Chapter Text
His eyes are the first thing she notices, of course.
How could she not? They are a beautiful, brilliant blue. Blue like the delicate strokes on the Edo-era porcelain plates in the cabinets, blue like the aizuri-e on the walls, blue like the rare blue jade bracelets arranged artfully on the display stand.
And they are angry. A bitter sort of angry. This is the second thing she notices, and how could she not? She sees it in her own eyes, after all - lurking, sullen, always there.
It’s a slow day, no one there but them, and the boy with the angry blue eyes strides to the counter and dangles a necklace through gloved fingers. Ivory, she notes as she leans forward and adjusts her glasses - imported. Expensive. Exquisitely carved.
And most certainly not his.
Oh, certainly there are people that come to the pawn shop having discovered heirlooms a bit above their current class; but their items, their hopes of salvation, are handled with careful reverence. And though he carries the cultivated arrogance of her Kazoku customers, he wears it like a coat, and not a second skin - and no Kazoku would ever lower themselves to this degree of boldness, no matter how desperate they are to fish themselves out of whatever hole they find themselves stuck in.
Yes, he might be able to pretend the part with some degree of competence, but he is not who he presents himself to be. She can appraise people as well as she can appraise their valuables (and their not-so-valuables).
She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and his lips thin in his pale, pointed face.
"This is mine," he says defensively. "A - gift from an uncle."
Uncles do not gift their nephews necklaces. A blush forms on his high cheekbones almost instantly.
"But of course," she murmurs, just flatly enough for him to know that she knows, and she extracts the beads from his hand. He is so tense that she is almost surprised when he does not shatter at her touch.
The item itself is genuine, as initially evaluated, and she huffs a silent sigh through her nose, thinking. Given how it was likely acquired, provisions will have to be made. It is unlikely that its original (lawful) owner will find it here, or that they would recognize it on whoever ends up purchasing it...but there is no point in not addressing such an easily preventable outcome. Besides, turning this into something other will hardly be difficult. She already does this sort of thing for some of their Kazoku (who would, of course, deny it til their dying breath), and half the things on the shelves she has personally fixed.
If she is somehow found out, she will be incarcerated or executed, depending on the power level of who it was stolen from. But she is hardly afraid of death, much less imprisonment. Either would be a mere change of scenery.
The risk is acceptable. So what exactly to do with it…?
A pair of earrings and a bracelet. That will work nicely. She even has some leftover period bits and bobs she can use, so that she can avoid marking down and advertising the revised products as being modernly repaired.
Yes, she’ll take it. A smart sale.
"Right then," she says aloud, and now that they are ready to begin negotiations she reaches for the book -
-which is next to the phone -
-which finally snaps the boy's taut nerves.
Lunging forward, he makes a grab for something - her? The beads? The phone? Whatever the target, the sudden forward motion instantly makes her flinch, hunching forward to protect the more fragile parts of her face. No sound, no dodging, no returning aggression - but it makes him freeze, nonetheless. When she registers that not a hit has landed, she blinks at him through her hair.
He stares back, expression unreadable. The beads and the phone remain untouched as well.
"I am going to get my book," she clarifies, cautiously re-extending her arm. Though her heart is racing and her current set of bruises are throbbing with awakened memory, her voice holds nary a quiver, and she is very proud of that.
The boy still does not respond, but neither does he move as she slowly pulls the volume across the counter and clears her throat. "As I was about to say - down to business, shall we?"
And down to business they get. This client is one of the most tenacious she’s ever had, but eventually they reach a settlement they are both satisfied with. And as she records the deal, she makes sure to read out the words as she writes them. “Middle-aged man - round face - dark eyes - gray yukata...” Specifically generic. No one can claim she did not do ‘due diligence’, but good luck tracking down anyone with a description like that. The decidedly not-middle-aged boy, with decidedly not-dark-eyes, nods in thanks.
“Given name…?”
“...Fujio Watanabe,” he grumbles, flushing a bit at the pointed question.
“Fujio Watanabe. Excellent. Here is your receipt, Watanabe-san. Come over to that counter, please.”
His fingers shake as he takes his receipt, and as he counts his payout, his stomach thoroughly destroys what is left of his charade with an enormous gurgle.
The boy looks absolutely mortified, and so she studiously drops her eyes as she closes the till. “Did you know, there is a woman just down the street. Sells the most delicious yakitori. Unbelievable prices for the taste. Good meal for the, ah, budgeting pedestrian.” She’s only been there twice, when she was feeling particularly hungry and particularly daring, but she remembers. Dreams about it, even.
He sniffs haughtily at her casual remark, but his ears are still burning red - and she notices that a few coins slip into his pocket, while the rest go into a nondescript bag at his waist.
“Good day, Watanabe-san.” Subconsciously her gaze darts upstairs, to where her otousan snores in a drink-induced coma. “And - should you have any other items of this, ah, particular nature that you would like to bring by, I would recommend you visit us in the afternoon again, when the owner will be more - welcoming.” The odds are astronomical, as her otousan hasn't physically attended to the store in years, but if he does, it will be in the morning - the only time he is conscious during store hours.
The boy pauses, regards her as sharply as a hawk. “...I appreciate the advice.”
“Good day, Watanabe-san.”
At the door he stops again, glances over his shoulder. In the silence she tilts her head, considers him the same way he is considering her.
Bitter brown meets bitter blue.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
“I wasn’t going to hit you.”
“I know.”
She does, somehow.
He still does not leave. Then suddenly, “Akira Suzuki.”
“Chiyo Ito,” she replies, making a vague gesture to the surname on the sign outside. “Come again. Suzuki-san.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Perhaps I will.”
***
He does come again, actually. And quite quickly.
It is far past dark by the time Chiyo finally stumbles out of the house to eat her cold bowl of rice on the steps, far past dark when she is finally out of harm’s way. The back door’s stairs lead down to the alley between them and the buildings on the next street, so it is nice and secluded and quiet - albeit a little damp and smelly. Ears ringing with the smashing of bottles and slurred, angry yelling, she only manages a few bites before drifting off. She needs more sleep, she knows - but who has the time? Between cooking and cleaning and laundry and mending, errands, managing the store floor and the inventory and the accounting, mending what needs to be mended…
There is a clatter, and she jerks awake. The alley is every bit as empty as it had been, at least within the light of her candle - but there is a carefully wrapped bundle of yakitori by her legs. Cold as well, but still infinitely better than her current meal, and she is almost ashamed of how frantically, impulsively, she snatches it up. Instantly her mouth waters.
Chicken, for dinner? For her? It’s been - a while. And receiving a gift? Perish the very thought.
She peers into the shadows, squinting against the glare on her glasses, but nothing so much as moves. She knows it’s him, though. And she knows why he’s done this, knows the insufferable feeling of being somehow in debt. Sometimes a soul just recognizes another, recognizes something shared.
It smells so good.
Well. This won’t turn the debt back upon her, only make them square. It’s not charity; she is hardly betraying what little pride and control she has left. Besides, this is a way to get back at her otousan, like making faces where he can’t see. Safe, and small, but still satisfying (and filling, in this case). She deserves this, really, for the extra work she’s putting in for him, covering up his illegality.
“Thank you,” she calls, hushed enough that the sound won’t reach upstairs. An acknowledgement finishes the exchange, finalizes the debt repaid.
No identifiable answer, but she doesn’t need one. She devours the skewers there on the steps, even picking off some pieces to mix with the rest of her rice, and when she licks the last of it off her fingers she feels full for the first time in recent memory.
“Come again,” she whispers, stuffing the wrapper into her shoes where her otousan won’t see it before she can dispose of it. “Suzuki-san.”
***
For their third interaction he wears a disguise.
Traditional wear as before, but it is shabbier now, and she suspects his shoes are platformed to give him several extra inches of height. His sleeves are longer to adjust for the new proportions (his hands, lost in the fabric, help to hide the true length of his arms). He even has a moustache, and the shade of a kasa dims the blue of his eyes.
She frowns at that last one. Just a tiny bit. She understands, of course, but it’s still a shame.
Akira Suzuki maintains his downcast, slumped posture in a corner until the current customers clear out. Not one person so much as glances at him the entire time; just another poor, desperate soul, not worth attention. Then he approaches the counter, back towards the shopfront windows, and slides a set of hairpins out of his kimono and towards her.
"Good afternoon…?"
"Abe," he says, lips quirking upwards as he dips into a bow. "Hiroshi Abe."
"Welcome, Abe-san. May I?"
"Of course," he murmurs, and he is carefully (thoughtfully) still as Chiyo carries the hairpins to the back bench. Just a precaution, in case of any incoming customers; the odds of a worker such as his current persona having these, even as heirlooms, is very low, and very suspicious.
“Give me just a moment," she calls over her shoulder, and he nods.
A quick inspection of the exquisite metalwork yields what she had already expected. Authentic and expensive pieces all. Quite the score once again, and she finds she is rather impressed as she walks back - and somewhat wary. A single necklace is one thing, but this is on an entirely different scale, and it feels unlike him and the way she has perceived that he works. More information is required. “Excuse me, Abe-san -”
“You are very good,” he interrupts with honest surprise, inspecting several pieces of newly-displayed ivory jewelry. “Very good. I didn’t even recognize them at first.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, of course,” he concedes, and he studies her for a minute with the same bird-like intensity she remembers. “...Have you ever considered a career change?”
Chiyo blinks at him, taken aback. “What?”
“A career change. A different business. A partner in crime. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
For a heartbeat she imagines it, savors the scent of freedom - and then there is a thud from upstairs, and Chiyo twitches, waits with bated breath for the sounds of footsteps.
Nothing. He must have rolled out of bed but been too deeply asleep to notice. The draining tension is almost painful.
“I can’t,” she whispers, acid on her tongue. Loathing burns her bones. “I can’t.”
Once again Suzuki-san scrutinizes her, shrewd and calculating, his eyes flickering overhead and back to her face. And just as she begins to bristle -
"It's alright," he says. "I understand."
What -
"It's alright. When you can, when you're ready, the offer stands." A smirk, a haughty sniff. "Talent such as yours comes rarely, you know. I can hardly find anyone else of your caliber, particularly in anyone else I would care to work with."
Chiyo stares.
Bitter blue meets bitter brown.
His words are offhand, nonchalant, even arrogant - but he does understand, she knows. She can see it. Has seen it, from the very moment he walked through her door. The heavy knot seething just under her skin and straining to break free - it eases, just slightly. He is not berating her, not judging, not assuming her incapable or stupid or pathetic. He understands.
Focus. No, she cannot accept now - she has long known that escaping this will require being slow, and careful, and patient. As they say, a clever hawk hides its talons...though the stakes here are rather higher, given that it is not a meal but her life that she might lose.
Slow and careful and patient. But afterwards…she has not really dared to think of afterwards, until now.
"I will consider your most gracious invitation,” she finally murmurs.
“Please do.”
An awkward silence follows. Chiyo straightens her glasses, clasps her hands; Suzuki-san coughs and inspects his fan with forced laziness - and then she recalls what she had been about to say.
“Right! Excuse me, Abe-san - I meant to ask - are you quite sure your items won’t be missed?”
Suzuki-san gapes at her. "What - Of course! I'm not an idiot! "
“It’s a perfectly reasonable question. And one I need answered.”
After a moment he averts his eyes and gathers himself, fussily arranging the drape of his yuraka. “Apologies, Ito-san,” he mutters, and at least he has the decency to look ashamed. “The trail is clean, I swear. There was a fire - not my fault! - a rich woman's lover apparently forgot about his pipe during a rendezvous. Burned down a whole wing. So I joined the clean-up crew and found these. Replaced them with some melted fakes. No one the wiser."
She’s heard some about the incident; two maids were avidly gossiping while trying to offload things left behind their own mistress’s previous paramour. Well, if such is the case, and no one is on the hunt...the dangly bits on those kanzashi - those she could remove, rearrange, redesign...a few alterations and even the woman herself would not suspect they were once hers. Oh yes, that will do nicely...
"Clever," Chiyo acknowledges distantly. "On your part, of course, not the lover's."
Preening, he hums in a self-satisfied manner. "It was, wasn't it."
The audacity. Chiyo snorts. "And when your pride catches up to you, they'll say exactly that. 'He was clever'."
"Not so bad an epitaph.”
“You say that now.”
He waves a flippant hand. “Yes, yes. Your appraisal, Ito-san?”
“Very high,” she admits, and he smirks.
“I thought so...”
On this occasion, as he stows away his cash, he casually tosses a few yen onto the countertop. Doesn’t even look at her as he says, “A tip, for your unneeded concern.”
Not only for that, she feels.
The silver coins glitter innocently. Suzuki-san huffs at her reluctance. “It’s insurance. To help you keep me and my offer in mind, to butter you up. Hardly anything generous. I don’t believe in altruism.”
“Well, then. Gods bless you for your kind heart,” Chiyo replies sarcastically, as she slowly slides them off the counter. "But - thank you."
Not only for this, she means - not only for the added weight to the broken old chest in the backroom.
Though it has been nearly two weeks since, she can still taste the yakitori. She had thanked him then as well, but it is important that she knows he heard.
Bitter blue meets bitter brown.
Suzuki-san clears his throat, bows farewell, then rounds his shoulders and shuffles to the door with the tired gait of a man holding the world on his shoulders.
"Have a good day," Chiyo calls. "Come again, Abe-san."
"Perhaps I will," he murmurs, and then he is gone.
***
The nineteenth time she sees him, he comes with an unusual request. Wider this time, with ruddy cheeks and ears that stick out and a bump on the bridge of his nose - he shakes his head discreetly to her look. Not actually broken, then.
It's finally his turn at the counter, and his awkwardness is almost palpable. "What - what would you want for your birthday?" he finally blurts, looking thoroughly disgusted with his own ineptitude.
Chiyo stares. "A - birthday present?"
"Yes, yes - a birthday present. I usually do this on my own, mind you, and I don’t need help, but I thought - I thought that maybe you could add a bit of insight."
She doesn't even know when her birthday is , much less received a present for it. Hasn't even dreamed of such a miracle since early childhood. "I am - not very experienced with birthday presents, on a personal level. But I am very good at matching others with their perfect gifts. Who is it that you're looking for?"
"A woman," he admits reluctantly, and something pricks at her heart. Such soft, silly things, hearts are.
"You do realize that women do not intrinsically know each other's gift preferences."
"Of course I do, there's no need to be so insulting ," he grumbles. "She likes - clothes. Fancy clothes, Western clothes. And she likes to torture souls in the form of etiquette lessons. Ooh, and she likes those lucky cat dolls..."
Someone upper-class, his woman. A scam?...No, she thinks as bitter brown meets a blue that is, perhaps, not quite so bitter as usual. No, no scam this time. "We have something for each of those interests. Let's take a walk."
He wants very much to get this right, she quickly realizes - even for a boy already so meticulous in everything he does. Finally he narrows it down to a feathery boa or a string of pearls, and as he wavers between the two Chiyo wonders what it might feel like, to be given something like this - something picked with enormous care and thoughtfulness. She would not care as much for the gift, she suspects, as she would for the eyes behind it.
Soft, silly things, hearts are.
"If you can't find any suitable presents, there are always experiences," she suggests after quite a while of increasingly frustrated muttering. "Dancing, dinner, flowers, strolls."
"No, the problem is that each of these is perfect, and - oh, Gods, it's not that kind of relationship -"
Chiyo savagely strangles the absurd relief crashing through her chest. "Well, why don't you flip a coin? If you are satisfied with the outcome, perfect; if you are disappointed, perfect as well, for then you know which one you really want."
"Clever," he approves (a rare compliment, coming from him) and he reaches into a pocket.
The feathers it is. Chiyo watches him leave, so well-pleased, and finds that she feels almost…light. And not only because of the larger-than-usual pile of yen on the counter.
"Come again, Yamamoto-san."
"I will."
***
And so it evolves. Suzuki-san wears many names and many faces, but the charade always drops without an audience. He has an uncanny knack for popping in on days and hours where foot traffic is slow, and they banter back and forth while she judges his latest steals or he inspects the offerings on the shelves - he begins to buy as well as sell, collecting bits and pieces for himself as he gets better established. It’s an odd combination, what he looks for; tools and art, mostly, with the occasional book or two. Both the practical and impractical, objectively speaking.
Chiyo begins to set aside things she knows he will like. It surprises her, the first time she does it.
A cup of loaded dice. Though old, it is only worth something for its intricate designs. A collector’s piece. But to him - a tool. He gambles, and he likes to supplement his natural talent. Create his own luck. And he will appreciate this as much for its beauty as he will its function. Unthinkingly she sets it aside, away from the other items ready to go onto the floor, and it is only when she enters the backroom to work on some repairs that she realizes.
And then, though she should be replacing the springs on that lovely antique clock, she spends a good chunk of her time with a brush and paint, carefully tracing the indentations with blue.
The next time he shows up, Chiyo casually presents the dice and the cup as something that Takahashi-san might be interested in, perchance?
He blinks at the cup. Blinks at her. Bitter brown meets bitter blue.
And she watches as he reaches out, cradling it as delicately as he would something infinitely more valuable.
Chiyo can only handle a heartbeat or two of gloved fingers stroking along the colored lines, their hue bright and fresh, and then she stares over his shoulder with forced indifference. She hears the muffled clunking of the dice as he gives them an experimental shake, hears their clatter on the countertop and a huff of a chuckle at their deception.
When she dares look back, his eyes are honed in on the corner of her face - the swoop of skin just beneath her hairline - and his ears are red. Shoving down the urge to touch the spot, ignoring the phantom itching, she forges a smile. "How do you like it?"
"It's perfect," he says. "How much?"
He doesn't even haggle, just nods at her first suggestion and heads to the register. The instant the door clicks shut behind him she darts to the bronze Heian mirror on the wall, and there it is. The tiniest smudge of blue paint.
Despite the hot mortification crawling up her neck, she is grinning as she inscribes one more crisp line in the corner of her ledger, and orderly forest of ink. Thirty-two visits.
And the next night, by the time she crawls out of the house to breathe air that is not rank with hate and pain, there is a small satchel of gyoza on her steps - and a handful of yen, carefully wrapped in an old handkerchief of dark indigo.
The color of victory. The dice have served him well, it seems.
***
On his thirty-fifth visit, he is unusually fidgety. Nervous, even. Finally, with none of his usual slick charm, he squeaks out that his lair is large enough for a roommate.
He's never stopped casually hinting at alternatives. While admiring some piece of his that she's transformed, he'll sigh about how her talent is wasted. As he sets another priceless artifact on her counter, he'll complain about how much easier it would have been with another pair of hands.
But this - this is different. Personal, in a way the others aren't.
Chiyo doesn't even have time to open her mouth before he bolts.
"C-Come again," she belatedly stutters to the door, and despite the cold winter wind seeping into the shop she swears she can feel the warmth of the sun.
Neither of them ever mention it again.
***
About the same time that he becomes less a boy and more a man, about three years into their - acquaintanceship? Friendship? - their situation begins to slide off its well-worn track.
It’s never been so long between visits, and Chiyo scours the newspapers daily for any hint of his arrest or, though she shies away from the very thought, his death. There is nothing, and she is both relieved and terrified - he could very well be fine, or he could have been executed in secret by some enemy. When he finally sulks through the door after months, sour-faced, she lurches from behind the counter and teeters to a stop close enough for her to clasp his hands, had she dared to.
Instead she hugs herself, for she needs to hold something even if it can’t be him, and blinks through watery eyes. “I wasn’t worried,” she says. I was. I was so, so worried.
A smirk, and he taps his fan in his palm as if he needs to do the same. “Good. It would be dreadfully insulting otherwise.” I’m alright. I’m here, I’m fine.
“Hah. I would never dare offend you.” Oh, I’m so glad.
A scoff. “Your sharp tongue certainly hasn’t gotten any softer.” I’ve missed you.
“And yours is still made of silver, Suzuki-san.” I’ve missed you, too.
Bitter blue meets bitter brown.
“Erm. Have you come to buy, or sell, today?”
“Oh! Yes, I’d like to get - this!” He reaches blindly for the nearest object and holds it up. When he registers that it’s a woman’s wig, he grimaces. “Yes. This.”
“...How unique a purchase for you.”
“It’s for a disguise!”
“Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll put it to good use.”
“I will, thank you. And - perhaps I also wanted to ensure you were still in business. You are my favorite pawnbroker, you know. I would hate to have to find someone else.”
“How thoughtful,” she mutters, but there is a true smile tugging at her lips. Why do they only seem to come when he is near? “May I ask why you haven’t graced us with your presence, if you are so partial to the store?”
“Not the store,” he corrects absently, inspecting the wig with a newly appraising eye. “And I was - detained. ”
His sour expression returns. Her heart stutters. “Detained?”
“Mmm. I was offered a proposal. They insisted I take some time to consider it before accepting...I’ve been graciously chosen for a mission, you could say. And they’ve even been kind enough to extend their protection and power to assist me. How very lucky.”
Chiyo pauses in the middle of reaching for her ledger. Protection, power - this means Kazuko. He would never ally himself with them willingly.
She picks over his words, assessing them like she would any other mystery handed to her. Proposal. Chosen. Time to consider.
“You’ve been caught,” she says. “Blackmailed.”
Despite his indignation, there is fond affection in the quirk of his mouth. “No, not softer at all, are you. I wouldn’t say it so indelicately - but fine, yes, blackmailed. Still better than a cell. Or a coffin.”
“And will this mission lead you to either of those?”
“It shouldn’t. It’s a missing persons case. No revenge or assasination. Nothing messy. But there’s nothing to go on, besides a last-known-sighting in Kobe…”
“So it will take a while,” she finishes.
“Probably.”
“Oh.”
“But, as I said - it all starts here, in Kobe. So I’m here, in Kobe. For now, at least, until anything turns up. And, you know - I’ll likely be stopping in here fairly often, since you get so many people in and out and catch so much gossip.”
The hollow feeling dissipates. Chiyo taps her chin in mock thought. “...I suppose I can keep an ear out.”
“Excellent! The girl's given name is Yuko. She might not go by that any longer, but it’s something.”
A careful note is written in her ledger, in the opposite corner from her tally marks (thirty-seven, now). “Turns out we did end up partners, after all.”
Suzuki-san winks, gesturing grandly. “All part of my master plan!”
“Of course,” Chiyo placates. Though she rolls her eyes, she doesn’t even attempt to stifle her smile as she shakes his extended hand. “Your master plan.”
“I do have one, you know.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
They’re still clasping hands. After a heartbeat he registers this and withdraws, but it is not the quick, awkward motion that his touches usually end with. It is slow, reluctant. Regretful. “I’ll be around. And I’ll be back - soon, this time.”
“You had better be, or I shall lock the door on you.”
“You wouldn’t!”
She wouldn’t. And despite his gasp of outrage, he already knows that. But this is how they speak, in half-truths and jabs and posturing. “Try me.”
He laughs as he leaves, and she must be imagining his unwillingness to go.
***
"Otousan is going out again tonight," she says conversationally as he pretends to investigate the glass show case. "Visiting an orphanage."
His appetite for opium and sake grows ever larger, and it has dragged them down, down, down - but a cousin, a debt collector, was willing to trade forgiveness for another pair of fists. It was an excellent fit, really. Her otousan relishes any opportunity to cause pain, and he only needs to be sober enough to walk about and be threatening. He is still very displeased to be working, but Chiyo praises the gods for those beatings - she knows very well how close she came to being sold.
"How magnanimous," Suzuki-san murmurs, peering at a golden pocket watch through thick quartz spectacles. "Which one is it this time?"
"Sato. Sato Orphanage."
"Mmm. I'll have to check that one out myself."
***
"Tokyo," he says. He is officially a man now, a quiet participant in this year’s Coming of Age celebration. "I'm going to Tokyo. Soon."
Chiyo pauses, the duster stopped mid-swish. "Really."
"Shouldn't be long. I've only got to escort a couple of bull-headed idiots." Despite the words, a fondness crosses his face as he strokes a finger along the curved back of a jade fox.
"You've found who you were looking for, then."
Suzuki-san huffs. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"Oh, I knew. I have complete and utter faith in you, after all."
Bitter brown meets bitter blue.
This is more direct than they have ever been with each other. He stares at her as if she has given him something both very precious and very fragile; something he is both awed and frightened to hold.
"If there is one thing in this world that I believe in, Akira Suzuki, it is you. So you had better come back - and when you do...well. Are you still in the market for a partner? A proper one?"
"You are a proper partner," he scolds, and then he blinks. "What - you mean -"
She is giddy, giddy from anticipation and terror, and it breaks loose in a hysterical giggle. "I'm -"
Chiyi does not dare say it. Not aloud. So she mouths the words -
Getting out.
Suzuki-san smiles. Well and truly smiles, the sort of smile that reaches all the way to the corners of his eyes and crinkles them up.
"That opening was always yours," he says. "Whenever you were ready."
"I think - I am," she whispers.
"Then it's settled." He hesitates, then cautiously reaches out, slowly curls his fingers around her empty hand. "I - look forward to our...collaboration."
The silk of his glove is slick and soft against her shaking palm. She gives an experimental squeeze back and laughs again, then abruptly sobers. "Would you help me?"
"Of course," he murmurs, and it feels like a vow. "Whatever you need."
"Come back, first. Okay? Take care of those bull-headed idiots, and come back."
"I will."
***
Suzuki-san stops short when he sees her on the steps. It’s not even sundown yet, not completely, and there is a bottle next to her.
“...Ito-san?” he asks, and she raises a puffy, splotchy face to his.
It has been a long time since she’s cried. She hadn’t been sure she even remembered how. Turns out she does.
With a crooked smile, she brandishes the sake in his direction. “I jus’ - I jus’ wanted to know wha’ wash so sp-speshal about it.” Chiyo bursts into tears again, and Suzuki-san lurches forward, setting the container of takoyaki to the side. "It’s dishgusting!”
Carefully he extracts the bottle from her hand, sets it on the ground as if it might explode. “Chiyo - what’s happened?”
Her given name. No one’s spoken her given name in any of her recollected lifetime. A fresh wave of howls breaks loose, and he wraps his arms around her, uncomfortable but altogether sincere. “Hey…”
“He foun’ - he foun’ it,” she sobs into his shoulder. “He foun’ it. The money I’ve been saving, the papers t’ terminate his parental authority, the forms for a resssshtraining order. And I’d finally gotten enough for the legal fees...”
His hands, stroking up and down her back, pause and resume, their motion slightly rougher this time. “Where is he now?”
“Debt collecting.”
“Right.”
"He'sh gonna kill me when 'e gets back," she says matter-of-factly. "Gonna kill me dead. He won' take chances anymore. He already got me good, 'fore his friends dragged 'm away. So I can't go anywhere."
Modesty hardly matters when you're dead (and very drunk), so she hauls up her skirt to display her feet.
Suzuki-san goes very still.
She peers over her lap and the folds of fabric to study them as well. They don't much look like feet anymore.
"How…" He clears his throat, but his voice continues every bit as raspy, and his hands hover over the swollen, purple, misshapen mess. "How did you even get down the stairs?"
"You can touch 'em, won't hurt me. I poked 'em a bit and I couldn't feel much." It's hard to think. What had he asked? "Scooted, mostly. Fell a bit."
"Chiyo…"
"I can't - I can't bear that house." The smile that twists her face is watery, wistful. "And...I thought maybe you'd come back tonight. I saw the train sh'edule in th'papers. Maybe you'd be back, and I could see you, 'fore he killed me."
"Chiyo -"
"S'okay, 'm not scared. Or sad , even, or even mad. 'M just…tired."
"Chiyo." She blinks at his face, squinting past the double-vision. His fingers begin to dart over her legs, her ankles, her toes, cataloging injuries with swift precision. "Plan A fell through, so let's try Plan B, yeah?"
His gloves are off, she realizes abruptly. The gloves are never off. The fingers under them are pale, quick and deft and light, a thief's hands. The fingers are very distracting. And she's pretty sure she's never had a Plan B. "Whazzat, then?"
"Plan B gets you out of here, for good, alive. "
This wonderful, silly man. Always plotting. Suddenly she is drowning, drowning in sheer, unadulterated affection, and Chiyo stretches out a hand, sliced and flaked with blood from shattered glass. He goes completely still as she strokes his pale cheek. “I love you,” she croaks. “I love you so much.”
His blue eyes are wide, startled. Beautiful.
“Plan B,” he whispers. “Plan B, first.”
She nods, withdrawing. She knows he’ll say it when he’s good and ready. He already does, really, if concealed through other words and acts.
Silence as he continues his inspection. Chiyo fancies she can see the starbursts of wind-quick ideas flitting through his mind.
“Right. How would you feel about getting out of here right now?”
“Can’t,” she says, shaking her head as if she can shake the cotton loose. “Same reasons s’always. We serve - we serve Kazoku here. Kazoku who don’ want to be served here, who don’ want anyone else to know they’re served ‘ere. They - they trade ‘way heirlooms, and dispose of extramarital favors, and expose their debts - secret things. Shameful things. If the owner of these things was suddenly gone - they would dig and dig and dig until they knew who’d done it. Why they’d done it, and what ‘xactly they might know. And Otousan - he wouldn' let me just get out. He’d be too ‘fraid of what I’d say, could say, and the damage to his reputation, and - he likes to win. He likes to be - be powerful, be in control. He'd find me."
Find you , she doesn't say.
“Right. Well, then. We’ll just have to make you dead, so there’s no reason for them to follow. Not actually dead, of course, since that defeats the whole purpose of a Plan B...and I'm quite fond of you being alive."
Giggling, Chiyo slaps an unsteady hand over her heart. "So sentimental!"
"I am, aren't I. It's revolting. Circling back to our plan - we fake your death, and problems solved."
"But isn' - isn' there a chance -"
"Oh, there's always a chance. Risk management is not about eliminating chance, that would be impossible - risk management is making chance as unlikely as possible. And I'd say the chance in this case is very unlikely. You have no other family, no other friends?"
Chiyo shakes her head.
"And your customers, they see you, yes - but not deeply.” He picks up speed as he thinks aloud, and she scrambles after the words like a cat chasing a bird. “Were you to pass them on the street I doubt any could pinpoint you as that one clerk at that one pawn shop. Forgive me for saying so, it's purely for explanatory purposes - but in essence you are already inconsequential. Only a handful of people would be inclined to investigate in the first place, and if we make your death even half convincing, there is no reason for anyone to investigate. And so they won't."
A little candle of hope flickers to life in her chest, beginning to push back the fog.
"And as far as afterwards - remember those bull-headed idiots? I’ve got a powerful friend or two within the Miagawyas now. With their protection, their resources...A different hairstyle, good proper food, decent clothes, better glasses - I see how you squint in those, even when you’re not drunk."
"I may’ve taken them from inventory," she admits. "After my last pair got broken."
"Then definitely better glasses. You will be unrecognizable, and no one will ever find you."
The tears are back. “And then - could we go to Tokyo?” she whispers. “Full partners?”
His hands glide up her legs to clasp hers. His blue eyes glitter, and his smile is like the moon, wondrous and lovely. "Yes. We can go to Tokyo. Just the two of us. Full partners."
"I'd like that. Very much."
Suzuki-san smirks. "But of course - you'll be with me!"
"Egoist."
"You wound me!" His grasp tightens. "But if we are to make it to Tokyo together, then that means we need to pull this off. How much time do you have? Any guess?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know. But he only left maybe an hour ago...I crawled down here soon as I could, and you showed up not long after that. And they usually stay out til early morning. After midnight, at least.”
“Right. Okay.” His fingers tap a staccato beat against her skin. “We could set a fire, but there’s the matter of needing a substitute body to burn, and fires tend to be very conspicuous...it would draw more attention than we’d like. And there’s drowning, but you’d still want a substitute body, and this one with similar features, since the whole point is to convince people with absolute certainty that you are very dead. And drowning would be out-of-character, since you’ve hardly gone anywhere, much less to a place that has enough water to drown in; we could frame it as a suicide, but any degree of suspicion is to be avoided. Death via wounds from knives or bullets or falling from heights are obviously out of the question...mmm. Have you ever heard of fugu?”
“Most definitely not.”
He nods. “Fugu is a delicacy made from pufferfish. Precisely prepared so that the level of tetrodotoxin is minimal enough to only make your lips and mouth tingle. But in higher doses...granted, it can be very lethal, but there’s an in-between where symptoms present as coma and paralysis, barely detectable breathing and pulse. In all appearances you will be entirely dead, but in reality you will only be mostly dead. No other poison could get you past an inspection, but this one could. I had an - associate - do this once, over a decade past.”
“Ooh, excellent. Hit me.”
“That saying, in these circumstances, is exceptionally poor taste,” he chides, but he laughs anyways. Then he takes a deep, bracing breath. “I’m going to need to do this very carefully. For the optimal dosage I’ll need your weight, and your height, and I’m going to need to compensate for the already weakened nature of your body…and the hour or so after you take it, before you reach the coma state, is going to be very - miserable. And I'm not even sure if my associate survived in the end.”
Chiyo shrugs. “I trust you.”
“I know,” he whispers. “Alright. I’m going to go get a measuring tape, and some tetrodotoxin, and make a few calls. You are going to finish sobering up. I’ll run upstairs, get you some water, and you’re going to eat this takoyaki. You have ginger up there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to get you some ginger, too. I wish I could treat your injuries, but for appearances' sake we need to wait until you’re out. But the second you are - I’m going to fix you up, you hear?”
“I’m only drunk, not deaf.”
“I’m literally going to be poisoning you. Are you quite sure you want to be smart with me right now?”
She grins, flicks his nose. “Yes.”
“Savage.” Carefully he brushes her hair out of her face, prying stands off the salt-sticky tracks on her cheeks and tucking it behind her ears. “Water, and ginger, and then I’m off. And I'll be back, very soon.”
***
“Do you know,” he comments, setting down a lantern and fishing a measuring tape out of his satchel, “I’m almost grateful the old lady chose me. Even with all my skills, and there are many, I don’t think I could have pulled this off on such short notice without some assistance.”
“As they say, to lose is to win,” she teases, and Suzuki-san sniffs.
“I never said I lost , thank you...I suppose I’ll have to repay them somehow. Ugh. Since you can’t stand in those feet, let’s have you lay down.”
He whips out a blanket, spreads it on the ground. A small thing, but so quietly thoughtful, and Chiyo feels that warmth snug and cozy about her heart again as she makes to get off her step.
“Don’t you dare. ” Suzuki-san marches over with a fierce frown. “May I?”
She blinks at him, and he stoops, extending his arms. “May I carry you, please?”
Chiyo hesitates.
“Do you want to get to the poisoning or not? I have calculations to make, you know.”
Brown meets blue. Despite his nonchalance, his eyes are every bit as vulnerable as she is sure hers are, and this is what convinces her.
“...Alright,” she agrees. Without the lack of inhibitions caused by alcohol and impending, brutal death, she is almost frightened at the prospect of touch like this, touch beyond that of hands.
He is slow and careful as he slides one arms under her knees, his other behind her neck, and he is slow and careful as he lowers her to the ground. And yes, it is painful, painful in a way that has nothing to do with her physical hurts - but somehow it is also the most wonderful thing she has ever felt, and she is suddenly, awfully cold when he withdraws. The shock of it, the instant desperate longing, pricks her eyes.
“Sorry,” he says, carefully straightening her legs. “I’ll be quick.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” she mutters, and he stops, tilting his head and considering her face the same way he had years and years ago.
Settling himself cross-legged across from her middle, he picks up the measuring tape and clears his throat. “Why don’t you hold my knee,” he says casually. “So that you may brace yourself, in case this jostles your wounds too much.”
He is as uncomfortable as she has ever seen him, uncomfortable as he himself has always been about bodily contact - but he offers anyways.
“I’m quite sure I can handle whatever you can dish out,” she says dryly. Both of them twitch when her fingers settle lightly over his yuraka.
"Ah, but even a kappa can get carried away by the river," Suzuki-san counters, measuring the length of her body with beet-red cheeks.
"I'm a strong swimmer."
"The strongest I know," he agrees. There is an unusual degree of tenderness in his tone, and he turns away to record the number on a scrap of parchment. "But the current you fight is strong."
"Then it is a good thing I am also stubborn."
“You certainly are. Can you prop yourself up a bit, please? I need to wrap this around your abdomen. Here -”
He is very close as he steadies her, the silk of his brown hair brushing her chin as he adjusts the string, and Chiyo swallows. “All this mother-henning...Akira Suzuki, I'm beginning to suspect that under all that cynicism and prickly aloofness is a soft, squishy, sensitive soul -"
He shudders, overly appalled. "Excuse me while I go vomit."
"I thought you liked flattery.”
"I appreciate a good usage of flattery - and your attempt was terrible. It was nauseating, and I demand you apologize right now."
"My most sincere regrets. Do forgive me."
“Thank you. Just a moment." Once he scrawls the latest number, he takes a deep breath and holds out the marker. "Right. I'm going to need you to measure your thigh circumference, please."
That requires untying her skirt.
"Erm. Here?"
"Yes, here, where else?" Somehow flushing even darker, he turns himself about to stare off into the darkness past her head. She can hear the nervous tapping of his fan on his palm. "To continue your lesson. You see, for flattery to be effective, you need to make it believable. It needs to hold at least a grain of truth, and it needs to be given in small doses. For example - 'Akira Suzuki, you are so very clever', or 'Akira Suzuki, you are devastatingly handsome'. Since both statements are true, they would be much more easily accepted, and therefore much more successful...But your little endeavor, my apprentice, was simply far too heavy-handed, and much too far-fetched."
“Hey, don’t pull any punches.”
“Again, with such a classless joke?!” he protests, but again he is laughing, and she uses the sound as cover to undo her knot, to move the layers of fabric aside. She reads off the number.
“Excellent. I’ll be back.” He gets to his feet, muttering a bit as he writes, and she leans her head back to watch. Finally he cautiously withdraws a vial from his bag and pours a few precise drops into the bottom of a cup, returning and offering it with a tight smile. “Here you are, milady.”
“Bottoms up,” she murmurs.
"Symptoms will begin within the hour," he says with forced lightness. "Likely around ten minutes. Let's get you upstairs."
***
He's right.
The next hour is miserable .
And when she begins to slip and slide into incoherent darkness, all she knows is him. His voice, and his nearness, and the weight of his hand on her head. Blue. And somehow she knows that, despite everything, she is safe.