Chapter Text
Riou Mason Busujima had lived by himself a very long time. So long, in fact, that solitude was simply a way of being. “Loneliness” was no longer something he considered or paid any mind to, and he had accepted that he would never be what society had wanted.
There were so many reasons for it, truth be told, the most recent of which being the weapon ban three years past. Riou was not, exactly, a violent soul or a soul given to aggression without cause, but he understood what he was: a weapon.
He understood that, unarmed, he would never sleep a peaceful night again. Too many things - too many things like him - lurked in the night to be empty-handed, defenseless. No.
They could take weapons, but they wouldn’t take him -- wouldn’t take his. Not if he had to defend them to his dying breath. Nowhere was safe enough that he could live without them.
But no man is an island - as much as it wasn’t the solitude that bothered Riou, there were simply things he couldn’t get out there in the wilderness, things he needed to shop for - trade for, more like, most of the time.
It hadn't been his intent, that day, to be useful - it wasn’t that he was opposed, either, simply that it hadn’t been forefront in his mind. It had gone down like this:
Riou had needed some vegetables that he’d yet to learn the art of cultivating, being, as he was, not particularly well equipped for the growing of vegetables besides those overly hearty ones that even he couldn’t kill. Being without his gun in Yokohama still felt alien, but a knife tucked under his fatigues would do, in a pinch; it was easier to hide, after all. His Hypnosis Microphone remained on his hip, as well, covered by his shirt but easily reached if he were to need it.
Bartering wasn’t going well (it almost never did) and he was suspecting he would need at least a brief job to obtain the money needed to get these items legally, since he had no desire to rob the kind, if uncompromising, old woman who sold the vegetables he bought.
A horrid shriek drew him out of it, head whipping up; his pulse had raced in his ears, a steady noise that drowned out all else as he tried to find the source. As anxiety took over, paradoxically so did a sense of calm, covering everything as if it were a blanket of thick snow hiding the forest. His eyes scanned the area in front of him, catching on motion. A man running towards him - not wearing fatigues. Enemy or civilian, then - enemy somewhat likely, given that his face was entirely covered by a beanie and a sick-mask despite the heat. 5’9” or so, average build. He was being pursued by a woman, 5’5”, worry stricken face. He was holding a bag that she was reaching for, clearly a purse.
As the man ran by Riou, it really hadn’t been intentional. He hadn’t thought about it, at all, as his arm shot out, grabbed the man by the waist, and slammed him to the ground. When everyone stood there in stunned silence, Riou did, as well - the only difference was that he had intervened when most of them had planned on looking the other way. Hell, even the man was stunned, groaning softly from the pain of impact.
Riou was the first one to break the silence. Very softly and quite genuinely, he had asked, “Are you alright..?”
That was the first time he made the acquaintance of police officer Juto Iruma.
It made sense that the police were called, of course. There had been a crime committed, and Riou had committed a violent act, even if it had been to stop the crime, so an investigation was only logical, really. The knife tucked under his clothes burned as if it had just been forged, and despite the military training and lifestyle that usually overruled all else, Riou couldn’t help the way he’d shifted his weight from foot to foot.
The detective had been of an average height, brown hair, grey eyes - his smile was clever but his gaze was sharp. He wasn’t a man Riou believed he’d normally be afraid of, yet the blade still searing into his skin from its resting place made his heart hammer. This man would see through him - know he was armed and try to take it, and Riou desperately did not want to hurt anyone but he would if he had to, if they even dreamed they could take his protection from him.
“Ah, I’m sorry we’re holding you up so much --” the detective paused, looking down at the notes in his hand for a moment. “Busujima-san. We just have a few questions, then you can go.”
The nod was more a twitch or a muscle spasm than anything else, but it got the point across as Riou struggled to master himself and his bodily reactions. “No, I understand, Iruma-san.”
“Well - thank you for your cooperation. May I ask… you didn’t put an address down..?”
A question that he had somehow badly dreaded. No address… Of course not. Riou swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. I don’t have a home. I live in the wilderness.”
A curious - and amused - quirk of the brow made Riou look down at his lap, hands folded over one another, back straight, feet flat. Riou knew, somehow, that he didn’t want this man taking an interest in him, wanting to know about him, wanting to come see him or ask “follow up questions” as a thinly veiled disguise to snoop around, because he knew those eyes saw more than he could ever hope to hide. His breath was quick, uncertainty and fear beating out the normally unbreakable stoic facade he presented… while Juto seemed quite content with the situation, wearing an expression Riou could only call a smirk.
The other questions - did he know the guy? had he known something like that would happen? did he know the victim? did he have a phone? could they reach him on it if they had any further questions? - were answered no sir, yes sir, as quickly as he could. No, sir, he didn’t know him. No, sir, he didn’t know that anything would happen. No, sir, he didn’t know her. Yes, sir, he had a phone. Yes, sir, he could reach him on it if he needed, and should he write the number down?
They were a blur, by and large, his heartbeat keeping a time Riou could barely keep focus on, all the while aware of the small weight against his leg that signified the dagger and its position under his fatigues. The last two questions caught his attention.
“You have a Hypnosis Microphone, do you not?”
Riou had startled, outwardly shown by a few blinks and little else. His mic was his , and he had no reason to be ashamed of it. He nodded.
Iruma nodded, in return, and there was a momentary quiet before he spoke again.
“Now, Busujima-san, you were in the military, correct?” (Yes, sir, Riou thinks he answered, but he still can’t be sure) “How strange, for a veteran to have to be homeless, even with the weapon ban…”
Though the words themselves were kind (were they?), weapon ban brought a new spike of anxiety, though he kept this bout too off his face. Why was he asking about it? Did he know? Was he fishing, to see if Riou would break?
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t break. Not then. “Oh, no, Iruma-san. I chose to live out there. Thank you, though,” was his response, with a deep bow, almost to the top of the table. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run. This was why he hated these places, cities, and the people, and the noise -
“Well, thank you, Busujima-san. That’s all I have for you. We’ll be in contact if there’s anything else. Be careful on your way… home?” Another smile, entirely too clever.
Riou walked until he was sure the detective couldn’t see him - then ran. But still… still, somehow, blocks away, he felt those sharp gray eyes and almost-cruel curl to the lips following him, watching him, knowing his every secret.
It took him awhile to wash the feeling completely clean.
It was only a few months later when Iruma had brought Samatoki to his camp. Though he hadn’t thought much of the white haired Yakuza at first, saving his life and his microphone (and weren’t they the same thing, sometimes?)
Most things in Riou’s life had been difficult in at least one regard and he couldn’t say this was entirely untrue about Mad Trigger Crew and his joining of, yet it was easier than a great many other events. Samatoki was surly but surprisingly honest if you knew where to look and Juto may have been a corrupt cop but he was marked by a surprising amount of kindness towards MTC despite his initial fear of those sharp eyes and smiles and despite the way Samatoki and Juto often bickered.
They had accepted him, easily, making it the first time Riou had truly felt welcome anywhere since the military had dissolved and left him without anywhere to go or anything to do.
Despite their opposing professions and approaches to life that seemed as if they should be antithetical, it was easy to work with the both of them and to be around them.
Riou still needed weapons, still carried them, but he could rest easy when he was in Samatoki or Juto’s apartments for once - his eyes didn’t roam entrances and exits, didn’t make plans on how to escape, didn’t come up with five ways to disarm any assailants and ten makeshift weapons in the apartment, didn’t remind himself where both of them kept their weapons and what the easiest route to each of them was. For the first time in an enclosed space in too many years, Riou felt the peace he felt out in the forest, by himself.
No one in MTC much talked about themselves and no one pushed the others to do so - Riou believed that… Well, Samatoki and Juto knew each other well enough that they didn’t need to, but he believed that they were trying to tell him that it didn’t matter. That whoever he had been before, it wouldn’t change that he was Riou Mason Busujima of Mad Trigger Crew now.
They didn’t comment when he slept for only brief snatches of time, naps more than real rest - and though Samatoki had hissed a “ bastard ” at him the time he’d bumped a sleeping Riou and ended up with his wrist grabbed so fiercely that the bones and tendons strained under Riou’s too tight grip, when he saw the panic in Riou’s eyes as he made sense of who, where, when he was, he sucked his teeth and stomped away with nothing else.
Riou had still apologized, still bought Samatoki beer and cigarettes, and still cringed when he saw the bruise on his leader’s skin.
“Hah?” Samatoki had sneered it. “Don’t need this shit. What, Riou, you think you’re making up with your girlfriend or some shit?”
Which Riou knew meant that there hadn’t been any hard feelings anyway and that he hadn’t needed to. Still, he pushed the items into Samatoki’s hands anyway, and he didn’t complain any further.
Communication between them was so often like that. Samatoki would say something he didn’t mean, and Riou would translate it, and Riou would smile and act as kindly as if Samatoki had said what he meant. He was the mediator between the two, the peacekeeper - no matter what, when things would get hairy between Juto and Samatoki, Riou would diffuse it as best he could.
He understood them both, after all. Juto, who wore his smiles like a weapon because that was the weapon he knew best and hid uncertainty beneath them, just like Riou did, save that Riou’s weapons were literal. Samatoki, whose upbringing and current occupation left him uncertain of how to express anything that might be seen as weakness, even with the crew that cared for him… He saw where they were similar, he and they, and he saw that they needed something safe, just like he did.
So, as best he could, he was that for them. Somewhere safe that they could return to, someone they could rely on. Even if they didn’t know they needed it. Even if they didn’t know what he was doing. Even if they wouldn’t be grateful. After all, they’d done it for him just by welcoming into MTC, and he could do this - his hands that had been used to hurt could help, here. Could support, uplift.
He was trusted with MTC, with Yokohama’s strength as a division, and he was trusted with seeing into the lives of these men. Riou would, as best as he could, be worthy of it.
Riou wasn’t so stupid as to think he was necessary , but the idea that he was wanted was more than enough.
Life was rather easy, save for the fact that time and time again, Riou was in the wrong place at the wrong time (right place at the right time?) and repeatedly found himself involved in stopping some crime or another, more instinct than active desire, and so time and time again he would be questioned on his involvement, his willingness to help strangers - and time and time again, Juto would come extricate him, explaining that he would handle Busujima-san’s questioning with that polite smile that threatened still, to the point where Riou couldn’t help feel relief when a flash of red gloves would appear through a window or Juto’s voice, sickly sweet as it was at work, would drift to his ears.
“My, Riou,” he’d said, at his apartment somewhere after their (Riou thinks) fifth or sixth meeting at the police department. “Perhaps instead of military, you’re a superhero?”
Which had, of course, startled him - his long legs jerked under the too small table, bashing his knee against the underside; though the noise had been loud, Riou managed to keep from even wincing in pain, as Juto’s eyebrow climbed higher.
( If he kept doing that , Riou thought mildly, it would surely escape from his face. )
“It’s a relief to have to come get you for good things rather than --” Though he’d meant to keep it to himself, it seemed he smiled, because Juto smiled in response, still clever, still sharp, despite the fact that Riou no longer feared it. “Ah, you like that idea, then?”
… Which had, of course, startled him even worse. “No - Juto, please, I just don’t want to stand by while things happen.”
I’m not a hero. I’m a weapon, a relic of an era everyone wants to forget.
Riou tried to smile, as best he could, though his smiles were small and private, the barest upturn to one corner of his mouth. He hoped it was reassuring, instead of amused.
But the idea that someone might see that worth in him - someone who knew him, had been to his camp and seen his weapons and eaten his food and welcomed him into their division-- Riou turned his head to the side, coughing sharply, suddenly. Whatever was stuck in his throat (had he inhaled saliva..? What had happened? Why was he--?) wasn’t dislodged in one cough, so it turned from a small gesture to a full blown coughing fit, and he saw in his peripheral that Juto was hovering, uncertain, as if Riou had suddenly grown a second head.
“‘s he dying?” came Samatoki’s rough voice, though Riou knew him well enough to know that he, too, was concerned.
Just as suddenly as the coughing fit had started, he brought up whatever had blocked his throat - a small weight, soft and velvety, sat on his tongue, the taste of foliage if it had any taste at all, and he couldn’t bring himself to swallow it. A handkerchief was offered (Juto, of course. Riou doubted Samatoki owned one) and accepted, used to wipe his face and clean away the involuntary tears that had tracked down his cheeks from the force of his choking. Whatever it was in his mouth was spit into it, and Riou tucked it into his breast pocket with another smile.
Both of his crewmates had remained silent as he cleaned himself up, both of them turned away but still watching, waiting.
“Thank you, Juto.” His voice was a little hoarse, but he tried his best to sound normal instead of confused and bewildered. “I will clean that and return it to you.”
“Hey, bastard.”
Riou looked over, made eye contact with Samatoki, gaze guileless, waiting for the leader of his crew to continue. Whether he did or he didn’t respond, Samatoki always made his opinions known, and the hoarseness to his own voice had irritated him into not wanting to speak.
“If you’re gonna start choking like that again, don’t fucking do it at night. You’d wake up all of Yokohama.”
Translating Samatoki was easy when Riou looked at his face, brow furrowed over worried eyes and a downturned yet not angry set to his mouth: I was concerned. Don’t do it again at all, please.
So Riou smiled as he always did when Samatoki said something kind without saying something kind, to which Samatoki sucked his teeth and looked away, one hand shoved into his pocket.
“Of course,” he murmured. “...Now, are you both hungry?”
After all, he’d found a few rats with better meat that he’d prepared, and it would be a waste to not eat them with his friends.
Both of their faces went still and Riou tilted his head. Samatoki and Juto shared a look, the contents of which he couldn’t be sure of, with Juto making a sharp “ go on ” hand gesture.
“... Yeah, we’re hungry. So you better not fuck around making it.”
Though Riou’s smiles were so often small, this one could only be described as radiant. The coughing fit, whatever he had coughed up, and the hoarseness to his voice were all immediately forgotten in the excitement of a meal with these two who were the closest thing to family he presently had. If you were to ask his opinion on the matter, it was assuredly the best meal he’d ever cooked.
(He would say Samatoki agreed, for he was pretty sure he had seen the Yakuza moved to tears by the food, and wasn’t that something?)
It wasn’t until much later that he opened the handkerchief, when he was on his own, and a smattering of deep purple petals lay within, as if of a flower. The cloth now held a strong scent, floral yet almost… spicy, and he knew without leaning down that the source was the petals.
But why had he choked on them? He couldn’t recall ever seeing this flower before, at least not in the wilderness, and he doubted Juto was the sort to keep a great many flowers around -- and even if he did keep them, just in hidden, it isn’t as if Riou had seen them to choke on them.
He rubbed one petal gently between two fingers, feeling the velvety texture of it, as he thought, but no answer would come. How peculiar…
He tossed the flower itself into the campfire when he was done inspecting it, and the spicy scent grew yet stronger as he dozed off, trying to push the strangeness from his mind.
Juto was busy, the next few days, but Riou tended to worry about them all the same. He made his way to their places, checked on their food stocks, tidied up, and was content to be on his own until Samatoki’s apartment door opened. Riou’s fingers found the knife at his waist, gripped it tightly, prepared to pull and use it if he needed to, heart racing so fast it was painful - but footsteps and a muffled “ shit! ” told him that it was Samatoki.
“... Samatoki?”
Another curse, less muffled. “Riou? The fuck’re you doing here? Fuck off.”
His voice had a weird nasal quality, one Riou was familiar with, and he moved through the apartment to find his crew’s leader holding a bleeding nose, lip and cheek bone split, eye blackening. A fight, then. Riou didn’t speak until Samatoki broke the silence.
“What’re you fucking looking at, huh? Got some shit to say?” (Except it sounded more like God some shid to say? which really was kind of funny, but Riou suspected if he laughed Samatoki would end up in a second fight.)
“No. Come here. Let me help..?” He spoke gently, barely speaking at all, and though Samatoki huffed and made a show of it, clicking his tongue, he obediently sat in front of the soldier.
Weapons or no weapons, Riou suspected no one would ever manage to do away with fist fights, and he thought that might actually be a good thing. He continued considering it as he moved through the apartment as if he lived there, finding the medical supplies, though he suspected Samatoki kept them because either his sister or Juto made him.
He brought them back with a damp cloth and ice in a small bag, setting to work cleaning and sterilizing the wounds - it wasn’t anything particularly special as he was no Jakurai, but it would certainly do.
As he worked, Samatoki remained quiet other than muted hisses as the disinfectant stings on his wounds, until he finally bit out, “You should see the other guy. He’s a fuckin’ mess. Both eyes swollen shut. Maybe he’d need his jaw wired.”
Riou didn’t doubt him, honestly. He was sure the man was in a world of hurt. And yet there was something so weirdly charming about Samatoki’s statement, as if reaffirming that he was still manly and fearsome even as he let Riou tend to his wounds. Riou handed him a bottle of water, with the sole instruction of “Wash your mouth out,” since he was sure his mouth was full of blood.
Samatoki did, then sat back down, sprawled in the chair, and regarded Riou.
He muttered something and Riou blinked, uncomprehending, head tilted to the side as he waited for explanation. When it was obvious that Riou didn’t hear or understand what had been said to him, Samatoki clicked his tongue again and looked away, still sprawled in the chair, more lounging than sitting.
“...I said , thank you. Bastard.”
Riou couldn’t help the smile that grew even as he looked away, too, cheeks flushing the barest bit at the gratitude - unfamiliar from Samatoki, but far from unwelcome. The gentle warmth in his chest was over all too soon, though, as the pleasant emotion was immediately taken over by a burning behind his sternum, up into his throat, like he had a few days prior. He turned away, practically yanked away from Samatoki, just in time for coughs to wrack his body again.
He stumbled to the sink, still coughing, eyes tearing up and the water leaking down his cheeks. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles white, as he gagged, trying to bring whatever it was up. He couldn’t - and he could feel it, feel it in his throat, neither coming up or going down, and Riou could barely breathe around it. He felt Samatoki’s presence behind him, hand on his back, the warmth of it coming through the layers of fabric. He finally managed to bring it up into his mouth - the taste was different, this time, still velvety on his tongue but sweet , though he kept from spitting it out. He tucked it into his gumline, where Samatoki couldn’t see it, as he stood up and wiped the tears off of his face.
The soft, sweet taste of the flower still permeated his mouth as he turned, throat sore and burning from the force of his coughing. Samatoki’s concern was written over his face, obvious even through his injuries and the irritation he pretended was the only thing he could feel.
“You getting sick? Probably ‘cuz of all the dumb shit you do outside.” Samatoki was looking anywhere but at Riou, and for a moment he felt shame at bothering him so, but the next words surprised him. “Stupid fuck. Just stay here, then. Don’t need you getting sicker right before a division battle or you’re useless.”
Stay here, because I’m worried about you.
Another coughing fit wracked his body - another flower came into his mouth. Samatoki clicked his tongue again and started digging around cabinets recently restocked, and a glance over his shoulder confirmed that he realized Riou had been the one to purchase the food that now filled previously desolate shelves.
“What’re you just standing around for? Go sit the fuck down, stop hovering over my damn shoulder!” Samatoki’s tone, Riou thought, was more worried than he expected; he felt guilt for whatever this was, wherever these flowers came from, was causing the leader of his crew grief.
Obediently, he made his way into the other room, finally taking the opportunity to spit the flowers out and examine them. Long and thin, but vibrantly pinkish-red, they were as stunning and lively as the other flowers had been dignified. These flowers, too, went into the breast pocket of his jacket, where Juto’s handkerchief had lived before he’d washed and returned it.
As Riou moved to lay down on the couch, exhausted and slightly nauseous from the sheer number of times he’d nearly gotten ill trying to get the flowers up, he heard Samatoki slamming around, a faint rattling noise of metal on metal as he searched for something. He curled up slightly, trying to get as much of his body on the couch as he could, given his height, and curling up made him feel a little more at ease.
Though he almost never did it, (especially not where others could see and maybe harm him, Samatoki’s concern soothed him into feeling safe , and the noise of whatever Samatoki was doing in the kitchen was, if anything, acting as a lullabye) he couldn’t help but doze off there.
He had no idea how long he was asleep for when he startled awake, long limbs jerking, and the sudden movement on the too small couch sent him sprawling onto the floor. The impact left him sore and more irritable than normal, and the apartment was dark. It had to have been awhile, then, as no light filtered in through the windows.
A note lay on the table in front of him, and he stood to find a light switch, then stood and deciphered Samatoki’s messy handwriting.
Pocari in the fridge. Leftover miso. If you want it, eat it before I do.
Food for the sick… The note brought a smile to his face, quickly shattered by another coughing fit and the fourth flower he’d brought up thus far. This wasn’t normal, he finally admitted, as he moved to fill his empty, complaining belly.
It wasn’t normal to cough flowers free of your airway. It wasn’t normal .
Despite the fact that he’d just rested, with reheated miso in his stomach and rehydrated he found himself exhausted. As he laid back down on the couch, he found himself trying to figure out what on Earth had happened to him.
Unable to come up with an answer, he resolved to ask… well, the enemy. He might have a division battle against Matenrou soon, but if anyone would help him despite his lack of funding… It’d be Jakurai-sensei.
He needed to know. Not for himself, not really, but for his crew. For Samatoki, who’d gone out of his way to take care of him, in his gruff and roundabout way - for Juto, who’d brought him into this family of three he’d found. He didn’t want to drag them down. He couldn’t.
Riou had just decided that he would need to go to Jakurai in the next few days when sleep overtook him for the second time in a day.