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“there’s a body,” is the first thing junki hears upon stepping into the office on a foggy monday morning.
“hi, syoya, it’s nice to see you too,” he comments, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at syoya’s sheepish grin around a mouthful of instant noodles. there’s an envelope already on his desk, balanced neatly on top of a few significantly less neatly stacked lever arch files. “who?”
“ceo of a biopharma company with rumoured ties to drug cartels in shanghai. really into rural escapes to his property in the jiangxi province, which is where he was found with half his head in a woodchipper.” syoya punctuates the sentence with a wet slorp of noodles, drawing out a disgusted groan from junki as he flicks through the photos. it’s not the worst he’s seen – that honour goes to the minister left to boil in hot springs after having his neck snapped by someone masquerading as a masseuse – but it’s still too much brain to see first thing after a weekend celebrating his birthday.
“any leads? enemies in the cartel, politics, smaller companies? envious family members?” if junki remembers correctly, the ceo had an estranged brother; he’s seen enough backstabbing siblings and offspring to know the typical it should’ve been me spiel off by heart.
“actually,” syoya’s using the careful tone when he knows junki won’t like something, and that immediately sounds sirens in his head. “we, uh, think it may be him.”
his stomach churns.
“syoya, he’s dead.”
“but–”
“i saw his body drop into a canal in venice. he’s dead.”
“fine, geez, look at photos seventeen and eighteen, then.”
junki picks up the envelope again – when did he even drop it? – and runs through the file. photo seventeen is of the victim’s legs dangling sadly out of the woodchipper, and that’s when he notices it. a stone placed almost comically right in front of the foot, like a kindergartener’s attempt to make it look like an accident. the next photo is a close-up of the rock, a familiar s. k. with a heart written on the side in metallic sharpie.
“...might be a copycat,” both of them are aware he’s trying to convince himself more than anything. it’s been well over a year since junki last saw him, four shots fired into his torso by one of their government spies before he toppled into the channel and... disappeared. they never recovered a body or found any trace of him after that, nothing linking him to any future cases – complete radio silence. junki had clung onto the last bits of hope for months before finally giving up.
this, however – this is so undeniably him that junki isn’t even sure how to react.
“i don’t think many people in rural jiangxi know the initials of international assassins working for the russians, junki.”
“stop making good points,” he grumbles, dropping the file onto his keyboard and leaning back in his chair. “fuck. how long ago did they find the body?”
“last night, but ren saw the body already and said he’s probably been dead for at least a day,” syoya throws the empty cup into the bin, letting out a small woo when it lands inside. “hey, do you think you’ll need extra security? in case he tries to, you know, find you?”
“no,” i want him to, “my apartment block is basically a fortress.” he’d probably break in, anyway.
the younger snorts, as if reading right through junki’s façade, and drags his chair back towards his computer. “your murder boyfriend aside, i think i finally got a paper trail on the fox. can you believe he buys bath bombs?”
though they spend most of the week preoccupied with chasing down the fox’s purchases all the way to a small homemade cosmetics store in antwerp, belgium, the thought of him being alive is still heavy on junki’s mind, even as he enters the lift up to his apartment after dinner with ren. it was partly a late birthday celebration, with ren insisting he’ll buy junki a bottle of nice sparkling wine, partly a chance for them to catch up after their medical examiner’s two-month business stay in china.
he’d never admit it, but he missed ren hanging around in their office, even with his tendency to bring up gruesome case details when junki’s just trying to eat his leftovers (“not everyone keeps their appetite around rotting corpses, what the hell, ren?”; “actually, the smell makes you hungrier!”). they’ve bounced well off of each other since junki first got moved to this department three years ago, thrown into the deep end of a cat-and-mouse game with the show-off.
(“the show-off,” junki remembers him pouting, sprawled across the velvet upholstery of a loveseat in his parisian flat, flippantly ignorant of the gun in junki’s shaking hand, “couldn’t you have given me a – fancier codename? something cool and mysterious, like – um – joker! oh, oh, the ghost!”
“that– that one is taken,” he breathed out. he should’ve been on his flight back to japan from edinburgh, but syoya messaged him an address – found him! – and the adrenaline rush of finally catching the bastard carried him all the way to clichy, france. “maybe if you hadn’t used so much fucking glitter in your first kill–”
“oh, you’re a cheeky one,” there was an amused surprise in his tone as he propped his chin on interlaced fingers, corners of his mouth curling like a cat’s, “want some champagne, mr. kono?”)
it almost feels like things are rewinding back to how they were before venice, except – when he flips the light on in his apartment – it’s still starkly empty. there’s no heels next to his derbies in the entryway, no pashmina shawls thrown over his jackets, no second set of pillows on the king-size bed. a cold reminder of how much his line of work gave, but also took from him.
junki could never blame her for leaving, for calling off the engagement when things got too dangerous too fast. he’d wanted to quit numerous times if only to keep her safe, but there was always something – someone – dragging him back in, until eventually he returned home to her ring in a box on the dinner table, with only an apologetic note attached; a coup de grâce to their relationship. syoya and ren took it upon themselves to support him back then, both of them aware how hard it is to lose the last pieces of normality in one’s life, but all junki could think about was how relieved he felt.
and he hadn’t been the only one, judging by the expensive suit that arrived at his address a week later. junki hated how well it fit on him – and he still kind of does, shrugging off the jacket and draping it over the back of the chair before opening his fridge to chill the wine from ren.
or so were his plans, except one of the shelves has been emptied, sans a bright blue fondant cake with a carefully calligraphed happy birthday, my junkichi.
he shuts the fridge and grabs a knife.
“really? that’s how you want to greet me? i’m hurt,” a childish whine sounds from behind, causing junki to startle. he’s leaning against the kitchen island, as overdressed as ever, the glimmer in his eye more amused than offended; all so, so familiar junki has to swallow past the lump in his throat to find his voice again.
“...i’m just taking precautions in case a ghost shoves my head into a woodchipper,” it feels almost anticlimactic to slide back into their bickering so easily. when junki was still trying to convince himself and others that no, keigo couldn’t be dead, he’d imagined a much more… dramatic reunion, something with the extravagant flair of keigo’s hits that made him so obnoxiously fascinating to chase. but junki figures breaking into his apartment and rearranging his refrigerator is just annoying enough to fit keigo, too.
“i knew you’d know it’s me!” keigo grins and claps in delight, like he’s talking about a bouquet from a secret admirer and not – an international crime. in the back of his mind junki questions when – how – he’s grown so used to this. “i wouldn’t do that to you though, junkichi, blood would be a nightmare to get out of your carpets. oh, and nice place, by the way – did the office give you a raise after our trip to italy?”
something about the blasé cockiness in keigo’s voice makes his eye twitch and fingers curl tighter around the knife handle. as if that entire operation hadn’t ended an absolute disaster, as if syoya hadn’t almost died, as if keigo’s handler, ruki – a charismatic man with too many aliases – hadn’t had to flee the country after being caught siphoning off money from the drug trades, as if– as if junki hadn’t thought he lost him.
he’s never had to break free of an addiction, but he wondered if that’s what going cold turkey feels like.
“it was the least they could do after i got rid of a major pest for them. or i thought i did,” junki heaves a sigh, and sets the knife and bottle from ren on the counter. his back is turned to keigo when he grabs two wine glasses from a cabinet; the logical part of his brain screams that it’s a bad idea, but he knows keigo wouldn’t. they have unspoken rules, people and things outside the bounds of their little game – and keigo is too… obsessed to make junki genuinely despise him, he can’t afford to let that happen. (junki can’t, either, but he drowns that thought out by pouring them both wine.) “but seems i was wrong about that for the past year.”
he can hear keigo laugh and stand up from the kitchen island, boots pointedly clicking against the tiles. sure enough, two hands come from behind and rest against the counter, caging him in; junki’s breath hitches.
“sounds like you missed me, junkichi,” a low purr hits the shell of his ear and sends a shiver down his spine. keigo’s so obviously trying to get him riled up, and damn it, it’s working.
in an attempt to regain a sliver of control, he picks up a glass and swivels around, repressing a smug grin at the faint hiss when his hip grazes keigo’s groin. “of course not,” he says, absentmindedly swirling wine around in the glass. it’s easier to lie when he keeps his hands busy. “i was just wondering how you survived, that’s all.”
“funny you ask, i got fished out by the same guy who shot me! pretty strong for his height.”
what. “takumi? but he–”
“–works for you, right? he said he was only doing it for ruki, apparently, and was even kind enough to not aim for any vital organs – as if that made it hurt any less,” keigo’s whining like a petulant child, oddly reminiscent of junki’s ex-fiancée complaining about her annoying boss after work. he’d huff a laugh into the wine if not for keigo’s hand reaching down to grab his tie, rubbing the material between his fingers. “it’s almost as painful as you wearing this eyesore with the suit from me, i thought i taught you better.”
he swats keigo’s fingers away with his free hand – as if he’s ever cared about designer brands, anyway – and rests it on keigo’s chest instead. even through the silk shirt, he can feel the ridges of the gunshot scars and keigo inhaling at the touch (a stray oh, we match crossing his mind, the old stab wound under his ribs almost burning at the thought).
“so, what, takumi dumped you off with the russians, and they kept you locked up for a year? poor bastards, you probably drove them mad if they let you back out.” junki teases, taking the last sip of wine before setting the glass down onto the granite.
in response, keigo only grins. “actually, i was working for a promotion. i’m moving up in the world, junkichi!”
junki blinks. that’s – news. the keigo he remembered never really cared much about his higher-ups beyond when he’d get a paycheck, satisfied with indulging his every whim at the cost of junki’s sanity, as he tried to piece together the assassinations. or maybe that had been an act?
“...should you really be telling me this?”
“no,” keigo hums, “but i wanted to make sure you know to keep your attention on me.” his eyes narrow as he presses against junki, the edge of the countertop digging into the small of his back; all of junki’s instincts scream danger danger danger.
“god, you should’ve stayed dead,” he finally musters, knowing these are the last moments of peace he’ll have for a while.
keigo chuckles, so close his breath fans against junki’s lips.
“you’d be too bored without me.”