Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Here is your flesh dog. Enjoy!” Those words sent shivers down Kusanagi Shoichi’s spine as he drained grease from the deep fryer. He turned around to check who was manning the front of the stand, and to his horror it was the weird kid— completely unsupervised.

He waited for the customer to leave before approaching. “Whoa, whoa.  You can’t… You can’t call it that.” The weird kid just stared back, vacantly cheerful expression on his face. “Listen, uh, Spr…”

“Spectre.”

“Spectre. I’ll let you off this time because you’re Yusaku’s friend—”

“I’m not Yusaku’s friend.”

“You’re Yusaku’s friend of a friend. And I know you have issues, just like every other teenager that hangs around my truck, but you have to— just try to act normal.”

“Normal,” Spectre repeated.

“Yes,” Kusanagi said. “You can’t just say weird shit like that to customers. It— it scares them away.”

“Ah. I understand.”

“And, um, wasn’t… Wasn’t one of the others supposed to supervise you? To, y’know, walk you through this? It’s your first day, after all.”

“Oh yes!” Spectre said politely, tipping his chin towards someone sitting at one of the nearby folding tables. “Right there.”

Kusanagi followed his gaze. Sitting at the table was— ugh. Oh god. It was fucking Revolver— no, Ryoken, ugh, whatever his name was, just casually reading a book.  “That’s not— he doesn’t work here.  He literally does not need to work.” Spectre stared back at him, as if waiting for clarification. Ugh, this kid’s blankly inquisitive stare was starting to give Kusanagi the heebie jeebies. “He can’t supervise you if he’s not fucking employed here.” 

“Well, getting into technicalities here, I don’t need to work either. I can just mooch off of Ry—”

Ryoken shut his book and stood up. “Spectre, we talked about this, it isn’t about the money…”

Spectre sighed. “It’s about the experience,” he finished lamely, rolling his eyes as if he'd heard this spiel many times before. “Yes, I know.”

The two teens seemed to have a discussion using only their eyes. Kusanagi found it immensely unsettling. “Where’s Yusaku? He’s supposed to be training you. Just tell me where he went.”

Spectre and Ryoken continued staring at one another, somehow having an entire conversation in that single glance. Ryoken was the first to look away, directing his gaze at Kusanagi. “He got food poisoning and had to leave.”

“Why didn’t he say anything to me about it?”

“It was very, very bad food poisoning,” Ryoken clarified. Spectre nodded solemnly in agreement. “He was in a rush.”

“Okaaaay,” Kusanagi said, feeling more creeped out by the minute. “He’d usually text me about something like that.”

“Please,” Ryoken began, “allow me to supervise him in Yusaku’s place. I promise nothing will slip by me.”

Kusanagi checked the time on his phone.  Takeru’s shift wasn’t for another hour, and Kusanagi was supposed to pick his brother up from therapy in less than thirty minutes.  He could just close early, but friday afternoons like this one were what kept him afloat. It wasn’t ideal, but he didn’t have much choice. “Fine,” he said, “fine. Just do not creep out the customers. Please.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Spectre said in a way that wasn't at all reassuring.

“Just don’t, okay? And you,” he said, pointing to Ryoken, “if you’re going to supervise him at least sit in the truck and wear an apron. Try to look like you actually have to work for a living.”

“I don’t know how to cook,” Ryoken said. “Spectre always does that for me.”

What, was Spectre his fucking butler or something? Rich kids were literally the worst. “Just... do your best.” Kusanagi wouldn’t trust Spectre with his life, let alone his food truck, but he could maybe trust Ryoken to at least be somewhat normal. Hopefully.

---

Takeru was running late. Like, literally running. “Hey, I’m here!” he began cheerfully as he opened the door and grabbed his apron, not paying enough attention to see who was currently working. “Sorry I’m a bit late.” He finished tying his apron and turned around, blinking a couple times when he saw that the stand was being run by two people who absolutely shouldn’t be trusted to run anything, and probably shouldn’t be trusted in general. They were currently standing together at the grill, intently watching a single weenie sizzle.

“Why are you here? Where’s Kusanagi and Yusaku?” Takeru narrowed his eyes. “What did you do with them?”

“I work here,” Spectre said, not taking his eyes off the weenie. “May I suggest turning it over, Master Ryoken?”

“Oh. Okay,” Ryoken said, turning the weenie over with the tongs.

“Who the hell would hire you?”

“Someone with an eye for potential,” Spectre said, his tone indistinguishable between serious and sarcasm.

“Potential? You’re working at a hot dog truck. And what the fuck is Revolver—”

“Ryoken.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He is supervising me.”

“He doesn’t even work here! He doesn’t need money!”

“It’s not about the money,” Spectre intoned, his voice sickly sweet, “it’s about the ‘experience.’ Isn’t that right, Ryoken?”

“I don’t need experience. That phrase is about you.”

Not even five minutes into his shift and Takeru wanted to go home. It was a new record. Usually he needed to be yelled at by at least 3 customers before he felt this way.

“Well Ryoken, since someone who actually works here has arrived, you’re free to go home! Isn’t that great?” Spectre said, his voice still disgustingly sweet sounding.

Are… are they having a fight? Takeru wondered but really, really, really did not want to know. 

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of leaving you here all alone.” The two continued to glare daggers at each other.

Takeru cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh. I’d be here. He wouldn’t be alone. I work until closing, and Kusanagi should be back at some point…”

“Well!” Spectre said tersely, “I think that settles it! You’ll be returning home, master Ryoken.”

Takeru breathed a sigh of relief. Getting rid of Revolver would surely dispel some of this tension.

Ryoken sighed. “I couldn’t possibly return home without you.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before making me get this job,” Spectre grumbled.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing! Have a safe trip home! Don’t trip and fall on your way back!”

Ryoken sighed. “Please, try to keep him here for the full shift,” he said, addressing Takeru.

“Um, okay,” he responded, watching as Ryoken left.

Spectre remained silent, his otherwise neutral demeanor radiating hostility. He had taken it upon himself to do prep work, and was cutting onions with a speed and frenzy that made Takeru want to keep his fingers hidden safely in his pockets. Tension radiated from Spectre’s glare, which was trained unerringly in the direction Ryoken had disappeared off to.

“Are you…. alright?”

Spectre’s face darkened as he brought the knife down with a final, resounding CHOP.  He turned to face Takeru. “I’m great!” he said as his face split into an unsettlingly large grin, “Never been better! Best day of my life!”

“Are….. you guys having a fight?”

Spectre held the knife handle in a white-knuckled grip and began cutting the onion anew, bringing the knife down to punctuate each word and phrase he spoke: “Everything is fine! There is NOTHING that can come between our bond! Master Ryoken and I are COMPLETELY in sync, in mind and in—”

“We have a food processor. You don’t have to cut those by hand.” Takeru got the machine out and placed it on the counter.

“Oh,” Spectre said, “I guess that would make it easier.” He loaded the onions into the cup, fitted the lid on,and pressed the pulse button. Repeatedly and rapidly, like a child ringing a doorbell.

Takeru took a deep breath. He really, really did not want to ask this question, but the good person inside him told him he should. “You maybe wanna… talk about it?”

“No I DON’T want to talk about it!” Spectre yelled, loud enough to startle a family walking in the park. The little boy, no older than 5, dropped his ice cream cone and started wailing. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off. He removed his finger from the ‘pulse’ button and abruptly began pacing the interior of the food truck. “Oh Spectre,” he began speaking in a silly voice, an obvious mockery of  Ryoken, “you need social skills! You’re so bad at interacting with people that aren’t me! I have a GREAT idea that will help you SO much!”

“So you’re working at a hot dog stand.”

Spectre sighed and collapsed into a chair. “So I’m working at a hot dog stand.”

“You could’ve just told him no.”

Spectre gave him an unimpressed glare.

“No,” Takeru corrected himself, “of course you couldn’t. What a stupid fucking suggestion.”

Spectre sighed again, this time leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. “Did I do something wrong? Is Ryoken trying to get rid of me? Is that what this is?”

Takeru was at a loss. Was he supposed to try and console him or…? How exactly does one console someone like Spectre. Dude was about as genuine as a monopoly dollar. “I’m uh, sure he’s just looking out for… your best… interests…?”

“It must be a punishment. I’m being punished. I have made a grievous error in his eyes and will never be forgiven.”

“I’m not exactly a fan of the guy but that doesn’t seem like the type of thing he’d—”

“This is definitely a punishment for something. Why else would he say that I need to talk to other people more? I don’t need social skills, I have him. I don’t need to talk to anyone else.”

Somehow, Takeru didn’t think that was the point Revolver was trying to make, but who was he to say that?  He didn’t give a shit.  In fact, he gave like, a negative shit. That’s how much he didn’t care about Revolver and Spectre’s weird whatever the fuck they had going on.  Takeru would very much like to not even know about it. Well, unless Spectre was going to start dissing Revolver behind his back. That might be worth it, a little. Of course, that came with the caveat of interacting with Spectre, who was a complete fucking weirdo and honestly kind of scary. Hopefully Kusanagi would come back soon.

Chapter Text

“So did you get over your food poisoning?” Kusanagi asked Yusaku the next day.

“My what.” Yusaku’s brow furrowed.

“Your food poisoning? Spectre and Ryoken told me you had food poisoning.”

“I didn’t— oh yeah. It was. Terrible.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. If you need time off you can just let me know.”

“It was nothing like that. Sorry to skimp out yesterday.”

“No it’s fine. Just try not to do it when the world’s biggest weirdos are hanging out. Or is that why you left early?”

“The reason was so much stupider. I’d rather not talk about it.” Yusaku left it at that.

The two worked silently side-by-side, prepping ingredients for the rest of the day. It was routine for them, almost second nature the way they sorted toppings into small bins to bring back out later.

“l’m thinking about expanding the menu… how about adding breakfast tacos?,” Kusanagi mentioned. “I figure if I park the truck near the university I could make a killing.”

“So you’ve finally come to accept that tacos and hot dogs are basically the same.”

“We’ve been over this. No. Bring it up again and you can consider our friendship over.”

Yusaku shrugged. “I’m just saying that in the taxonomy of food-on-bread, tacos and hot dogs should be grouped together.”

“Hey, now. You’re already on thin fucking ice for hiring the weird kid. Which, by the way, why?”

Why, indeed?

Yusaku's mind drifted back to several days earlier, when he had been entrusted to interview a potential new hire.

~~~

“Hey, Yusaku? I’m gonna need your help with something.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve got a potential new hire coming in for an interview, but I kinda forgot that I have a doctor’s appointment and might not be back in time. You think you could do the interview for me? You're basically the assistant manager of the truck, so...”

Assistant manager? Yusaku was gonna ask for a raise. “Oh, yeah. Sure,” he replied.

“Okay cool,” Kusanagi said, putting on his jacket. “He should be here at about 2:30. The resumé is on the desk. I’ll see you later.”

Yusaku picked up the paper, feeling like he already knew who it belonged to. Ah, yes. Spectre. That guy. Him. No real name, no family name, just 'Spectre,' as if he was well known enough not to need one. Which, okay, yeah, he was probably the only person in Den City who called himself that, and unfortunately Yusaku already knew him. 

At 2:30, Spectre showed up, looking for all the world like he would rather be anywhere else. Yusaku directed him to sit down and then realized he had absolutely no idea what questions he was supposed to ask.

“So uh. Hi,” he said, “You’re um, interviewing for the position of, um, employee.”  

“Quite the descriptive job title.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean working here you have to both cook and sell things, so yeah. Cooking and selling things.”

Spectre tilted his head in a way that was supposed to look innocent… but since it was Spectre, Yusaku knew it was anything but. “Aren’t you going to ask me questions?”

“Yeah. Like why do you want to work here?”

“I don’t,” Spectre replied flatly. “Ryoken wants me to work here.”

“Okaaaaaaay,” Yusaku said. “Can you cook?”

“If it weren’t for me, Ryoken would starve.”

“You ever consider just letting him?”

Spectre swallowed. “I would prefer not to answer that,” he said tersely.

Yusaku pretended to write something down, but was actually just scribbling. “So a 'yes,' then." 

Gritting his teeth, Spectre clarified: “I said I would prefer not to answer. That's not a yes or a no. Stop writing things down!” 

“This is a job interview, I'm supposed to write things down. Can you cook a hot dog?”

“I mean- probably?”

Yusaku drew a squiggly line. “Good, that's good. Cooking hot dogs is a very big part of working here. What about math, can you add and subtract?”

“Yeah.”

“Well shit we are just ACING these questions,” Yusaku said. “Did Ryoken instruct you on how to answer these?”

“Would that disqualify me?”

“Nope.”

“Oh,” Spectre said, slightly disappointed. 

“Congrats, you’re hired.”

“What?! I mean, uh… Yay?”

“Come back here tomorrow.”

“That’s it?”

“You wanna stay and chat?”

“No.”

“Then go away. Bye. Have a great day or whatever.”

Oh wait. No, it was actually several days before that when Ryoken approached Yusaku out of the blue to cash in on a favor. Yusaku didn't even know he owed Ryoken a favor. Apparently, Yusaku owed him for “not killing your eyesore of a boyfriend when I had the goddamn chance,” which was, to put it simply, very shaky grounds for requiring any sort of repayment. 

Anyway, if hiring Spectre was all Yusaku had to do to get Ryoken off his back for eternity, then yeah, he’d do it. No fucking questions. He didn’t care why Ryoken wanted Spectre to work in food service. He didn’t want to know why. It was none of his business.

Also, Yusaku kind of felt bad for Spectre. But only a little bit. It was more of a kindred spirit sort of thing in that they’d both been victims of the Lost Incident. Even if Spectre was a little weird about it.

Yusaku’s mind returned to the present. “I hadn’t slept in several days and was experiencing a severe lack of judgment,” he said, which wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Well for the well-being of everyone around you please get more sleep next time. Last night he referred to hot dogs as ‘succulent meat tubes,’ which is just about the worst thing I have ever heard come from a human mouth.”

Yusaku snorted.

“He said it in front of Jin! I don’t need my brother hearing shit like that! What if he repeats it?”

“Your brother is my age. He’s probably heard worse.”

“Don’t tell me that. Jin is an angel and I won't hear anything to the contrary.”

Kusanagi would just have to find out on his own the words that regularly came out of Jin’s mouth, then.

“Oh no,” Kusanagi said, having spotted two Spectre-and-Ryoken-shaped beings approaching in the distance, “I was hoping he wouldn’t show up.”

As the two got closer, it was clear from their faces that Spectre was also hoping he wouldn’t show up.

“I don’t need you to walk me to work, master Ryoken,” Spectre said through grit teeth, “I am perfectly capable of making it here on my own.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Ryoken paused. “I do, however, doubt that you would choose to make it here if left to do so.”

The conversation ended there as Spectre entered the truck and slammed the door behind him. His expression was murderous, even moreso than his usual demeanor. Making eye contact with Yusaku, he muttered: “Maybe I will let him starve.”

“I’ll see you later.” Ryoken waved through the window and Spectre’s expression changed in an instant, turning into a pleasant smile.

“Oh, of course. Bye!” he said, but as soon as Ryoken turned around his face morphed back to what it was before, and then into one of defeat.

“Okay then,” Kusanagi said. “Everything, uh, good?”

“No,” Spectre said. He looked miserable. “Everything is terrible forever.”

“Okay,” Kusanagi said, clearly not knowing how to deal with the situation, “well uh. Just make sure that you don’t give that vibe to our customers. Customers can smell fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” Spectre said.

“They can also smell when you’re just having a bad day.” Kusanagi’s eyes narrowed. “And they will exploit it. Trust me.”

Kusanagi left to set up the truck’s signage, and Spectre fell in line next to Yusaku to begin prepping ingredients.

“Do you think Ryoken will be disappointed in me if I get fired?” he mumbled.

“I thought you were going to starve him?”

“It takes more than one missed meal to starve someone to death. And there’s a very high chance I will back out after a day or so. And even if I didn’t back out, master Ryoken has a very impressive stockpile of snacks and junk food he could live off of.”

“Lock him in the bathroom,” said Yusaku flatly, “I bet he doesn’t have any snacks hidden in there.”

Spectre considered the idea for a moment. “Wouldn’t work. He could survive off of toilet paper and toothpaste.”

Yusaku wasn’t one to judge other people’s living conditions. He had once gone two months eating only peppermints and hot dogs while exclusively drinking 5 hour energies, so he had no high ground to criticize anyone about eating habits. But toilet paper and toothpaste? What kind of horrible metrics of existence did Spectre even measure by?

The worry must’ve shown on Yusaku’s face, because Spectre then felt the need to clarify: “Trust me when I say it’s doable.”

Yusaku really did not want to trust Spectre on that. He didn’t want to know. 

“Sometimes,” Spectre began in the way he does when he’s about to share some horrible and disconcerting fact, “one of the other kids would lock me in the bathroom or the storage closet, and nobody would come looking for me for hours.”

Yeah. Okay. Yeah, that was fucked up. 

“Most of the time,” he said bitterly, narrowing his eyes, “nobody would come looking for me at all.” He frowned, his eyebrows furrowed as if this was something he’d only just remembered. “... I think I need to take my break now, actually.”

“You only just got here,” Yusaku said. “Just sit down for a little bit. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. Spectre made hot dogs and Spectre sold hot dogs. He was pleasant to customers and they were pleasant in return. And he hated every fucking minute of it.