Archive of Our Own

Everything is blue
His pills, his hands, his jeans
And now i'm covered in the colors pull apart at the seams
And it's blue
And it's blue

Everything is grey
His hair, his smoke, his dreams
And now he's so devoid of color
He don't know what it means
And he's blue
And he's blue

-- Colors, Halsey

He’s attractive. Journalists are usually preppy with strict haircuts and custom suits, a pad in shorthand and a mouth like a wrinkled lemon. Yo saw it all the time.

Yet here stands some alien beauty: hair sticking up all ways, faded jeans, and a ratty shirt beneath a thin cardigan. A shadowed angel moulded in black and dark blue. When he turns to look across the office, Yo catches the glint of several ear piercings under the bright, fluorescent lights.

“Um. Hello?”

“Hi.” Yo leans against the doorframe and looks him from bottom to top. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”

The stranger stares at him like a deer in the headlights, caught with big eyes and a notebook in his hand. “I guess so? Who are you looking for?”

“Amajiki Tamaki. I have an appointment with him.”

A lightbulb flickers on behind his eyes--so deep they might be purple--and he takes a step forward to lean his palms heavily on his desk. “That’s me. I’m sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

“It’s no problem.” Yo smiles easily as he crosses the space between them to hold out his hand. With all the cautiousness he shouldn’t have, Amajiki takes his hand in his own, his grip loose and tentative. Exactly what Yo expected it to be.

“I’m Shindou, Shindou Yo.” 

“Emails,” Amajiki says, nodding in understanding. “You have information.”

How he can forget a conversation that took place a few hours ago, Yo doesn’t ask. Journalists are busy, always in a rush, but most he’s met have some sort of organisation, an extensive calendar of meetings and deadlines. One quick glance across Amajiki’s desk, which is filled with little toys and a fidget cube, tells Yo he has none of that whatsoever.

A disorganised Journalist. How ironic.

“Shall we sit?” Yo’s used to directing conversations; it comes to him like breathing. Maybe it’s manipulative to bend those to his will, but here Amajiki is shaking his head. 

“I’d rather stand if that’s okay.”

One of the rare people that stay unchanged. This makes things a little more difficult, so he shrugs and decides to stand too. Amajiki leans across the desk and grabs the fidget cube, thumbing at a small circular button in a soothing, round motion, over and over and over.

A disorganised, anxious Journalist. An oxymoron. 

“What do you want in return?” He asks instead of what do you have, and that’s the reporters he knows. Quick thinkers, always wary, thrown into a big world where no one does something without a price. A high, high price.

“A date.”

Amajiki chokes. “A— what? You want a what?”

“A date.” Yo rests his fingertips on the broad expanse of the desk and leans into it,  just enough that he’s in Amajiki’s space, full of that deep blue. “I want a date in return for my services.”

His face contorts into something between shocked and disbelieving, and lets out the barest chuckle. “I’m not gay.”

“Me neither.” 

“But you—” Amajiki cuts himself off to run a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide how baffled he is. “I’m busy.” 

“When you aren't busy?”

“No.” 

His thumb on the cube stops. Yo’s eyes flicker down to it and he smiles brightly. Amajiki isn’t immune to all of his charms, so maybe this won’t be so bad after all. He shrugs again and leans back. “Shame, you’ve got a cute face. I’d go gay for you.”

Amajiki opens his mouth, then closes it, and begins to fidget with the cube again. Aside from the idle tick of a clock, the quiet clicking fills the silence. “What have you got?” He eventually asks.

Yo roots in one of his back pockets to throw a piece of paper on the table. “You're investigating the League of Villains, right?” He uncurls it and spins it around so Amajiki can read the messy kanji. “Locations of potential bases. There are rumours flying around where I work.”

“And where do you work?” 

“Escort. I’m good with my hands.”

Amajiki ignores him this time and studies the paper instead, picking it up and going to another small desk in the corner of his room. It’s hidden by a partition, so Yo doesn’t try to look. 

“I know a few of these places already,” Amajiki mutters, voice muffled. “But the warehouse in Ikebukuro? That doesn’t quite fit the consistency or pattern.” Yo says nothing as Amajiki comes back and hands the paper back to him with a sheepish smile. “Um--thanks, but this isn’t really of any use to me. You can email me if you find any other information but I think I’ve got as much as I can.”

“Really?” Yo feigns surprise and slips it back into his pocket. “All of this is very under the radar. I’m surprised you responded to my email.”

“It was a—tough decision, but I take this seriously. Anyone can have anything.”

Yo shrugs, but his smile doesn’t fade. He’s amused, interested in an abstract way, and that suspicion in Amajiki lingers. He can see it. He can’t blame him either. This type of investigation has to fly so close to the ground it nearly crashes, and the amount of informants (or typical money-grabbers) in disguise has to be many. Endless. 

So, he holds out his hand again. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be sure to email you.”

Amajiki shakes his hand a little more confidently this time, though the ebbs of uncertainty are still there. “Thanks.”

Yo winks and turns on his heel, closing the door behind him. When he’s out of sight of the camera in the hallway, he slips the gun and silencer back into the lining of his jacket.

Blue, the colour of rain dripping onto the streets and magnifying the flickering lights in the shop windows. The night sky when the moon is a milky spotlight, a maelstrom of billboards like the Aurora Borealis, the bottles scattered around the mattress and floor. The colour of Amajiki Tamaki, like sweet, soft silk. 

Yo wants to see him again. 

He wakes up with it circling his peripheral, grazing the sleepiness behind his eyes. The sun is already up, slipping through the curtains in a syrupy glow, warming Yo’s arm where it rests against the messy blankets. The clock on the nightstand tells him it’s six, and he could easily sleep a few more hours, but this is one of those terrible days where he has to get up.

The body next to him (some girl from the club) only grunts when he slides out of bed and doesn’t stir when the shower runs or the door opens. He hesitates in the entryway when he catches a glint of gold: a chain necklace, stuffed haphazardly into a jewellery box. It’s old and expensive, worn and loved, and she’ll probably miss it. He takes it anyway. 

For once, Yo hasn’t strayed far. It’s a short train journey across town, down alleys and boroughs that look like slums. The area has gotten progressively worse, gunfights and flying fists and whatever else they did these days. Normal people wouldn’t touch it with the long end of a stick, but it’s where he leaves the train. 

He ignores the several strange glances as he steps onto the platform at Ikebukuro (once populated and lively, now dull and dreary) and straightens his jacket. There’s no way someone like Yo fits in: he’s too pretty, has too many teeth, and actually knows what soap is. He has the sense to hide the gold chain under his shirt.

The warehouse is a couple of alleys over, dotted between a few high rises with cracked windows and swaying curtains, streets lined with feral cats and the homeless. There’s an atmosphere here that’s hard to place—a longing, melancholy acceptance—and each glare thrown his way is gaunt. Lifeless, like this part of the city. Maybe he’s the only one alive after all.

For now. He’s been summoned by the great overseer , the one many ranks above him, so it’s impossible to tell whether he’ll leave in a body bag or not. He thrives off it, the looming unknown, and the adrenaline seeping through his blood in steady pumps only increases when he slides open the door to the warehouse and slips inside. 

Shindou Yo, twenty-three and change, puts on his best smile full of false cheer and white teeth and clasps his hands behind his back.

“And a very good morning to you, Tomura! Glad to see you're looking as spiteful as ever.”

Eyes burning, Shigaraki glares at him over the top of the newspaper hanging from his fingertips with little more than a scowl. The dark rings under his eyes look like they’ve been painted on in the early morning light, and each wrinkle in his forehead dips and shadows his face in a way that ages him thirty years. He looks exhausted. “Shut up.”

What a wonderful way with words. Yo bites his tongue and seats himself at the table with his hands folded neatly. Smoke drifts from his left as Dabi takes his seat with a cigarette between his lips, a chipper bounce on his right as Toga takes hers, and Shigaraki’s side is occupied by the dark-haired mystery of Kurogiri. 

Shigaraki doesn’t say anything for a heartbeat, then throws down the newspaper. His eyes burn like the embers of a fire, and when they meet the cool ice in Yo’s eyes, they sizzle with steam. “Is this some game to you three?”

And there it is. Yo’s been waiting for it for a few days now, and here’s the moment of truth. Just from that look, just from the shiver that runs down his spine, he can tell that the body bag is much more of a likelihood than not.

Dabi takes the cigarette out of his mouth, breathing a long, pale cloud of smoke that trails over the surface of the table. “I’m pretty sure I did what you wanted—unless there was some fuckin’ encryption I missed.”

Toga giggles and the glare Shigaraki shoots them has another excited trill flooding Yo’s veins like liquid gold. He meets Shigaraki’s eyes patiently and knows it makes him furious. 

“I’ll slit those staples open and wear you like a mothershitting jacket if you don’t sit down and shut up,” he hisses at Dabi, and Toga’s bouncing quickly stops. “I didn’t realise putting a bullet in someone’s brain was so difficult. I wouldn’t have wasted my time if I knew you couldn't do simple things.” This time, he turns to Yo, and Yo’s eyebrows arch smoothly. “And you , what the fuck is your problem? Why isn’t he dead?” 

Amajiki Tamaki. He has a name. Yo considers adding some sort of smart comment, but the murderous intent in Shigaraki’s eyes makes him reconsider. He failed a job he was asked specifically to do, and winding Shigaraki up may actually be the death of him. He decides to sit back and take the brunt of it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“What?”

The steam behind that ruby red is scalding, so Yo quickly adds, “He’s gathering intel, so wouldn’t it be more logical to see what he knows and what he collects, then kill him and destroy it?”

He sees the hesitation before he hears it. Even as their overseer, Shigaraki dislikes change almost as much as he dislikes each member of this organisation, and seeing that maverick mind whirl into action is fascinating. 

What he won’t tell Shigaraki is that he’s spent these past few days thinking up an excuse— any excuse—as to why Amajiki isn’t dead. Yo isn’t sure he knows himself. One moment he had a gun in his hand, the next he left the angel in his office, untouched. Trying to explain something he doesn’t understand is impossible.

The simple solution is to lie. Fabricate something that will make Shigaraki reconsider and give him enough time to figure things out, including why Amajiki is special enough to spare. And why he himself—violently born and raised heterosexual—is so wildly attracted to him. 

Maybe it’s his eyes.

“Your excuse,” Shigaraki growls, but his voice has warmed. Still enough to form glaciers, but not as intense as before. “Is that he has information we already know.”

“Not quite.” This is where those days of thinking come to fruition. “My theory is that Amajiki knows something. He’s dangerous. You chose me to kill him because you think so too, right? And because I’m the easiest to fit into a crowd.”

“And there aren’t any photos of you!” Toga adds.

Yo nods enthusiastically. “I’m the most inconspicuous since I’m the newest. You have me as an asset here. I can find out just how much he knows and if he’s spread it. I can give you names , Tomura. Think about it. When it’s all done, I can put a few bullets in him, and that’s it.”

Shigaraki eyes him. He knows as well as Yo does that it’s manipulative. A hand comes up to scratch at the deep cuts along his neck, skin flaking, but Yo holds that gaze like his life depends on it. It probably does.

“I agree that it seems logical.” For the first time, Kurogiri inputs. There’s nobody else that Shigaraki listens to as closely as him, and having Kurogiri on his side puts Yo on a pedestal in an instant. “Shindou doesn’t have a faceclaim. We do. If we send him to befriend Amajiki, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of information.”

“He’s researching the League, isn’t he?” Dabi glances at Yo, flicking ash on the table. Kurogiri stiffens. “For the newspapers. I heard it from the dude I was sent to kill. He’s held in high regard.”

Shigaraki still doesn’t look happy. His face is the epitome of shrivelled raisins, like he has a bad smell under his nose. “Whatever,” he says after a pause. “This better be worth my time. If I find out you’re screwing me around, you know what will happen.”

The body bag. A cement brick and the ocean. A bullet, a knife. He’s seen the extent of Shigaraki’s temper before. 

“Done.” Yo stands, pushing his stool away and stretching his arms above his head. “Well, as cheerful as this meeting is, I have a murder to attend to.” Before he turns away, Yo reaches into his shirt and pulls the gold chain. It snaps with a metallic ring, and he gives Shigaraki a playful wink when he leaves it on the table. "Gift for you. Excuse me.” 

He feels the burn of eyes on him even as he walks away and back through the door. Shigaraki doesn’t trust him, not even slightly. He never has, not since he joined. Not any case he’s picked up, not any name he’s passed through, not a word he speaks. Whether the others do, he doesn’t care. It’s not their trust he needs.

Yo waits until the warehouse disappears on the horizon before he pulls out his phone and dials. She picks up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” he says lowly, keeping his head bent. “We have a bit of a situation.”

“God, what have you done now?”

Tatami’s voice is as soothing as it is condescending. It makes him want to smile and frown simultaneously, but he settles on the latter. “Remember that guy I was supposed to kill?”

“Amajiki Tamaki?” He hears the click of a keyboard echo through the receiver. “Let me guess, you failed to pull the trigger.”

Ouch. That’s a punch to his pride. He huffs. “If you're going to be like that, I can put the phone down.”

“Stop being a Drama Queen. This isn’t third grade.” Some more clicks. “Is it compromising your mission?”

“No. I bullshitted my way, as always. Convinced them I was going to get information out of him.”

“Shindou—”

“It’s not compromising the mission,” he insists, taking a sharp turn and sheltering from the beginnings of rain under a billboard. Through the glow, the droplets are pixelated. “If I get information, it’ll make Shigaraki trust me more.”

“Yo.” Tatami’s voice deflates, but the worry still grates at him. “I know you’re good at what you do—it’s why we sent you—but you’re too far in to be making reckless decisions. I know you: you never do this. Why spare Amajiki?”

Yo swallows. Why did he spare Amajiki, a man he’s known from a few emails? Why is he so entranced with the colour of his eyes? Why does he have to hold back? This has never happened to him before. 

“I have to go. I’ll speak to you later.” Yo hangs up before she can reply. He can apologise later, but right now he needs his focus.

It took three months to get far enough into the League to meet Shigaraki. It took six months until he could attend meetings and have a voice. Now, at seven months, it’s all beginning to fall apart because of a Journalist with pretty eyes. It baffles him.

Perhaps it’s the part of him that’s still in the police force. Switching so abruptly from justice to crime had to take an emotional toll. Maybe now it’s coming to a head, where fate wedged Amajiki in the middle of a war between the police and the mafia.  

Everyone is expendable, and Yo will kill him eventually, but for now he can fixate on the ground, on the puddles and streams running through crevices in deep, dark grey.

It’s no surprise that he sees Amajiki in the supermarket a week later.

The thing about belonging to such a prestigious criminal group is that the law didn’t apply. Stalking, as a loose example, is very much one of those exceptions. Can he really call it stalking if Amajiki gave him his email? All he had to do was run it through a few programmes, check his Google locations, and— there . A routine he can match to his own. 

Maybe it’s stalking. Just a little.

He watches him from the safety of a shelf, hidden behind packaged nuts and dried fruit. The way Amajiki stretches so luxuriously to reach the top shelf, the blue in his hair under the lights—natural or dye?—the shine of titanium in his ear. The earbuds buried beneath them carry music faintly, some kind of alternative rock, and the set of his mouth is straight and firm. 

Amajiki is beautiful, but in a more abstract way than Yo remembers. Seeing him domestically, outside of a crisp office, is sobering; wrapping him in blue like remnants of happiness, or sadness. Or something.

“Do you need any help?” A shop attendant asks by his ear. Yo looks up to see a girl inclined in a way he knows too well. He shoots her his winning smile. 

“I do, but it’s not appropriate for a working environment.” A swift wink and he pulls away from the shelving to round the corner of the aisle as casually as he could. “Can you show me where the pasta is?”

She giggles, following mindlessly, passing Amajiki to the goods directly behind him. “What kind are you looking for?”

“I don’t really know,” he replies smoothly, feeling the weight of Amajiki’s gaze. “I said the first thing that came to mind. Getting help from a pretty girl is any guys dream.” 

There’s a sharp bark at the other end of the aisle, and a sour-faced woman’s glare punches him straight in the face. The girl mumbles something sheepishly, and Yo gives her a small wave as she walks off. Perfect timing.

With as much swift surprise as he can muster, he turns to the curiosity in Amajiki’s eyes. “Oh! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hello,” Amajiki replies stiffly, then turns back to the wall of rice and noodles. That blue washes over Yo like the lap of the ocean against a beach, not during the day but on a clear night. Nothing about Amajiki resembles the daytime. 

He pushes away from the pasta to lean his shoulder against the shelves by Amajiki’s face where he’s stooped to gather noodles. He looks up, that deer-in-the-headlights expression more prominent than ever, a crinkle between his eyebrows. He doesn’t want to talk, but Yo does.

“I thought journalists ate expensive things with senators, not instant ramen.”

Slowly, Amajiki takes out one earbud and lets it dangle at his chest to join the packets of noodles. He reminds Yo of a rabbit caught in a field. 

“I don’t have time,” Amajiki replies with the same crispness. “Do you flirt with everyone you meet?”

“Yup.” Yo flicks his attention to the aisle opposite. The girl from earlier is throwing him glances over a stack of cardboard boxes. “It’s useful.”

“I wouldn’t call it that.” 

“What would you call it?” 

Amajiki bites his tongue, probably against something rude, then stands. “Unprofessional.”

“Great, that’s what I aspire to be.” Yo’s lips quirk in a lopsided smile as something dawns on him, something about the abruptness of the question. “Are you upset I flirted with you?”

“I—” Amajiki’s cheeks tinge pink, a sweet contrast to that twinkling blue, and seems torn between fleeing and combusting. “Need to pay for these.”

“Can I make it up to you?” Yo doesn’t move from his casual lean, marvelling at the cool against the heat of his skin—that sticky, end of summer air that clings to every surface imaginable.

And yet Amajiki is still wearing a cardigan, rolled up at the sleeves. It clings to the contours of his hips as he half-turns, still frowning, and locks Yo with an uneasy stare. “Why? How?”

“A drink? For no malicious reason. I have some more information you might like.”

He’s bluffing (in a sense) but even from a foot away he can see curiosity spark in the rings of colour. Amajiki said it himself: he isn’t one to turn away potential information, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. It’s a journalists nature.

Amajiki's shoulders sag in that defeated, unadulterated way. He regards Yo tiredly, like he’s exhausted from the constant retreat, and shrugs. “When?”

“I’ll email you my number and we can discuss it? You can choose whether to block me or not.”

Amajiki considers it, holding the ramen like a lifeline; something to hide behind when his spine isn’t strong enough, fragiler than the crinkle of plastic. “Fine.”

“Great.”

“Perfect.” This time, Amajiki turns away and doesn’t stop, disappearing down another aisle and leaving Yo with the memory of those eyes. He sighs wistfully, because as much as he wants to deny it, he enjoyed seeing Amajiki. He enjoys him . 

Yo pulls out his phone and emails him his number. It’s time to find out how much Amajiki really knows. 

When Amajiki said he’s busy, Yo hadn’t believed him. Though journalists worked, much like all people, he couldn’t have something going on every single second .

As it turns out, he’s wrong.

It started with a simple exchange of hello via text and escalated from there. Much of it was, undoubtedly, due to Yo’s determination to befriend this gorgeous deity, and Amajiki’s short answers didn’t deter him in the slightest. He wouldn’t let them, not when he has such potential, not when this entire case is laying on his befriending of Amajiki. Both sides expect Yo to kill him, after all.

But not yet. He’s having fun. 

“How’s it coming along?” Kurogiri asks him a few evenings later, when Yo is laying on a moth-bitten couch stashed in the corner of the warehouse. He stands to the side, sorting through an assortment of paperwork whilst Yo plays on his phone, and it takes him a second to realise Kurogiri’s talking to him . 

“What part?” 

They’ve learnt to coexist in peaceful silence, whilst Shigaraki is sleeping wherever he sleeps and Dabi and Toga are out recruiting, or terrorising. Or both. It’s a nice contrast to the berating and screaming that often comes with his visits to this shitty warehouse.

“With Amajiki.” 

Yo meets the amber of his eyes in the darkness. It’s unnerving how they shine like a cat’s, with all the feline prowess and stealth to go with it. 

“Oh.” He goes back to his phone, pulling the notifications panel down with his thumb. Nothing. “I haven’t been able to speak to him. He’s busy with work, but I shot him a message asking if he’s free today.”

“Isn’t he suspicious of you?” Kurogiri asks, and although it’s polite concern, Yo still stiffens in annoyance.

“I told him I work as an escort.”

Does Amajiki believe that? He seems to and hasn’t pressed. Yo’s been told many times that an escort’s job would suit him better, both from the police and Dabi’s smartassery. Something about his face.

“That’s understandable, I suppose.”

They lapse into silence again, broken by the occasional shuffle of paper as Kurogiri stacks more and more. Yo wonders what’s so important to a henchman, but he’d be castrated and thrown in a lake if he so much as breathed in the direction of what’s written on the pages. He isn’t quite ready for that. 

His phone vibrates, and Yo doesn’t bother pausing the game he’s playing to look at the message. He should be scared of the way his heart lurches when he sees that it’s Amajiki, but it’s probably just thrill like every other time he gets thrown a particularly hard mission.

>> I’m caught up. Sorry.

Unsurprising. It’s the extent of their phone conversations: Amajiki telling him he’s busy. It’s like he’s trying to put their meeting off. Yo smiles.

“I’m off,” he says, huffing as he gets to his feet and stretches his back out. “Amajiki’s finally free. Tell HandyMan I won’t be back tonight.”

“Make sure you aren’t recognisable,” Kurogiri calls underneath even more paperwork but Yo doesn’t bother responding. He grabs his jacket and leaves, taking the train to the complex that holds Amajiki’s office somewhere deep in Shinjuku City. 

It isn’t hard to find. The official building is listed somewhere else, and only personal invitees get the chance to visit the secret offices where all the important documents are kept. Amajiki made the mistake of inviting him inside via email, so the doorman ushers him along with only a glance at his phone. 

If Yo were genuinely here to kill Amajiki, he’d be dead. He’s lucky that his gun is the last thing on Yo’s mind. Well, the one in the lining of his jacket. 

He remembers the way easily, picking out the different twists and turns through the maze of offices to the third floor. It’s one o’clock on the dot when he reaches the stretch of corridor that leads to Amajiki, just as Yo planned. What better way to ask him out for lunch when he’s on a break?

But his smile falters the second Amajiki steps out of his office with someone else. 

Yo ducks into one of the empty offices in the blink of an eye, watching Amajiki and the stranger pass. He’s tall, blond, and built like a Greek God with deep set eyes and a smile as wide as his biceps. They’re chatting about something, and Amajiki is smiling and shaking his head. Something thick settles in Yo’s stomach, dense as lead.

He's gorgeous when he smiles. The blue in his eyes lights up like stars scattered across the midnight sky. Amajiki could form constellations with that smile, create supernovas, and it’s directed at some other guy. 

He steps out again once they’ve passed and catches the reflection of himself in the glass door opposite. He’s scowling. Whatever. It’s not as if Amajiki’s bound to him. Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to take a quick look around his office providing nobody catches him. 

Still, the thought doesn’t help the heaviness.

The door’s unlocked, so Yo slips inside easily. It’s exactly how he remembers it, down to the fidget cube atop a stack of books and the smell of fresh chicken, but familiarity isn’t what he’s here for. He’s here for whatever’s behind that partition. It could have the information Shigaraki wants and, if he plays his cards right, could prolong Amajiki’s life by feeding it to the League bit by bit. It sounds foolproof, but one can never be too careful.

After a quick check for the security cameras that are undoubtedly watching (hopefully they remember him from before and assume Amajiki has a late visitor), he takes his time looking around. It’s like peering into a part of his life with each flyer lining the wall and the news stories in a binder. There’s a photograph on his desk he hadn’t seen the first time of Amajiki standing alongside that blond guy, wearing a school uniform. Amajiki looks pretty much the same as he did back then, except his eyes are duller, darker.

He pulls his attention to the wooden partition on the other side of the room. Unassuming, unelaborate, just something to shield the contents from prying eyes. With one last look around, he gently pushes the partition aside so he can see what kind of—

His heart stops. Restarts. Beats again at a hundred miles per minute. 

Yo knows Shigaraki hates people digging. He knows there’s a reason he wants Amajiki dead. He knows Amajiki has information, but this—not this. 

There’s four stacks of papers, newspapers, and binders. On the square of wall covered by the partition, there’s a map of Tokyo, a red circle around Toshima City. Beneath that, there are four photographs where Shigaraki, Kurogiri, Dabi, and Toga’s eyes stare back at him in varying states of mirth. At the end, there’s a blank space with a ‘?’ scribbled across it. Yo knows exactly whose picture is meant to be there: his . 

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit . What does Amajiki know? Who has he told? Did the police know? Is his cover already blown? Did that blond guy know? He severely underestimated this. Shit, shit, shit—

The door opens. 

Yo’s head whips around fast enough that it hurts, and he finds Amajiki’s eyes across the room in a heartbeat. Amajiki’s jaw is agape, startled, watching Yo as Yo watches him. For a few seconds, they stare at each other, and then Amajiki shuts the door, locking it tightly.

“What are you doing here?” He snaps in a voice Yo doesn’t expect. It doesn’t suit him, that barely contained anger, and fear creeps its tendrils up his back. Yo’s hand goes to the lining of his jacket automatically. “That’s—that’s confidential information. You can’t read that. You can’t—”

“What do you know?” Yo’s voice is barely a whisper, but Amajiki hears it. He pauses to look at him again, those blue flames dimming to a simmer. 

“What do you mean?”

Yo finally regains his composure and drops his shaking hand, giving him a lopsided smile. He might puke. “You know so—so much already! I guess there’s nothing I can offer you.”

“There isn’t.” Amajiki’s voice is blunt, and he’s still watching him. Yo doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so he simply shrugs and leans his arms atop the partition. That way he won’t be tempted to shoot Amajiki if he suddenly comes closer. 

“This is amazing! I’ve researched too but you know so much more than me.” 

“What’s your point?”

“My point is—” There isn’t a point. He hasn’t got a lie lined up, nothing . He didn’t expect this, though in hindsight it’s stupid to not have. Amajiki wouldn’t lock his office if he were going to be away for less than five minutes. “Why don’t we work together on this?”

Amajiki looks as stunned as Yo feels at what comes out of his mouth. A little direct, but the angle he’s subconsciously going for. Hope rekindles in his chest.

“You want to work together.” Amajiki’s wariness wavers, and Yo jumps on it like a wolf on prey.

“That’s why I came to visit you. I couldn’t put it off any longer.” He pushes the partition to the side so Amajiki can see and points to the photographs. “The League of Villains. Top Mafia group, known for assassinations and secret drug trades. They have a new member, or there have been reports of one, and most crime takes place in Toshima and Shinjuku. No one can find them because they stick to the slums. Right?”

Amajiki sucks in a breath but comes closer. He perches on the edge of his desk, chewing on his lower lip. “You could’ve gotten that from my research.”

“I could’ve,” Yo agrees, smiling. “But I’m here now, and I know. I think it’s better for both of us if we work together.” 

A battle goes on behind Amajiki’s eyes, in the sharpness of his stare. Amajiki has been immune to his manipulation so far, and for a moment Yo thinks he’s lost him, but then the sharpness dissipates to a blunt edge. “How do I know to trust you?”

Yo stifles his sigh of relief. Things could have gone south fast, but it seems as though his charm has done him justice once again. His smile widens and he turns back to the board. “I’ll leave that decision up to you, but now for the pressing question—any idea who their new member is?”

“No.” Amajiki doesn’t look up, fidgeting with the lip of his desk and picking at the wood. “It’s what I’m trying to figure out. I’ll hand it over to the police when I know.”

“That’s fair.” 

Yo would be immune regardless, but the League would assume it’s his fault if there’s a police raid. They would hunt him to the ends of the earth. All these months, these years of preparation and training, would be for nothing. 

“I see.” Yo moves away from the partition and closes it. Fear is creeping up again; he can feel it in the tremble in his hands. He has to bide time, just until he can find a way to destroy the information Amajiki has. The alternative to that is—

He glances at him over his shoulder. He’s captivated once again by that ocean, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to kill him. Not when Amajiki meets his gaze with a shy, tentative smile. “We should compare information if you want that trust.”

Yo nods and shrugs off his jacket whilst Amajiki grabs a pencil and notepad, scratching something in symbols he can’t make sense of. 

Amajiki gestures to the chair with the sharp end. “You might want to sit down. We’re going to be here a while.” 

A week passes, then another. The hours bleed into each other, encompassed by the smooth gentleness in Amajiki’s voice as he pours over documents and files, bouncing ideas off Yo who sits watching, enamoured.

It’s been nearly a month since he first met his dark angel, but it feels like a lifetime. Yo has never had this kind of inexplicable pull before, not to any girl who found her way into his bed, not to any crush or girlfriend. Nothing holds a candle to the pounding in his chest whenever he turns his head and meets those blue eyes across the room, so deep and thoughtful that his heart takes another tumble through his stomach.

Is it possible to fall for someone he’s known for such a short amount of time? Someone he’s learning more about every day? 

Amajiki’s wariness dissipates bit by bit because of Yo’s endless patience, and he eventually opens up about the case, shows a little more of himself each time. Though he’s still an acquaintance turning, dare he say it, friend , Yo makes up any and every excuse to find out more. He’s not sure if Amajiki’s noticed his intrigue, but if he has he hasn’t mentioned it.

“What’s working as an escort like?” Amajiki asks one night as they’re curled up on the couch in his office. It’s a little thing, too hard and too much leather, but it’s comfortable enough. Much better than the one in the warehouse. “Is it difficult?”

Yo smiles. He had the foresight to do some research and digs his chopsticks further into his noodles in thought. “Depends on the person, I guess. I find it easy because I know how to charm people. If you don’t have those skills, it’d be difficult.”

“You definitely know how to charm,” Amajiki says dryly, and Yo catches his eye before he looks back down into the box, still half-full. “Would you ever consider being a Journalist? A detective? You’ve got good research skills.”

Funny story that. Yo twirls some noodles thoughtfully and quickly pushes them into his mouth, chews, swallows, and shrugs. “If I told you that I was a police detective, would you believe me?”

“Yes.” 

The abruptness makes Yo snort. He doesn’t bother looking up as he gathers some more on his chopsticks. Of course he won’t tell Amajiki the full story, but he’s compelled to give him part of the truth. It’s like he owes him it. “Well, I graduated high school and got into the police force. They realised I was too weedy for the field so set me up as a detective instead. I preferred working undercover anyways.”

There’s a short pause, and he feels the depth of that ocean, feels himself drowning in it as Amajiki considers his words carefully. “Why did you stop?”

Yo sucks in a breath. He stopped because… He joined the bad guys. He’s spent a year undercover working to take down the biggest mafia group in Japan. Could he really say he’d quit?

“I got bored.” Yo laughs at Amajiki’s expression, and lays the takeaway box to the side to stretch out on the leather like a cat. He pillows his palm under his cheek and regards him, that burning curiosity behind a deep gaze. “I couldn’t deal with the pressure, so I found a job to relieve it.”

Amajiki huffs and sets his noodles aside too. He stares at Yo for a moment, and the silence envelopes them like something unspoken settling in the air. Then, as if chewing his words before he speaks them, he says, “If I told you I don’t believe you, what would you say?” 

Yo isn’t surprised, more disappointed at the wasted research. Amajiki’s sharp, so seeing through a fabrication even by the best of liars is inevitable. He’d just been waiting for the right moment. 

Rather than speak, his smile widens, eyes half-lidded. “Are you ever going to take me up on that date?”

Amajiki rolls his eyes and scoops up the rice on the cushions between them. “Are you ever going to tell me where you really work?”

“No.”

“Then, no.” 

Fair play, but disappointing nonetheless. “Tell me something.” Amajiki’s hair shimmers in the light as he eyes him, and Yo reaches over to scoop up some rice on his chopsticks. “Would you date that blond guy if he asked you?”

Amajiki chokes, hacking into his fist and gesturing wildly for water until Yo places it in his hand. He composes himself enough to take a few sips. “Mirio?” He wheezes, expression either frightened or baffled, eyes streaming. “Would I date Mirio?” 

So, that’s his name. Good to know. “Would you?”

Now that Amajiki’s recovered, he brushes a hand through his hair shakily. It falls in an array of indigo and Prussian blue, settling around his ears and eyebrows messily. “He’s my best friend. I’ve known him since we were kids.” 

The childhood friend, huh? Yo ignores the jealous clenching in his chest to shrug one shoulder. “Doesn't hurt to ask.”

It’s his undoing though, because Amajiki’s now staring at him with an expression he knows well by now, full of intrigue. “Are you—are you jealous?”

“Me? Never .” It comes out a lot more sarcastic than he meant, but he doesn’t bother correcting himself. His phone ends up popping that little bubble of silence with a buzz, and he fishes it out of his pocket to look at the screen. 

>> Get your ass here. Now. 

It’s from an unknown number, probably a disposable phone, but it doesn’t take a genius to work out who sent that and where they mean for him to go. He’s neglected the League these past few weeks, has made up excuse after excuse, and no doubt Shigaraki is still in the loop that Amajiki isn’t dead yet. His stomach drops at the thought. 

Yo pockets his phone, sighing as he gets to his feet. “Let me ask you something, Amajiki. Have you ever considered giving up the story on the League?”

It’s an abrupt question, he knows it’s come out of the blue, but Amajiki doesn’t flinch or retract into the couch. Yo can still feel his eyes on him, unwavering, and it makes him want to turn away and walk out the door even faster.

“No,” Amajiki says eventually. “I’ve been researching for a year. It’d be stupid to throw it away.”

“Stupid, huh?” Yo hides his hurt as he squeezes past him to grab his coat, fluffing up the collar. “Maybe it is.” 

He can’t look at Amajiki as he leaves, and doesn’t say goodbye. Yo knows as well as his heart does that if he meets his angel’s eyes, he’ll be on his knees begging him to drop the case and run far, far away.

But Amajiki’s made his choice, and Yo can only hope that Shigaraki thinks he’s incompetent enough to send someone else with a gun.

For the first time since he stepped into the warehouse in Ikebukuro all those months ago, Yo’s hands are shaking. Even though summer is melting into autumn, and the wind has picked up in steady torrents, his skin burns hot in a way he’s not used to.

His adrenaline fix is long gone. All that’s left is the fear of the inevitable, and that scares him more than anything has before.

Nothing about the place has changed, nothing about the tankers and boxes stacked on top of each other as he finds his way through the maze. It’s all so familiar, and yet Yo keeps expecting something to jump out of the shadows, pick him out between a gap with a loaded barrel. Not just anyone: Shigaraki .

But nothing happens. He finds his way to the centre without incident, and Yo knows that keeping him on his toes is a purposeful part of the game. Shigaraki likes to play with his meal before he eats it, and Yo isn't any different from a traitor, one of the two-timers who came here and never found their way out. Maybe that’s what Shigaraki sees him as now.

He keeps his smile impassive as he approaches the table. Dabi’s lounging on the couch, boots slung over the arm and head pillowed by his arm, playing on his phone. Shigaraki’s talking quietly with Kurogiri, but the conversation stops when Yo steps under the limelight, where even the faintly swinging lamp above his head can’t protect him from the  shroud of darkness.

“You wanted to see me?” Yo’s voice is taut, close to snapping, and the look Shigaraki shoots him is much the same. 

“Sit.” He clicks his fingers at one of the chairs like he’s speaking to a dog, and Yo grinds his teeth shut as he does as he’s told and takes one. Though he keeps his tone neutral, his body language displays his anxiety as clear as day: the clench of his jaw, the stiffness in his limbs, even the way his eyes flit between Kurogiri and Shigaraki involuntarily. If Yo can sense it, Shigaraki is revelling in the control.

Shigaraki is staring at him still, wearing an expression Yo can’t read. He’s angry, even the least sociable person could recognise it, but there’s something else embedded there too. Something Yo knows he won’t like.

“Got any excuses?” He asks in a voice that’s too calm, and fear spikes through Yo again despite meeting his eyes with the same levelness. 

“I’m still gathering in--” He yelps as something flies past him and lodges in the fridge at his back. It sticks with a dull clunk , and Yo doesn’t dare turn his head. He doesn’t need to look to know it's a knife. 

The look in Shigaraki’s eyes is murderous. He wants to make him hurt . He’s seen that expression a handful of times with a handful of people and, just like Yo feared, he’s no different. He’s the enemy now.

“Any more?” Comes a hiss, dripping rhetoric. He doesn’t break his gaze, and Yo holds it with as much defiance as he can muster. He shakes his head. “I asked you to do one fucking job. One. Don’t screw me around and expect to get away with it, because it doesn’t happen. You failed me, and you know what happens to failures.”

Yo’s heart stops. He thinks of Amajiki, to that ocean of blue. He thinks of Tatami in her office, when they were training together at the academy. He thinks of his mother, his sisters, stashed somewhere safe in a different country, a different continent. Now there’s no guarantee that, even with police protection, they’ll live. 

He’s compromised the mission just like Tatami told him he would. He’s fucked it up because he couldn’t pull the trigger, because Amajiki had to look at him in a certain way and he melted into a puddle. How stupid can he be?

His attention flickers to Kurogiri, but he’s polishing his glasses with a cloth. Dabi doesn’t seem to be paying attention either. Yo's on his own. 

“I found out how much Amajiki knows,” he blurts out. He has to live, he has to stay alive , not when the police are so close to catching them. He can’t afford for all this work to go down the drain--not now, not so close to the finish. “He knows too much. I was planning to meet him tonight, but then I was called here. If anything, you’ve stopped me from succeeding.” 

Yo feels the sharp intake of breath on the tip of his tongue. Nobody ever spoke back to Shigaraki, not when he’s on the verge of slitting their throat or spilling their brain on the floor. He sees momentary hesitation in Shigaraki’s eyes, quickly replaced by mad fury. 

“If Tomura gives you one more night, will you kill him?”

“Yes.” Yo latches onto Kurogiri like a leech, meeting the swirling amber of his eyes as he stares at him uncertainly. “If you give me a few more hours, I’ll bring you his head on a plate if you ask for it.” 

“Shut up. ” Shigaraki’s next growl glues Yo’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, but he sees that mind mulling it over, turning it around and analysing it. His heart's in his throat, because if he says no—

A soft thud hits the roof of the warehouse, echoing like the ricochet of a bullet. It’s followed by another, and another. The rain fills the empty silence, and it’s a welcoming coolness against the sweat beading Yo’s temple. He hasn’t tore his gaze from Shigaraki, he can’t afford to, and finally something clicks. His heart picks up.

“You hear that?” Shigaraki gestures towards the roof, to the patter of the rain falling in an unsteady rhythm. “If you don’t kill Amajiki before the rain ends, I’ll kill you. I don’t give second chances. Get out.” 

Relieved tears burn behind Yo’s eyes and he barely manages to push them down. If it weren’t for Kurogiri, he has no doubts he’d be lying in a pool of blood.

His legs are like jelly when he stands, pushing the chair in with trembling hands, walking back through the boxes and stacks of cargo like he’s in a nightmare. Just before they disappear from sight, Dabi’s voice follows him in an echo—

“Don’t fuck it up, Shindou.”

He doesn’t reply. Yo isn’t sure that his voice won’t break, or he’ll start crying. It’s embarrassing to be on the verge of tears, but he has one of his nine lives still left, so he should be grateful for it. Cry away. 

His relief floods into the raindrops dripping down his cheeks when he bursts into the rain, gulping fresh air, unbothered by the damp clinging to his hair and clothes. He’s alive, and the feeling is indescribable. It’s like he’s seeing everything in a new light, experiencing the world and its newness all over again. When he breathes out, he’s fascinated by the condensation. 

This is his last chance. He’s had these few weeks, he’s had Amajiki to himself, but now it’s time.

Yo takes his phone out of his pocket, careless of the rain splattering across the screen. He pulls up Amajiki’s number and writes out a message.

<< Want to take me up on that drinks offer tonight? It’s on me.

The reply comes a moment later. 

>> Will you tell me about your real job?

Yo heaves a sigh. He supposes this is inevitable too. If Amajiki’s going to die anyway, then—

<< Yeah.

He can’t put this off any longer. 

Yo’s tipsy when Amajiki joins him at the bar hidden in one of Yo’s favourite clubs. The strobelights ignites Amajiki’s hair in shades of indigo, red, and blue, eyes sparkling like fireworks above a calm sea and, for a moment, Yo forgets how to speak.

Then he turns back to the drink waiting on the bar top and downs it in one gulp.

“Um.” Amajiki watches him with a crease between his eyebrows before he takes a seat, a little uncomfortable in such a dense setting. The constant press of bodies in waves, the lights flashing on a loop, music like thunder; he’s out of place. “Are you okay? You look pale.”

“Do I?” He doesn’t bother to hide his sarcasm, or the sideways glance he sends Amajiki. His stomach rolls when he sees nothing but concern in those pretty eyes and forces himself to be angry about it. “I need a drink.”

“Maybe something not so strong.” 

The empty scotch glass glitters under the lights, and Yo grunts. It’s only his second, or maybe third. If getting a little buzzed is going to make this less painful, he'll take it. He knows that if he doesn’t, if he looks at Amajiki sober, he won’t be able to do it. God, he’s weak.  

“What do you want?” Yo asks, gesturing to the glass. Idly, he notices Amajiki’s hands moving and spots the fidget cube. 

“I don’t drink.” Amajiki’s shyness filters through and he turns to regard the bartender hovering nearby. “I’ll have—”

“Beer. Two beers.” Amajiki squawks, eyes wide, and Yo finally looks at him. His smile is thin, watching as that sea of blue flickers to his mouth and back up. “Have it for a celebration or something. My treat, remember?”

He looks uncertain but nods anyway, and the bartender grabs two glasses. Less than a minute later, Yo lifts his beer and clinks it gently against Amajiki’s. “Cheers.”

Amajiki smiles meekly and takes a sip, face souring at the bitterness before he sets it down again. Yo waits until his attention is back on him before downing the entire thing in a few well-timed gulps.

The raw astonishment on Amajiki’s face has him nearly choking on a snort. “Uh. You should slow down.” 

The laugh that follows falls on Yo’s ears like music, and he sighs wistfully. “The goal is to get as drunk as possible, not have a few sips and be done with it.”

Amajiki shakes his head slowly, sipping again now that his confidence is crawling back. “For you maybe, not for me.” 

Yo grunts and lets his head fall on the bar. The wood is cool and sticky against his skin, welcoming against the unbearable heat that’s consuming him from the inside out. It might be anxiety and it might be the drink. It’s probably a mixture of both. 

He turns his head when he hears a giggle. Two girls sit on the opposite side, half-blocked by the bartender, glancing at him and whispering among themselves. Any other night he’d be over there in a heartbeat, except this time he finds himself disgusted with them. Disgusted with himself. He seeks out Amajiki in the haze of his mind as he sits up, staring at him blissfully with half-lidded eyes.

He’s beautiful. It’s such a shame.

“What’s a shame?”

“What?” Yo snaps to himself in an instant, alert, and realises that he’d said it, not thought it. “It’s a shame you won’t—drink. I mean.”

“Right.” Amajiki lets out a slow breath, jumping when a glass smashes somewhere behind them, skittish as a rabbit. “Are you going to tell me now?”

“Tell you what?” 

He gives Yo the side eye. “Your line of work.” 

“Oh. That.” Yo doesn’t want to hear it. Every fibre in his being recoils at the thought of discussing work, of discussing plans and the future and what they do. He just wants to be himself, just wants to exist with his angel by his side, with no police or mafia involved. “Do we have to do this now? Can’t I just be Shindou Yo?”

“You are Shindou Yo,” Amajiki says quietly, hand still working the fidget cube in small circles. “But I want to know who Shindou Yo is .” 

Yo wants to clamp a hand over Amajiki’s mouth, or shove another beer down his throat. Why can’t he just let it go? He meets his eyes through the low lights, pushing his brain to think up something coherent, but all he can manage is a strangled, “Please.”

Something strange happens. Amajiki’s cheeks tinge pink, and he scratches at his chest awkwardly, averting his eyes to their glasses dancing like diamonds. “Okay.”

It’s not often Yo’s comfortable enough to sink down into his seat, but it’s a mixture of scotch and Amajiki’s softness that gives him the confidence to. He can be as anonymous as he wants in this bar, with the rain falling outside, and just exist as himself. He can be Shindou Yo and Amajiki can be Amajiki Tamaki. There are no sides, no ends or beginnings. It’s why this place is his favourite, and he clings to it like it’s the dying rays of sunshine on a winter evening.

“Are you okay?” Yo asks suddenly, noticing the way Amajiki’s thumb increases the speed of rubbing smooth circles into the cube.

Amajiki looks up at him, then back down just as quickly. “Overwhelmed.”

Guilt slaps him across the face. He should have known better than to drag Amajiki out to a club and a bar when he’s so full of anxiety he’s close to bursting. He wonders if that’s why he kept putting it off. Yo gets to his feet anyway, scrunching up his nose at how wobbly his knees are. 

“Let’s find somewhere else.” He takes a step but Amajiki catches his arm, shaking his head.

“You’re not exactly fit to go anywhere else.” After a once over he stands too, inclining his head to the exit. His eyes are flitting all over the place, terrified of the onslaught of noise, sound, and smell, and Yo’s heart swells. “Come back to my place. It’s not far. You can leave when you’re feeling better.”

Yo would tell him that it takes a lot more than that to knock him out cold, but the prospect of going back to Amajiki’s house keeps him quiet. It’s almost as if Amajiki knows. Theoretically, this will make his job easier and will give him privacy to do Shigaraki’s dirty work. It’s better than swiping Amajiki’s dignity and killing him in some horrible, damp alleyway. He has to do this, and what better opportunity? 

But, as he follows the light rippling on the back of Amajiki’s cardigan, as he follows that angel that blends into the crowd and out into the rain dripping onto the streets, those doubts begin to form again. 

Yo sobers up the second he gets drenched to his skin in rainfall, soaked by droplets cascading over the pavement. Through Shinjuku’s buildings, lined up so tightly that even the moon can’t shine through, and the neon of billboards it flashes like a world of colour. A maelstrom washes through him but all he focuses on is blue, the darkness of Amajiki’s hair illuminated cerulean, his arm around Yo to keep him steady, warm and tight.

He doesn’t need to play up the part of being drunk, he keeps falling over his own feet staring. No matter how hard he tries he can’t tear his eyes away; they’re glued to the curve of Amajiki’s mouth, how he keeps his eyes turned towards the street ahead, showered in the entire spectrum. 

He’s beautiful, and Yo’s ashamed by how much he wants to kiss him. 

“It’s just down the street,” Amajiki says, voice muffled, but Yo would gladly drown in the rain with his arm around Amajiki and feeling his touch returned. If that's what it would take.

He knows what waits for him in an apartment he’s never been in, he knows that Amajiki’s blood will taint the walls, that cool blue marred by red. Yo shuts his eyes just to focus on that warmth, on Amajiki’s skin against his, and only opens them when he finally pulls away to fumble with the door. 

Yo nearly reaches out to pull him back, to press against him and kiss Amajiki senseless against the wall, but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

“You can come in.”

He lifts his eyes and meets Amajiki’s, soaked to the bone but smiling. It burns itself into Yo’s mind. He says nothing as he takes his shoes off at the door and accepts the towel Amajiki gives him. A few quick rubs through his hair and it’s nearly dry, so he focuses on stripping off his shirt, wincing as it sticks to him. 

Amajiki’s disappeared from the room and he can hear a shower running somewhere. He takes the time to look around. His apartment isn’t much better than his desk: disorganised, untidy, clothes and books and papers strewn everywhere. There are more photos on the walls, the blond guy again— Mirio —and a blue-haired girl with her arms slung around their shoulders. Amajiki looks happy. 

Who would he leave behind if he died? Who’s reliant on him, who depended on that blue like Yo did? Who woke up and text him first thing in the morning, who did he let into his apartment? His bed?

Yo knows who he wishes it would be. 

“Shindou?” Yo’s head whips around to where Amajiki’s peering out of a doorway. His hair is frizzy and he’s changed into a plain tee and pants. “Do you want to  shower? It might help.”

It takes him a moment to realise Amajiki still thinks he’s drunk, so he forces a smile and brushes past him into the bathroom. “You can take one with me if you want to save water.”

Amajiki snorts and says nothing, handing him a fresh towel and some—some clothes before shutting the bathroom door. Yo stares at his own tee and pants, blinking slowly like he can’t quite believe it. Why would Amajiki be so kind to him? He has no reason to be. Yo’s barged into his life with the intensity of a freight train, has demanded for them to be friends, flirted with him, and now he’s here to kill him. 

The gun strapped to his thigh is suddenly heavy, too heavy. He undresses and all but throws it onto the pile on the floor, stepping into the shower and hoping that the steam and beating water helps, if only a little. 

It’s hot enough to burn his skin but he leaves it. He needs the burn, needs to remind himself that he’s alive and will be only if he kills Amajiki, if he puts a bullet in his brain and shows Shigaraki the evidence in the newspapers the next morning. He has to be angry at Amajiki for researching too much, for giving him clothes when he has no right to, and it works. His head is clearer when he finally leaves the safety of the basin, skin tinted red, and searches through the condensation to find the clothes he’d been left.

They’re a perfect fit, even though Yo’s taller. They have the same build, lanky but firm, remnants of muscles hidden beneath soft skin and a smooth face. They’re similar in a lot of ways but different in just as much. Amajiki lives a separate life and yet they’ve been brought together with Shigaraki as the common denominator. It’s like the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, except Romeo is hopelessly enamoured and Juliet pushes him away at every opportunity.

He towels his hair and leaves it damp. The clothes stay on the floor but the gun gets strapped to his hip, covered by the bagginess in the fabric along his outer thighs. The only mirror in the bathroom is still fogged up so he swipes his arm over it and, for the first time since this morning, looks at himself in the mirror.

Yo looks exhausted. Gaunt, lifeless, and exactly like those people in the slums of Ikebukuro. He’s not immune after all. 

A knock at the door rings through the bathroom like a gunshot, and he jumps. Reflex has his hand at his hip, fumbling with the gun, but then Amajiki’s voice filters through the cracks. Tentative and shy, like he’s the wolf approaching the deer and not the other way around.

“Shindou?” 

“What?” His throat feels like sandpaper and the croak of an answer is so unlike him that he flinches.

“Do you want tea? I’ve only got—um. Peppermint, lavender, and green. The green has lemon in.”

Yo swallows a few times before replying, “Green’s fine. Thanks.”

There’s a moment of silence where Amajiki’s shadow blocks the light filtering from the corridor like he’s debating whether to say something else. Yo’s eyes fixate on it until Amajiki moves, shuffling back towards the kitchen with muffled footsteps on plush carpet. He turns back to the mirror but it’s fogged, and he can’t be bothered to wipe it down again. It’s too hot in here.

With one last checkover of his gun, examining the safety and bullets, he straps it to his hip and leaves the bathroom in a cloud of condensation. 

Amajiki glances up from across the studio, smile thin and wary. He looks tired too. “Are they okay?”

“The clothes? They’re fine. We’re the same size.”

“Good to know.” Then he turns back and only the clink of a spoon against ceramic fills the emptiness enveloping the apartment in a slow riptide. It’s a heaviness that’s not easily explained by words, and Yo doesn’t want to begin deciphering it. 

He rests against the only table in the room, staring at the plains of Amajiki’s back as he makes tea at a speed slower than it should be, like that wonderful mind is mulling something over and considering his options. It’s something to do about his line of work, Yo can see it. It’s the same stance and expression Amajiki wears whenever he’s burning with curiosity. 

“Just ask me,” he gripes and Amajiki startles. He throws his uncertainty into a look over his shoulder, beautiful blue twinkling under the faint dim that lights up the room. “I won’t bite.”

“It’s just—” Amajiki sucks in a breath and the noise is louder than the hum of the cooling kettle. He brings their tea over and Yo moves two placemats, made from woven straw, to the edge of the table so he can set them down. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“You’ve asked me the same question fifteen times before,” Yo replies with a bluntness he saves for when his effort has disintegrated. He picks up his tea and blows on it, savering the scald on the tip of his tongue when he sips. “Ask.”

Amajiki glances at him, flickering down to the mug in his hand. “I want to know where you work, where you come from. There aren’t any files on you, no nothing .” 

“Is it really that big of a deal?” Yo sighs, resting his forehead against the rim of the mug. It’s not helping the simmer under his skin. 

“Yes.” A pause. “I can’t—I can’t trust you unless I know who you are.”

Yo can’t roll his eyes hard enough. “You journalists are all the same, I swear. I help and you think there’s some ulterior motive. How did you even know what to look for?”

Amajiki hesitates again, gaze averting to his own mug and the steam rising and swirling. “Mirio’s a police officer.”

“I should’ve known.” He’s really beginning to hate that man. It surprises him that their paths have never crossed, but then again Yo’s lived under the radar. His anonymity is purposeful, important, and his files are kept under lock and key, not in a public database for people—like Mirio and Shigaraki and Amajiki—to see. “There’s nothing there? How fascinating.”

“Shindou.” Amajiki’s voice is firm, staring at him with an insistence that grates at Yo and makes his back teeth grind rhythmically. “Who are you?”

Yo takes one more sip of his tea and finally sets it down. He keeps his face neutral, inexpressive, and stares at the far wall rather than melt under Amajiki’s gaze. His hands fall to stuff themselves in his pockets. “I was a police officer. My records are just locked away.”

The weight of Amajiki’s eyes is crushing. His voice barely comes out a whisper, like he’s a child asking for the ending of a story. “Then what happened?”

“A lot of things.” He’s still a police officer technically, just undercover. But now those lines are beginning to blur because what sane person enjoys this job? What person loves the thrill of death, the unknown? The knowledge that stress will kill him one day? The grinding stops. “I signed a contract with my agency, went underground, and joined the League of Villains.”

The noise that comes from Amajiki when Yo snatches the gun from his waistband is inhuman. His arm snaps out and pushes at Yo automatically, shoving the barrel away and nearly knocking it from his hand, but Yo expects it. People are their truest selves in their last moments, when they see a whirlwind of memories staring at them from their peripheral, and he nearly bites on his tongue as he pushes back and swerves the gun to point at Amajiki’s forehead.

Then Amajiki grabs him by the shirt and hauls him forward with a flail of limbs and legs. Yo’s gravity is knocked off-centre and he finds himself in Amajiki’s lap, startled and skin boiling, before instinct lunges and he shoves him down by the shoulder. The gun goes back against his forehead. 

He can feel Amajiki’s every breath from where he’s sitting, hand curling in the soft fabric of his shirt. The rise and fall of his skin, the bead of sweat that runs down his temple, the heaviness in Amajiki’s gaze that hits him like an iron bar. Those eyes, bright and neon and beautiful with shock, are buried beneath a layer of pleading. 

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” Yo growls, voice as hot as his body, pressing the barrel harder. The weight in his hand feels like a brick, heavy and tight like his chest. His breath stutters as Amajiki winces. “You should have expected this. You think the League didn’t know you were researching? I thought you were smart.”

Amajiki says nothing. All that blue and purple, the faint blossom of red bruises along his forearm from their fight, the soft gape of his mouth as his eyes flicker. Thick tar seeps into Yo’s stomach and he grips Amajiki’s shoulder with a hold that hurts. He wants to shake that stupid look right off his face. 

“Stop it.” He can’t meet his eyes. He can’t bear to look because his resolve is crumbling just like he knew it would. “I tried to warn you, didn’t I? I told you that this—I told you to be careful. I told you not to press, Amajiki, but you couldn’t just—”

“Why?”

Yo’s heart stops midway through a beat. “What?”

Amajiki’s eyes dart to somewhere behind him and back again. That blue is sober now, muted and deep, so distinctly him in its dark depths. “Why—why now? You could’ve killed me weeks ago. Why would you lie?”

The laugh that tears from Yo’s throat is humourless and ineffective. It sounds like it’s closing up, little more than a quiet croak like earlier. He ignores his shaking hands. “I don’t expect you to understand. You have a luxury life, right? I have to do this.”

That blue widens, pupils constricting until it’s swamped in a tirade of magnificent ocean. “Shindou—”

“I have to do this, for fuck’s sake!” But is he saying this to himself or to Amajiki? The line is too fine to tell anymore. “You don’t understand. They’ll kill me. I’ll compromise the mission if I don’t do it. My family will be in danger, Tatami, everyone I care for will die. Just—”

“Yo.” His name falls from those perfect lips like a sweet songbird. Amajiki says it like he can wipe away every worry, every trouble and kiss it with a bandaid. He says it to soothe him and Yo wishes—fuck, he prays that he gets angry about it and shoots him right there and then. 

But Amajiki’s hand, trembling in every bone, lifts, ignoring the way Yo tenses until it’s swiping at a tear under his eye. Yo realises he’s crying and, when he finally blinks,the burn behind his eyelids hurt as much as the ache in his chest does. 

“Yo,” Amajiki says again, still terrified and still persistent, voice shallow and sweet. “It’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Yo hisses back like a child, blinking back angry tears. “You don’t understand.”

“Then please help me, please—I want to understand. Help me.” 

It doesn’t sit right, the way Amajiki begs. Not here, not like this. Yo’s eyes flick to his hand, to the gun still nestled in his grip, and he knows then that it was futile to believe he could do it. He should have told Shigaraki to send someone else, Dabi or Toga—even Kurogiri—but, no. Yo had to insist and this was his fault.

The gun drops to the floor with a clatter. 

He feels Amajiki’s relief in the way he sighs out, breath bated and attention unwavering. He looks like he wants to say something, the way his mouth is half-open, but Yo doesn’t want to hear it. Not right now. So he leans forward and pushes their lips together.

Amajiki tenses and, for a moment, that irrational part of Yo thinks he’s going to push him away. Fear slides up his back like long, cold hands. Then Amajiki shifts to slot their mouths at a better angle and it’s perfect; a mix of desperation and desire in unholy matrimony, manifesting in Yo’s fingertips as he curls both hands into Amajiki’s shirt to keep him close. He needs this like he needs air, like his need to live, to survive. He needs Amajiki.

“Tamaki,” Amajiki murmurs against his lips, hands grappling for solace in Yo’s waistband, the hem of his shirt. “Call me Tamaki.”

“Tamaki,” he replies, testing the name on his tongue. It’s like it was made to say that name and that name only. He doesn’t think he’ll mind if he ends up with only that for the rest of his life.

Somewhere along the way of hauling Amajiki— Tamaki —up by the collar and dragging him to the bedroom, the rain slows to a patter.

Then a drizzle.

Then a drip.

Then stops.

Yo wakes with a pounding head. 

He didn’t drink enough to actually get drunk, so he can’t blame the alcohol. It’s the kind of headache that buries itself deep in his skull and throbs with his heartbeat, the type after crying too long. The light streaming through the open curtains doesn’t help either. Amajiki forgot to close them and, though he hadn’t cared the night before, he cares now.

Tamaki. 

He’s curled into his waist inside a nest of blankets, arm around his thigh. Yo can feel each steady breath against his skin, and he doesn’t have to look to know he’s still asleep. He does anyway. After blinking away the remnants of dust in his eyes, he lifts the covers to a mess of blue hair, the steadiness of a snuffle as Tamaki stirs, relaxing into his warmth and sleeping as though he has all the time in the world. He's drooled too.

Yo sighs and the covers drop again. His head feels like it’s being broken into by a hammer. The sun is up too high for an autumn morning, so it’s close to midday. Maybe even past it, he thinks as he watches rainbow refractions dance across the ugly popcorn ceiling, a yellowing white like the rest of the place. He hadn’t noticed it before (he’d been distracted by the feeling of Tamaki’s lips, the taste of his tongue) but most of the furniture is very ‘80’s, even the curtains swaying against the windowsill. Despite how ghastly it is, it makes him smile.

Last night had been exhausting, physically and emotionally. He’d cried, he’d screamed, and he vent his anger in the only way Yo knew how. Tamaki had let him, even when he could have kicked him out. Even when Yo had quite literally had a gun to his head with the intent of killing him, and still he’d taken Yo into his arms and kissed the pain away.

Yo didn’t intend to kill him. In hindsight, it was stupid to have believed it in the first place. He didn’t have the strength to, not when those eyes had pleaded so gorgeously, had crept under his skin like a blue bruise. Maybe Tamaki knew that to some degree, which was why he’d taken him so graciously. Maybe he’ll never know. But what now?

He could easily settle down under the covers and sleep the day away. Let himself be held until hunger won and forced him onto the cold, wooden floor. It’s warm and comfortable, Tamaki’s bed is plush and soft, body sweet and inviting. It’s like sleeping on a cloud with an angel. 

“Guess that makes me lucky.” Yo’s voice is as emaciated as he feels. It’s croaky and raw, sore from crying and kissing and whatever else, and he may as well have swallowed a hundred nails. It hurts like hell.

His phone buzzes. It could be Tamaki’s, except Tamaki isn't rushing anywhere and didn’t seem to be expecting a call. Tamaki doesn’t have texts from unknown numbers asking where he is and to get his ass together. Tamaki’s lucky like that. And then the present hits like a bombshell, reality in the form of one word: Shigaraki . 

Yo shuts his eyes before the panic hits. He hadn’t killed him. Tamaki is still alive, still breathing and humming against his side, and he reaches down mindlessly to run a hand through his hair as a reminder. It’s knotted and soft and very much living.

He’s compromised the mission. Tatami warned him, and he hadn’t listened because Yo never listens. It’s a quality he’s now being punished for. 

It takes an ungodly amount of effort to pry himself away, to slip into the sweats that Tamaki gave him yesterday alongside a fresh shirt from the depths of a drawer. Yo leaves Tamaki as a lump under the comforter as he hunts for his phone tossed somewhere , and eventually finds it next to the bookcase. The screen isn’t cracked at least and there’s just one message under the time and date:

>> We’re outside.

Sent four minutes ago from an unknown number. Yo’s blood runs cold. 

In his state last night, in the rush for Tamaki’s apartment, he’d forgotten about the possibilities. Shigaraki can get his hands on anything and everything, so of course he has Tamaki’s address. Did he know that Yo was here? Were there people stationed outside to keep tabs? Could they see him right now? 

His heart picks up, gaze flickering around the studio. There’s four windows in this room alone, one facing the buildings and the Main Street, one overlooking a brick wall and a rundown alleyway, the other two interspersed between them. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one of those the League—whoever it is waiting for him—is under. 

Do they know Tamaki’s dead? There’s a chance not. A stupidly slim one that he may be rooting for because he’s a selfish idiot, but there’s a chance . He’s with Tamaki, no one else. He could be dead for all they know, and they could just be here for the cleanup. 

<< I’ll be out in a second. Washing the blood off my clothes. 

It’s a mad dash for the bathroom. He dials Tatami’s number as he stuffs his still-wet clothes from yesterday into a plastic bag from the kitchen, following the trail of dry clothes until he finds the gun laying on the kitchen floor. There’s no use for it now, so Yo slips it into his waistband just as she picks up. Her voice is thin and wary.

“Shindou? Are you okay? Please tell me you are, because I haven’t heard from you in—”

“I don’t have time,” he murmurs, leaning into the table with the phone cradled against his ear and shoulder. He sounds winded. “Ta—Amajiki’s still alive. I’m about to speak to the League. I have a plan before you berate me and, if it goes well, no one has to die. Make sure Amajiki’s safe and yourself too. If it doesn’t go as I hope it will, well.” His eyes drift to the bedroom, to Tamaki underneath those covers and that blue that ruined his life. “You’ve been great.”

“What?” Tatami squawks and he hears the rustling of paper and the fast-paced tapping of a keyboard. “ What? Shindou, you can’t just call and—”

“Bye.” He hangs up. Yo’s made a habit of that lately, but the possibility of seeing Tatami face to face again it’s a thread of hope he’s still snatching at. He really is selfish grasping at straws, fabricating a plan that has a higher chance of failing than succeeding, and it all falls on one thing: they don’t know Tamaki’s dead yet.

If he plays his cards right, he can keep it that way. But he has to deal with whoever’s waiting for him outside before they come storming in and see for themselves.

There’s a side door in the lobby of the building (a little ratty, a little run down) that leads into a side alley. It’s the one that Tamaki’s window's facing three floors up. He bites back a grunt as the cold air hits his forearms, and wishes he’d brought a damned coat on the way down—it’s not as if Tamaki’s short of cardigans and hoodies. 

Less than a second later, he spots who came to find him. Stashed at the end of the alley with a cigarette in his mouth, Dabi, Toga bouncing by his side, blows circles of smoke into the air alongside the clouds of breath. Yo has to suppress the relieved sag to his shoulders. Shigaraki didn’t come personally because it’s too dangerous to be near the police, but Dabi and Toga are experts at this sort of thing. They live and breathe and think behind a mask and below the radar.

“Shindou!” Toga calls, waving him over on her tiptoes, and he swallows back a shiver. Despite having more of a chance at succeeding with Shigaraki’s absence, it doesn’t make him feel any better. They’re just as bloodthirsty. “You’re totally avoiding us!” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Yo says tightly as he comes closer, fighting against the lilt threatening his tone. Give them no suspect, no questions, no nothing. “Sorry it took so long. Shot to the forehead, you know how messy it gets.”

“You were in there all night,” Dabi says, uninterested. He takes another long drag and regards Yo with eyes that are an icy blue, so unlike Tamaki’s deep ocean that the contrast is terrifying. “What the hell were you doing?”

A slow, sleazy smile works its way onto Yo’s lips. They’d followed him, he should have expected as much. Shigaraki didn’t trust him in the slightest. He stuffs a hand in his pocket, fingers curling around the gun automatically. This is where he finds out whether it works or not. His stomach gurgles with bile as he says, “C’mon, what other way would I have gotten into his apartment? Gotta make the most of him.”

Toga giggles and Dabi rolls his eyes in disgust. “Whatever. Now that you’ve finally done your job, let’s go. You can update HandyMan personally on why his head’s not on a plate.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He probably shouldn’t have said that in the heat of the moment just in case Shigaraki had actually expected it. And yet…

Yo’s heart picks up again. It worked. It worked . He has no idea how long this will stretch, if it’s even enough to satisfy Shigaraki when they get to the warehouse, but he’s moving them away. He has a fighting chance, no longer grasping at straws. Even if they come back, even if they—

“Oh.” Dabi looks over his shoulder, already halfway down the alley, and stretches out a hand. “Gun.”

“You know, I’ve had a gun on me when I’ve met you before,” Yo replies dryly, pushing down his wariness. Why the sudden need to confiscate his gun? He feels naked without it, like either of them can spin around and shoot him with no means of defence. 

“Tomura said that you might be upset after killing Amajiki!” Toga says brightly, rubbing the tips of her fingers together like she’s itching to hold it instead. Her eyes are bright and yellow, like the warning signs at roadsides; hazardous. “He wants to make sure you don’t kill us.”

Yo wonders how he’d feel if he had killed Amajiki. Would he be ruthless enough to go after Shigaraki himself and claim it was done out of self-defence? He doesn’t want to know. Yo only shrugs and lifts the gun from his waistband, keeping Dabi’s gaze as he clicks the safety on, and holds it out handle first. 

Dabi snatches it from him and pointedly clicks the safety off again. “Scared?”

“No.” 

Those icy eyes stay on his a moment longer like he’s searching for something he can’t find the answer to. Yo wonders if he’s going to say something, but then he turns around—

Just as the side door to the alley opens. 

Yo’s heart drops through his stomach. When he was at the academy with Tatami shy of four years ago, he’d heard stories from senior officers of time slowing down. The world grinds to a halt and it’s like you’re floating on air, they used to say, because your brain can’t process what’s happening. 

He’d believed them because he had no reason not to, but the second Tamaki steps down onto the gravel outside the building, time doesn’t slow. His brain comprehends it completely. Instead of stopping, it speeds up. Yo blinks.

Tamaki’s eyes flicker and Yo sees the recognition fly across his face. Dabi and Toga, two profiles he’s stared at in documents, were standing behind Yo. He doesn’t have time to turn his head before the air explodes and shatters, and Tamaki’s on the floor with blood pooling from his chest. 

Yo blinks again and the world resumes at its normal pace, just as Tamaki splutters something and gasps through the pain. 

Vaguely, he hears Toga shrieking, Dabi yelling back, but it bleeds into white noise that he can’t focus on. All he can see is Tamaki, all he can think of is his touch, his warmth and his blue eyes bleeding onto the road through a gunshot wound. Why did Dabi have his gun again?

He’s by his side in an instant, ripping at Tamaki's clothes, tearing what he can, pressing to stop the bleeding. Yo’s body won’t react the way he wants it, his mind won’t catch up and tell him what to do, it’s all muscle memory from years of treating injuries. It isn’t Tamaki’s spluttering or the blood on his clothes that shakes him from it, but the hand that suddenly grips his forearm.

Yo turns his head and meets the pure fear swimming in the deep blue. 

He wishes he could say something. In the face of death, Yo had expected he’d be verbal, would comfort and soothe and hold hands until that light faded, but he doesn’t. All he can do is stare, shell-shocked, feel the tears running down his cheeks and dripping onto his hands pressing futilely against Tamaki’s chest. He watches as that soft skin goes pale, as the sweetness in those eyes that he’s been enamoured with—that he fell in love with—dissipates with each throb of his heart.

Yo watches Amajiki Tamaki die, unable to say a word. Unable to tell him that he tried to save him, that it will be okay, that he’ll take care of him. He says nothing at all because his tears steal it from him. The remnants of Tamaki's last rain--the rain that ended it all.

Eventually, the echo of sirens pierce the air. There are voices somewhere, but he can’t tear his eyes away from that face, still frozen in fear. Even when Tamaki’s pried away from his shaking hands and put onto a stretcher, paramedics rushing about and people’s hands on him, he can only sit in blood and watch it clotting on his hands. He can’t breathe. He can't think. He can't speak.

He's gone. It's his fault. It’s all over. People died anyway. He shouldn’t have clung to such a childish hope when so much was at stake. His angel has fallen just like he’d fallen for his angel, swarmed in a maelstrom of blue.

And it’s that rich, ocean blue, framed on canvases and the sky and Tamaki’s eyes, that had him doomed from the start.