Work Text:
Yuta sits in one of the padded chairs set in front of the wide desk in Maki’s office. Inumaki lazes beside him in the other, his indifferent eyes skimming a newspaper.
When Yuta had suggested they wait for Maki outside, Inumaki had rolled his eyes at him and taken point by walking into her office and making himself comfortable anyway. And Yuta had followed him, so he can’t really talk.
Yuta’s glancing aimlessly at some of the black and white photos printed on the back of Inumaki’s newspaper when he shifts it so Yuta can see his hand.
You know what happened with Fushiguro last night? Inumaki signs.
“Oh, I’m not sure,” Yuta replies. “I was with Maki last night, so…”
Almost immediately after the words have left his mouth Yuta’s cringing over himself at the poor wording. Inumaki flicks his newspaper down and gives him a very pointed look from over the top of it.
“I mean… it wasn’t… oh, shut up.”
Yuta runs a hand through his hair and does his best to pretend he can’t feel the blush that’s creeping up the back of his neck. If the twinkle in his eye and the totally-not-subtle smirk on his lips are anything to go by, Inumaki’s probably having the most fun out of all of them at the latest developments between him and Maki. Whether that’s at Yuta’s expense or otherwise, he’s not entirely sure.
Before Yuta has the chance to explain himself, the door behind them opens with a click. Yuta glances over his shoulder to see Maki kick it shut behind her, sharp eyes darting over the both of them sat in front of her desk. Inumaki waves a casual hand in greeting over the back of his chair, still focused on his paper. Maki’s eyes briefly meet Yuta’s before she looks across the room with a huff; there’s the slightest hint of a smile on her lips, though, and for a second Yuta feels lightheaded.
“The hell are you two doing here?” Maki demands as she walks up behind Inumaki and swipes the paper from his hands. She gives it a cursory glance as she walks around the back of the desk and drops into her chair. “Don’t you have jobs to do?”
Inumaki gives a non-committal shrug. Honestly, Yuta’s surprised anyone is capable of ordering Inumaki around. Maki lets the paper drop from her hand onto the desk.
“Well, I guess it’s good timing, anyway,” she says. “I just got word from Noritoshi.”
Yuta leans forward in his chair. “About the gala?”
“Mm-hm.” She leans her elbows on the desk, resting her chin on her hands as she continues, quieter, staring at the wall over Yuta’s shoulder. “The Kamos captured one of the guys that tried to kill Noritoshi at the gala, and I guess they got him to talk. Apparently, he confessed they were hired assassins, and working under orders of the Gojo family.”
Yuta stills at the mention of the name Gojo. The third player in the game of happy families; the secretive powerhouse headed by the one of the most feared men in the country, Satoru Gojo.
Inumaki sits up, raising his hands, and Maki glances back to him.
You’re not convinced, he signs to her.
“Hmm. Let’s say for a moment the Gojo family did try and take out both the Kamo and Zen’in heirs – what’s the motive here? If they wanted to eliminate the competition in one fell swoop, wouldn’t they go further than hiring a couple of guys? From what I’ve heard about him, I assumed Satoru Gojo was smarter than that.”
He is, Yuta thinks, as the sound of his own heart beating in his ears gets louder.
“Maybe it was some other family member acting on their own, then?” Yuta suggests. “Those guys at the gala were serious about killing Kamo. They might’ve done it, if we hadn’t been there as well.”
“That’s true,” Maki concedes. “It was someone that would benefit from Noritoshi’s death, then. Not like that narrows it down much.”
Maki suddenly rises from her chair and paces over to the window. Her face is stony as she looks out through the cracks in the blinds.
“Maybe I’m being paranoid, but…” she continues, “it just seems to me like someone might be wanting to start a war. Tipping it two against one would make their odds better, right? And then there’s the fact that none of the guys who attacked Naoya were caught. They all got away.”
Yuta glances to Inumaki, who’s staring ahead with a dark look. He doesn’t offer any opinion, so Yuta replies, a little apprehensive.
“You think… your family staged it? As an excuse to start a war with the Gojos?” It seems far-fetched at first, but even as he’s hearing himself voice the idea out loud, Yuta realises he can believe it.
“Yeah,” Maki says, turning from the window to meet Yuta’s eyes. “They’ve wanted to crush the Gojos for years. They’re a smaller family than us, but they’ve always had resources, money, on their side. So, it’s the perfect time for it, as well.”
Yuta isn’t sure what she means by that, and turns back to Inumaki, confused. Inumaki reaches forward and grabs the paper off Maki’s desk, dropping it unceremoniously in Yuta’s lap.
Global Fallout from Stock Market Crash - As it Happened, is the first headline that catches Yuta’s attention, in bold capitals on the front page.
“Obviously they haven’t lost everything, but it’s still gotta hurt,” Maki says.
Inumaki nods in consensus. There’s a dark, curling feeling in Yuta’s gut as he watches Maki pull a cigarette out from her jacket, twirling it in her fingers and looking at it intently.
“Things are happening too fast,” Maki mutters. “I don’t like it.” She finally lights the cigarette as the three of them sit in an uneasy silence.
After a moment Inumaki checks his watch and stands. Gotta go. Meeting Fushiguro, he signs.
“Oh, sure,” Maki says. “Ask him what he knows about this mess, would you. No doubt the rest of the family have their own information sources.”
Inumaki nods to her and waves a lazy hand behind him as he leaves the office.
Maki sighs deeply into the silence as she walks back over to Yuta. She leans against the desk in front of Yuta’s chair and puts out her cigarette on the ash tray behind her, tilting her head at him.
“What’s up, then?” Maki asks bluntly.
“Hm?”
She raises her eyebrows at him, but it’s more amusement than annoyance that plays in her eyes. “Why are you here?” she clarifies for him, stretching out the question with that low tone of voice that gives him goosebumps.
“Oh, right,” Yuta says. “The meeting with Shiu Kong’s arranged next week. Inumaki thinks it’s likely he’ll agree to your proposal to work with the Zen’in for the expansion of our bookmakers.”
“Hmm,” Maki closes her eyes for a second, musing over his words as if she’s deep in thought about something. “You didn’t really need to come out all this way to tell me that, though?”
“Well, I…” Yuta begins, hesitantly. He thinks things should be different now; Maki isn’t nearly as intimidating to him as she was when they first met, but the effect she has on him is still just as potent. “I suppose I wanted to see you, as well.”
The quirk in Maki’s lips turns into a full-blown smile at his words; that hungry grin that Yuta loves so much. “Well, well,” is all she drawls in reply.
She looks tired, Yuta thinks as he’s studying her - the curve of her shoulders more slumped and less confident than usual, her eyes duller.
“Is everything alright, Maki…?” Yuta begins, but trails off when he realises how pathetic the question seems. As ever, the distance between them stretches too far – like they’re both cogs in separate parts of a machine, fated to keep turning in time but never to meet.
Maki’s eyes soften when they meet his, though, before she looks away and runs a hand through her fringe.
“Yeah, it’s nothing,” she mutters, irritation creeping into her voice all the same. “Just Jinichi being an ass again. He’s trying to meddle in my shit, even though he knows they put me in charge of the racetrack expansion while he’s busy with the new casino.” Maki lets out a long breath and looks back at Yuta, more intently than before.
Ever since last week, after the gala, the air between them has been so intensely charged you could run a current through it. Yuta thought it was bad enough before, when it was just him pining after something he knew would never work out; they’re both trapped in the contradiction now, and Yuta’s sure Maki feels it too – it still can’t work out, but their wheels keep spinning, and Yuta’s feelings have only intensified the closer they get.
Meaning: he’s in deep.
After a moment, Maki suddenly moves to sit on the arm of his chair. Yuta doesn’t dare breathe as she lifts her hand to lightly brush against his jaw, closing the gap of potential between them, and he’s sure he feels the spark. Maki’s expression holds something pensive and unreadable as she looks down at him, and Yuta strains to remember what they were talking about.
“He’s probably thinking he can pressure you into a compromise,” Yuta says lowly, quickly shuts up when the tips of Maki’s fingers trail over his bottom lip.
“Too bad for him,” Maki mutters under her breath, tilting his chin up in her hand, and Yuta’s pretty sure she’s not thinking about business anymore. “I’m not the compromising type.”
As Maki shifts and leans over him on the chair Yuta catches a fleeting hint of her subtle perfume before she presses their lips together, soft at first until Yuta reciprocates, his hand snaking over her back to pull her closer. Her fingers curl tight in his hair, tilt his head over the chair’s backrest so she can deepen the kiss.
Maki’s like waves on a stormy sea - powerful and overwhelming, a bit rough around the edges, and it’s all Yuta can do to not get swallowed up in the depths entirely. When they pull apart Yuta’s gasping for air, safe from the tides for now, but feeling somehow like he’d rather keep drowning.
He leans his head to the side though, and Maki’s eyes follow him with hawk-like intensity. “I can’t stay,” Yuta says eventually. “I have a meeting soon.”
Maki draws back. “Who with?”
“Uh, your father, actually,” Yuta reluctantly admits.
At the mention of her father Maki’s expression immediately darkens. “Fuck,” she says, pushing herself off the chair. “You should’ve said.”
“Didn’t think you’d particularly want to know,” Yuta mutters, silently lamenting the cold space between his arms as Maki walks back around to sit at her desk.
“Any idea what the job is?” Maki asks. Her fingers drum sharply against the wood of the table.
“Not yet.”
“The family’s probably going to want to hit back against Gojo after this latest development.”
“Yeah.”
Maki sharply looks up and meets his eyes, looking like she’s going to say something, but whatever it is dies as a thought as she frowns and looks away.
“I don’t think you need to worry about this one, Maki,” Yuta says in what he hopes is reassurance, though it does little to ease the dark look on her face. Maki’s always been good at keeping her cards close to her chest; there’s always been a part of her he’s not sure he’ll ever know. If he had to guess in this instance, maybe it’s something like worry.
“Yeah,” she murmurs in response. “I know.”
Yuta slowly gets to his feet. “I should probably get going.”
“Yuta,” Maki suddenly calls as he’s leaving, and Yuta turns back to look at her. The tone in her voice sends a jolt of apprehension down his spine. “Be careful with my father.”
Yuta nods back, his eyes not wavering from hers, and leaves the office.
--
Ogi’s rooms in the Zen’in mansion overlook a courtyard. The shoji doors opposite Yuta are open despite the cold, and through them he can see an immaculately tailored garden; patches of verdant green, white gravel and a small pond. There’s the sound of running water and the erratic tinkling of a glass windchime blown in the wind.
The idyllic scene is in such sharp contrast to the man in front of him that suddenly the whole thing feels very wrong, and the dissonant notes of the windchime are too high, too sharp in his ears, until Ogi speaks again and snaps him out of it.
“Our information tells us the perpetrators of the attack against Naoya last week were affiliated with the Gojo clan,” Ogi is saying. “Such an egregious transgression of the family treaties cannot stand without retribution.”
The tone in Ogi’s voice suggests he doesn’t really care about Naoya – doesn’t care about whether he’s telling the truth, either. He explains the situation to Yuta with the kind of bored assurance that comes from knowing Yuta has no say in the proceedings anyway.
“And as I think you’re already aware,” Ogi continues, unblinking eyes not leaving Yuta, “the heir to the Kamo clan was also targeted at a gala last week.”
For a second Yuta doesn’t breathe. He can’t imagine Ogi would take lightly to his daughter going behind their backs to secure the alliance with Kamo; but if he’s aware he doesn’t give any indication.
“The Kamo family is, therefore, also eager for reparations. We have reason to believe Shinichi Gojo was the main conspirator behind last week; he’s made aggressions towards the Zen’in family in the past. With this, we show that the Zen’in clan is not to be taken lightly.” He stares Yuta directly in the eye to punctuate his last words, as if daring him to defy them.
When Ogi turns away from him, Maki’s words from earlier creep into Yuta’s mind, and with them a black feeling of foreboding. Yuta’s throat is dry when he speaks up. “But surely… a hit like this on a high-ranking member of the Gojo clan would be seen as nothing short of a declaration of war.”
Immediately the mood in the room shifts. Ogi stops, and turns back to stare him down with black, piercing eyes, no exaggeration to say looking like he wants nothing more than to wipe Yuta off this plane of existence, never mind the earth.
“Tell me,” Ogi begins, clasping his hands behind his back and drawing a few steps closer to Yuta. Despite his smaller stature, the man gives off an aura that makes Yuta’s skin crawl. Yuta recalls Maki saying once that her father rules by intimidation and fear. He can believe it. Here’s a man that wouldn’t hesitate to use that katana at his side to kill for as small a reason as insult to pride.
“Have you always been insolent, or is it working for that worthless daughter of mine that has taught you such a lack of respect?”
Yuta should be intimidated, perhaps, frightened even - that certainly seems to be the intent, he thinks meeting Ogi’s cold gaze. In that moment though, any kind of rational thought is overridden by the sudden and intense anger that shakes Yuta through his whole being.
He tries to keep his face as neutral as possible but can feel his grip on himself failing; hearing the way Ogi refers to Maki practically makes bile rise up in his throat. It’s not only dismissive, degrading, like the way Naoya talks to her, but wholly possessive; as if he regards Maki as nothing more than an object, a doll to be thrown away when it doesn’t act the way you want.
Yuta clenches his own wrist tight behind his back, and he has just enough sense in him to not say anything before Ogi speaks again.
“You may be useful to our firm, Okkotsu, but remember this: you are not a Zen’in. And should you ever outgrow your usefulness, it would not trouble us to put you down.”
No, Yuta thinks, nails digging into skin, I’m sure you’d sleep quite soundly.
It doesn’t escape Yuta’s notice that with his implication that Yuta’s opinion is not required, Ogi hasn’t answered his question. A declaration of war, then, is what it’s supposed to be, and Maki was right. Yuta watches Ogi’s back as he walks over to the side of the room and pulls a slim file out from an oak cabinet. Out of the corner of his eye Yuta can see acers in the garden, leaves gently swaying in the wind, a splattering of crimson and rust-red.
“You’ll find Shinichi Gojo at a club he frequents downtown tonight. No need to be discreet; make it a message to Satoru Gojo.”
Ogi passes the file to Yuta, command clear in his eyes: now get out.
Yuta bows until he’s staring at his own feet on the floor, then turns and silently exits the room. He doesn’t let out the breath he’s holding until the door is firmly shut behind him.
--
Yuta could really do with a drink right now.
He doesn’t drink on a job, as a general rule. Alcohol dulls the senses, or something like that, they say, and a split-second reaction can be the difference between living and dying in these sorts of situations.
(Which only poses the question of why that matters so much, but. That’s something he’s decidedly not going to think about today.)
Still.
He could really use a drink.
It’s past midnight when Yuta makes his way to the downtown club. The entrance is in a small back road, unassuming but for the bright neon lighting strung up around the small doorway. It would probably feel seedy if not for the expensive clothes and watches worn by those in the queue and the black-suited bouncers on the door keeping close eye over proceedings.
It’s a little while after he’s been watching from a shadowed alleyway opposite the entrance that a car pulls up, and a dark-haired man in a dark suit steps out, jumping the queue, followed in close step by a bodyguard.
Once the car speeds off Yuta heads around to the backdoor of the club. Sneaking in is a simple affair, the security at the back being not nearly as tight as the front of house.
The club is some kind of converted hall or theatre, with a stage at the far wall and a high ceiling detailed with stucco patterns and columns. Low coloured lights illuminate a minimalist bar and tables lining the dancefloor, all black glass and plush seating, and in a darkened corner there’s a raised platform with a private booth currently guarded by the same bruiser that followed Shinichi out of the car.
Yuta’s never been comfortable in places like this, but he tries to maintain as professional a veneer as possible as he approaches the bar through the crowd and orders a drink for appearances sake. He leans over the bar, watching from the corner of his eye the people in the private booth. Shinichi Gojo’s laughing at something, arm draped over a younger woman who’s sharing a bottle of champagne out into several glasses.
Yuta’s heard it said that Satoru Gojo is the Gojo family, and vice versa, and that’s probably true.
The rest of the Gojo family are titles, placeholders, and whether they’re even there at all is inconsequential – Satoru alone is the true power behind the family. Perhaps it’s for that reason that his relatives feel they’re able to rest on his laurels, content with the comfortable position the Gojo family has held the past few years under Satoru’s lead.
That’s certainly the impression Yuta gets of Satoru’s uncle, Shinichi, from reading the file on him Ogi gave him earlier. Gojo’s uncle is in his late thirties, not that much older than Satoru, and intent to spend the tail end of his glory years on as much alcohol and women as his family’s fortune can buy. It’s true that Shinichi has aggravated family tensions in the past, and when he does put his skills to work it’s usually in the business of human and drugs trafficking, but he’s nowhere near the plotting conspirator that the Zen’in family wants to make him out to be. Yuta tries to focus on the former points, and not the latter.
He doesn’t have to wait too long before Shinichi stands, waving a hand to the girls in the booth, and walks out across the dancefloor, bodyguard in tow. Yuta downs his drink and follows them.
They move through the crowd into a dark hallway illuminated by neon strip lighting and Shinichi passes through a door into the bathroom. He turns to his bodyguard as he makes to follow, muttering something. Shinichi’s man must be used to his boss’s flights of fancy, because he puts up no fight and simply waits outside.
Yuta glances to check the hallway is empty as he swiftly moves up beside the taller man, quiet as a shadow as he draws his silenced pistol out of his jacket.
He’s long since learnt that the Zen’in prefer the no survivors approach; still, as he’s half-carrying, half-dragging the heavy body of the man further into the shadows at the end the hall, it’s hard to maintain composure feeling the weight of hot blood under his hands.
A minute later, Shinichi Gojo leaves the bathroom to be met with a pistol jabbed roughly into his side. Yuta grabs his arm as his eyes dart around, looking for his absent guard. Up close there’s little family resemblance except for those eyes, blue like a summer’s day sky, but clouded now with panicked fury as they meet Yuta’s.
“Who the hell-”
“Let’s step outside, Gojo,” Yuta says, and pushes him towards the back exit.
Shinichi stumbles forward into a narrow alleyway. Yuta kicks the door shut behind them and moves to block the exit out of the alley, lowering his gun a fraction. In the cold winter air, his breaths come as fleeting white puffs. The sound of the music playing in the club pulses, muffled, through dirty brick walls, more as a low beat that’s felt in the chest than it is heard.
“The fuck do you want, kid-” Shinichi starts, words slurring. Back turned to Yuta, he tries to conceal his movement as he reaches under his jacket. He spins back around with a revolver in hand, but before he gets the chance to fire it Yuta moves forward and knocks it out of his grip with a precision that causes his wrist to crack. As Shinichi cries out in pain Yuta kicks him hard against the brick wall. The older Gojo grunts as he slides to the floor.
There’s an alarming disconnect to his actions as Yuta looks down at the man on the ground, a cold darkness at the back of his mind as he unsheathes the katana strapped to his belt. He feels like an actor playing a part, only this isn’t a stage, and no one’s going to yell cut and stop him.
Shinichi shifts to get up, and Yuta brings the tip of his blade to hover at his neck.
“I wouldn’t,” Yuta mutters.
Blue eyes open wider in recognition as he freezes. “Wait - you’re…” He starts laughing, low and desperate. “Fucking hell. You fucking idiots at the Zen’in clan really think we had anything to do with what happened last week?”
“That’s the line.”
Shinichi must catch on to the implication behind Yuta’s words because his laugh turns into a broken snarl, fury and fear painted plain in his eyes.
“And you?” he asks, voice laced with disdain. “The executioner doesn’t have the spine to question his masters’ commands?”
Briefly Yuta stills at Shinichi’s words; his grip on the hilt of his sword wavers almost imperceptibly.
For three years the choice presented to him has been a simple one: if you want to keep living, kill.
Yuta wonders sometimes if the blood on his hands is really worth it; wonders whether he should’ve let himself be killed some three years ago when he had the chance; wonders if he should’ve done it himself at any point since.
But the simple truth is he’s come to enjoy living at Maki’s side, with Inumaki and Fushiguro; something he didn’t think was a possibility for him anymore when he joined the Zen’in family. Since then, he’d resolved that if he has to turn himself into a weapon to protect those important to him and the tenuous life he’s carved out for himself, then that’s what he’ll continue to do.
It’s selfish, without a shadow of a doubt, and when the end of his borrowed time does come, he doesn’t think it’ll be kind on him.
Yuta doesn’t say anything; just draws his sword back and lets the darkness take hold. In the low light of the streetlamps flickering beyond the end of the alley, he swears he sees her.
--
It’s raining when Yuta steps into the phone booth a couple of blocks down from the club. It probably won’t be long before someone finds the bodies and calls the authorities - or the Gojos - but either way he doesn’t plan on sticking around to find out.
When he slots a couple of coins into the machine, picks up the phone and punches in the number, it’s Ogi’s cold voice that replies. He picks up quickly; by the sounds of it, pissed to be interrupted this late at night. “Yes?”
“It’s Okkotsu,” Yuta mutters into the phone, quiet against the loud patter of rain hitting the side of the phone booth. His hair hangs damp in his face; cold rainwater runs down the side of his cheek. “It’s done.”
There’s a notable pause before Ogi replies. “I expected your confirmation in person.”
“Does it matter?” he monotones into the payphone. There’s every chance he’s going to get chewed out for this - or worse - but right now, frankly, he doesn’t give a shit.
Maybe Ogi cares if the line’s bugged or something, but considering Yuta was specifically instructed to make it a message to Satoru Gojo, he hardly thinks that matters; they’ll figure out who was behind the hit soon if not immediately.
The job’s done as Ogi asked. There are no solid grounds on which he can complain. It’s only that Yuta can’t bring himself to go back to the Zen’in mansion - not when there’s the possibility that Maki might be around. He wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye right now.
“I’ll have your full report tomorrow morning,” Ogi snaps back before the line goes dead. Yuta replaces the phone with a sigh and leans his forehead against the dirty glass of the phone booth for a few fleeting seconds, cold and quiet, until he decides he should really go and forces his body to move, back out into the night.
--
Maki has a bad feeling about tonight. She checks her watch - Yuta should’ve been done with his job for a while now. She’s been hanging around the house longer than usual with Megumi on the assumption that he’d be back by now, but so far there’s been no sign of him.
It’s a different kind of bad feeling to when she let him go on Naoya’s job before, in a time that feels like an age ago what with everything that’s happened since. There’s no doubt in her mind that Yuta is capable of whatever her father’s asked of him, but there’s no escaping the scratching feeling in the back of her mind that everything’s not alright, either.
It’s on that hunch that Maki’s on her way to Yuta’s apartment now, way past midnight, after ringing his phone to no answer.
She presses the doorbell once; waits a minute. She’s probably just being paranoid, she thinks as she tries it again. When Yuta still hasn’t come to the door, she bangs a couple of times, calling out “Yuta?” against it.
He’s probably just not back yet, she reasons, but her hand’s already moving to her back pocket and the spare key that Yuta gave her ages ago, one she’s never had cause to use before. In a way, she can rationalise her irrational actions - if he’s not here and not back at the Zen’in mansion, then something really has happened and she’s going to have to get Megumi and Inumaki involved.
The door opens inwards to a dark hallway. Yuta’s jacket hangs on a peg beside the door, his shoes kicked off haphazardly near the mat. Maki refuses to give in to the increasingly loud voice in her head telling her to worry (nor to the one telling her he must be fine, and this is technically an invasion of his privacy. But if that’s the case he should’ve answered his damn phone).
She enters the apartment, closing the door behind her, and moves quietly down the hall until she reaches an open door. When she rounds the doorframe her eyes scan over the dimly lit living room, quickly snapping towards a figure sitting slumped on the floor against the far wall. Yuta has his arms rested against raised knees, his head in a hand. The only light in the room filters in from a window on the wall above him, blinds half shut.
For a second Maki doesn’t know what to do. Did something happen on his mission? She can’t tell what’s wrong, can’t even begin to guess what he’s thinking. As if there’s something inside compelling her, she takes a step into the room.
“Yuta,” Maki says into the quiet apartment, announcing her presence as she walks over.
His eyes snap up at her voice, hand dropping from his head, and she can practically see the cogs turning in his mind as his expression cycles through a whole host of emotions before finally deciding on disbelief. “Maki,” Yuta stutters. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t come back after your job,” she states, “I tried to call here but you didn’t answer.”
There’s an intensely shocked expression on Yuta’s face, almost as if he can’t believe Maki actually cared enough to come looking for him. For some reason it irritates her, and she doesn’t fight the scowl that clouds her face. Of course she’s worried about him, she thinks, the realisation angry and fast; of course she cares about him, enough at least to want to know he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere.
“Sorry,” is all Yuta can say, his voice a shallow breath.
Maki looks away from him and scans the room. There’s a bottle of vodka standing up on the floor next to him; cheap shit, three-quarters full. Maki leans over to pick it up by the neck.
“You been drinking?” she asks, a bit surprised.
“Nah,” Yuta quietly says. “Only a little.”
Maki lowers herself onto the floor opposite him and leans back against the side of the battered old couch behind her. She places the bottle back on the floor, to her side.
She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Yuta like this before - anxious, insecure, sure, but not… this. It’s almost like something’s physically holding him down, tired weight behind his eyes heavier than usual.
“Yuta, did something happen?” Maki asks, serious. “Did something go wrong on your mission?”
“Huh? No,” Yuta replies, a little surprised at the question. “No, it all… went to plan.”
Maki’s gaze tracks downwards over Yuta’s hands where they’re rested on his knees. They’re clenched tightly together - pink-red, scrubbed raw. Her heart drops in realisation.
“Yuta…” Maki begins but her mind draws a blank, suddenly unsure what to say.
“You were right,” Yuta says bluntly. “Your family does want to start a war. I killed one of the Gojo family tonight; not for any reason, just as a scapegoat.” With a jolt Maki finally realises what the unusual weight behind his eyes is - guilt.
There’s always been a difference to Yuta, and Maki’s known that from the first day they met. Back then, she’d assumed it was weakness, but she can see plainly now just how short-sighted that initial assessment was.
Yuta’s always been capable of doing whatever dirty work is required of him, only he doesn’t revel in it like some of the others her family’s hired over the years. If she had to guess, he really is here because he had no other choice.
All of a sudden Maki’s heart’s ablaze with anger – at her family, and the shitty situation he’s trapped in – and at herself. Even as Maki improves her station, even as she gains more allies and power – it hasn’t done a single thing to clean the blood off Yuta’s hands.
“Yuta,” Maki begins again after a moment of silence, her voice uncharacteristically soft in the quiet room. “I’m sorry.”
Yuta glances up to meet her eyes, genuine surprise written there. “What for?” he asks.
Maki shakes her head in reply. “Just felt like I should say it. You shouldn’t have to do things like this,” she mutters. “You shouldn’t have to be here, with me.”
To her surprise, the corner of Yuta’s lips quirks upwards; a joke she doesn’t get. “With respect, Maki, I think I’d be a lot worse off without you.”
There’s something about Yuta that always manages to disarm her when she’s least expecting it. Maki blinks at him, speechless.
“If anything…” Yuta continues, “I’m the one who should be apologising. You deserve better than me.
“All this time, I… I only ever wanted to be someone you could rely on. I thought, if I could support you, even a little… maybe it could all be worth it after all. But in the end, the only thing I’m good for is hurting people…” He states the last words bitterly, like there’s no doubt in his mind about the truth in them.
“Y’know, I’ve always admired you, Maki,” Yuta continues, words coming thick and fast now with a candid intensity that feels something like a confession. His face has a flush to it, probably from the alcohol, and one of his hands darts up to play with the ring on the chain around his neck. “You make it seem like you can do anything you put your mind to. You never give up, or give in to anything… I want to be the same kind of person, I just…”
Yuta trails off, shaking his head, and Maki sits there a moment in dumbstruck silence.
“Yuta,” she begins after a deep breath. “You’re an idiot.”
Yuta looks up, and for a second the doubt in his eyes is replaced by bewilderment. “Huh?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time, if not relying on you?” Maki asks, unable to keep the irritation from her tone, surprised at how passionate she finds herself. She chooses to ignore the praise, tries to ignore the hot feeling that alights in her chest at hearing Yuta express those thoughts so earnestly.
Despite what Yuta might think of her, Maki’s starting to see just how short-sighted her own goals are, too, remembering that day she fearlessly declared to him that she’d rule the Zen’in family, pushing forward, blinkered, without a second thought or chance to stop and think about how she’d actually get there.
She’s always considered it her job, the responsibility hers alone. She doesn’t want it to be anyone else’s, couldn’t accept to share that burden with anyone.
But the further things get, the more she’s beginning to realise that she and Yuta are already tied together, in some inexplicable, inexorable way. Yuta can’t see the best parts of himself – he’s deathly loyal, unrelenting with a goal to work towards, and has the strongest heart she’s ever known. He’s already more than enough. She doesn’t know what she’d do if something happened to him.
“What makes you think you can’t?” Maki asks, ignoring the tightness in her chest and turning the conversation back on Yuta. “What are you so afraid of?”
“I don’t know,” Yuta replies immediately, then backtracks. “No, that’s not true. It’s probably that… I’m afraid of hurting you. And the others... That I’m not strong enough to protect you all…”
“Are you kidding me?” Maki asks in disbelief. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”
“You don’t get it…” Yuta mutters, frowning at something Maki can’t see.
“Then tell me.”
Yuta looks down, his grip on the silver ring in his hand tightening. The choice hangs in the still air in front of her: take a step closer or ignore it again.
“Fine, then, I’ll start,” Maki begins before she can change her mind. “That ring you wear. Who’s it for?”
There’s a lot of things it could be, sure, Maki knows that - and yeah, maybe she has just assumed up to this point - but you don’t wear something like that for no reason. Could be for a family member, maybe, though Maki’s never heard Yuta speak of them.
(It occurs to Maki in a dull, regretful realisation that she knows next to nothing about Yuta. Doesn’t even know what dark corner of the world her family scraped him off of before he started working for them. She’s never thought to ask, and though it feels like an excuse now, he’s never said anything about it, either.)
Maki doesn’t think it’s for family, though. Not with the way Yuta’s eyes widen at her question, some unguarded vulnerability there, and his fingers wrap gently around the ring in his hand, his expression sad, painful. Loving.
“It’s from… an old friend. She gave it to me.” Yuta hesitates over his next words, as if unsure whether he should admit them to Maki. “When we were younger, I made her promise that we’d get married one day…” he mumbles the words with a half-laugh, a self-deprecating smile playing on his lips. “It was a stupid idea, you know, just something kids do. I’m not sure she would’ve even remembered…”
“And now?” Maki asks bluntly, words numb on her lips.
“Well, she’s - she’s dead, now. So.”
“Oh,” Maki says before she can stop herself. “Shit. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Yuta mutters, but from the way he glances down to the floor, not meeting her eyes, it’s obvious he doesn’t fully mean it. “It’s been a few years, now. She’s part of the reason I’m here, actually, I… I couldn’t protect her, back then.”
Maki doesn’t know exactly what he’s talking about, but the meaning is evident - he blames himself for her death.
Maki rests her head back against the arm of the couch behind her and studies Yuta for a long moment. There’s something in Yuta’s past that’s still haunting him, that much is clear; something about this girl that he hasn’t gotten over. His voice is soft, caring, like the memory itself is a fragile thing and holds all the affection in the world in it.
“What was her name?” Maki asks at last.
“Rika.”
“Did you love her?”
“Yeah,” Yuta replies without hesitation. Maki can’t avoid the sharp knife that twists into her chest, even if she knows better, even if she can see it coming.
“I don’t…” Yuta continues slowly, frowning, like he’s searching for the right words. “I don’t really know in what way, though. I just know that I loved her. But, it’s… different, somehow…”
“To what?” Maki asks.
“Nothing,” Yuta mutters too fast. “I don’t know.”
Maki regards him for a second but doesn’t press the subject. They fall back into silence, sitting opposite each other in the dull moonlight.
There’s something between them that feels tangible; something in the air that’s suffocating. Maki lets herself imagine for a moment shifting so she’s sat next to Yuta, running her fingers through his hair and holding his head against her chest; washing his hands clean and being able to chase away the ghosts that follow him in the dark.
That’s not like her, though. But as she gets to her feet, picking up the vodka bottle as she does, she realises she doesn’t really know what is.
Maki places the bottle down on the little coffee table next to the couch. “You should get some rest,” she says, tugging on the lapels of her winter coat and turning towards the door. She feels like she’s running away, but from what, she’s not entirely sure.
As she reaches the door, she hears Yuta scrambling to his feet behind her. “Wait, Maki-” he calls out, coming to a stop beside her.
Maki turns to face Yuta, and he looks unsure of himself. His voice when he speaks is quiet but steady.
“Stay. Please.”
Maki stands for a moment in the doorway. Maybe she is an idiot, she thinks, seeing the depth of emotion written plainly in Yuta’s eyes, never once wavering from her.
“Alright,” Maki murmurs in reply, the single word surprisingly easy on her tongue.
The tension in Yuta’s shoulders eases noticeably and he takes a step closer, raising a hand to the lapels of her coat, fingers barely brushing the fabric, leaving Maki space to pull away if she wants. She doesn’t though, and her own hands reach up and curl around Yuta’s, holding him there as they move in step to close the distance between each other.
Yuta’s hand is rough and dry, but warm; his lips soft, and he breaks away with a ragged sigh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder. Her fingers card through his rain-damp hair, knitting them together in the silence of the dark apartment.
Maki falls asleep before Yuta; but when morning comes she wakes first, in drowsy consciousness taking the moment to appreciate the rare sight of Yuta’s sleeping face beside her, lit by the dawn glow seeping into the room through his thin curtains.
Yuta sleeps curled up, Maki notices as she’s watching him - his knees are pulled up to his chest, hands splayed in front of his face, head rested against the pillow. Barely daring to breathe, she reaches out a hand and brushes away an errant strand of hair from Yuta’s face. His eyelashes flutter slightly, eyes staying shut, gentle rhythm of his chest not breaking from its slow rise and fall.
Maki won’t be able to get back to sleep, she knows, and she’s also aware that if she stays here watching him any longer her thoughts will run too far away from her.
Not making a sound, Maki untangles herself from the bedcovers and stands, padding from the bedroom to the kitchen as if it’s a journey she’s made a hundred times before. She leans against the kitchen counter, quietly boiling a kettle atop the old gas stove, and watches through the blinds the last rays of the sunrise paint the sky in soft pastel orange and pink, before washing away into the cold morning.