t want to miss the slight changes in the younger’s body language that would indicate another episode of hysterical scratching and crying and apologizing— eyes sharp yet gentle.
The last thing he wants is for Atsushi not to trust him in this moment of mental vulnerability and emotional weakness.
Atsushi places down his chopsticks, his bowl now empty and his stomach full. Bi-colored eyes stare into bright blue one’s, strong emotions— anger, sadness, gratitude, grief, hatred— flashing through them in harsh waves.
He opens his mouth, words hesitantly stalling at the tip of his tongue. “Thank you,” is what eventually falls from his tongue. The second thing, other than apologies, that Atsushi has said in the last few hours.
Chuuya places down his own chopsticks, attention completely on the younger. “Don’t mention it.”
“I mean it.” Atsushi’s tone becomes serious and full of gratitude. “Thank you. For taking care of me, for cleaning me up, for being patient and gentle during my…” he trails off, not sure what the right word is to describe it. “And for just- just being here, staying by my side during the worst of it.” He chooses to leave out the part where he slept in Chuuya’s bed, too embarrassed by his drugged and distressed clingyness.
“The worst of it?” Seems Chuuya chooses to ignore it too, mostly because it doesn’t matter to him. Some people seek comfort in closeness, and who is Chuuya to deny that? Especially when they’re relying on him to take care of them.
Atsushi doesn’t clarify further. But he doesn’t need to, not when Chuuya comes to the conclusion himself. Atsushi isn’t as clean handed as he thought. This kid has killed before, maybe not on such a large scale, but still had a prior body count all the same.
They remain silent for a bit longer, before Atsushi stands from the table. He cleans up his mess and walks to the front door.
“I’m going to go home now.” He says, turning the doorknob. He feels bad for rushing out the door the moment he felt better, but he has no reason to stay any longer. Besides, the others at the Agency are probably sick with worry at his prolonged absence.
Chuuya then stands, and walks to the entryway. “You sure? It’s late and you’re in the heart of Mafia territory.” He’s leaning against the wall, eyebrow raised in curiosity, eyes tired.
The younger male pauses, then closes the door again. “Right.. sorry.”
“Stop apologizing when there’s no need to,” the older male says. He then shuffles around his home, pulling out a futon and some extra blankets from a closet somewhere down the hallway. He neatly arranges an area in the living room for Atsushi to sleep. “Get some more rest. I’ll take you home in the morning.”
Within an hour, the apartment falls into a peaceful silence.