Work Text:
Bold yellow font spelled Victory across his computer screen, prudently angled away from Kunikida-san’s vigil, lest the man notice Jun'ichiro’s idling away at online games. It was not the most scrupulous way to occupy paid hours, but the week had puttered along at a sluggish pace for the Detective Agency, and Jun'ichiro was not diligent enough to request extra paperwork to fill the resulting vacancies in his shift. The ginger adjusted his headphones and hovered his mouse over the Restart button, when he was interrupted by the notification bell.
[You have (2) unread messages.]
Curiosity piqued, Jun'ichiro opened the private message window. His mouth curved into a frown, when he recognized the sender as the player who he had defeated in the previous match. He was no stranger to sore losers who aired out their anger through poorly worded hate mails, but the amateur detective felt no trace of ire in the two digital text bubbles.
(shinshi_tm) hey
(shinshi_tm) gg
After a moment of deliberation, Jun'ichiro typed out a reply.
(t.kuraguro) gg
(t.kuraguro) did u need smthn
(shinshi_tm) not really
(shinshi_tm) just wanted to say ur good
(shinshi_tm) do u play often?
(t.kuraguro) yep
(t.kuroguro) usually after work thou
Jun'ichiro paused. He considered going offline and returning to his game, but found that he did not mind humoring this mystery person.
(t.kuroguro) hbu
(shinshi_tm) only when i have free time
(t.kuroguro) not often
(t.kuroguro) ?
(shinshi_tm) pretty much
(t.kuroguro) ur pretty good 4 some1 who doesnt play a lot
(shinshi_tm) haha ty
After that, the conversation trailed off, and Jun'ichiro closed the private message window. Leaning back in his desk chair, he stretched his arms before returning to the game.
Lingering thoughts of Shinshi had faded from his mind by the time the detective clocked out and walked back to his dorm, Naomi hanging off his elbow.
“Who were you talking to, nii-sama?” Naomi prodded as they crossed the threshold, untangling herself from Jun'ichiro’s side and skipping into the kitchenette.
Jun'ichiro blinked. “Who?”
“On the computer,” Naomi rummaged through the snack cupboards, before leaning back to throw a sideways glance in Jun'ichiro’s direction. A lopsided smirk played across her lips, and she trilled, “I know you weren’t doing your work today, nii-sama~”
A nervous chuckle bubbled up, and Jun'ichiro itched the nape of his neck. “You got me, Naomi,” he admitted sheepishly. “I was messaging—” He stopped, bereft of the right word to describe Shinshi. “A new friend…?” The epithet came out as a question. He was not sure whether or not their brief interaction constituted friendship, especially since they were unlikely to speak to each other again. The thought made a spark of disappointment curl in the pit of Jun'ichiro’s stomach. The realization that he had enjoyed conversing with the mystery player, however brief, dawned.
Maybe Jun'ichiro just basked in the novelty of being complimented, instead of living up to his unflattering nickname as the Wimpiest in the East.
Regardless, there was not enough courage in his fingertips to send a friend request, and risk the stab of rejection.
After having dinner with Naomi and retiring to bed, Jun'ichiro had resolved to forget the day’s events and move on, but the piping buzz of his mobile phone stirred him out of his futon. The detective blinked bleary-eyed at the fluorescent glow of the screen, lit up with an alert reading that he had received a new private message. Unlocking his phone on autopilot, Jun'ichiro swiped the notification open and was surprised to see Shinshi’s username in the list of incoming friend requests. Jamming his thumb over the green check mark too hastily to be proud of, he read the first text bubble from his new friend.
(shinshi_tm) are u awake
(shinshi_tm) sorry if i wake u up
(t.kuroguro) its k
(t.kuroguro) u didnt wake me up
(shinshi_tm) ok good
(shinshi_tm) do u want to play a match or something
(shinshi_tm) im free
(t.kuroguro) its 11pm
(t.kuroguro) ??
(t.kuroguro) when do u get off work
(shinshi_tm) i have a flex shift
(t.kuroguro) u choose 2 work this late???
(shinshi_tm) haha ig
(shinshi_tm) i get called in by my boss pretty often
(t.kuroguro) ic
(t.kuroguro) im game btw
Casting a furtive glance towards Naomi’s futon, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest urged Jun'ichiro to pad further away, lest he disturb her slumber. The detective left his headset and many of his other belongings inside his office desk at the agency, foreseeing no need to cart extra weight back and forth. In retrospect, he should invest in a pair of earbuds. For tonight, decreasing the volume of his mobile phone until it was near muted would have to suffice. As extra insurance, Jun'ichiro relocated to the kitchenette and sat on the floor beneath the counter, his back propped up against the lazy susan.
Assured that he won’t wake his sister, Jun'ichiro logged into the game and sent confirmation that he was ready to Shinshi. The other player responded with a private lobby code and a thumbs up emoji. Rotating his phone into landscape mode, Jun'ichiro adjusted his seated position in an effort to achieve some degree of comfort on the kitchen floor, before the game began.
Shinshi’s character was equipped with a saber this time to Jun'ichiro’s surprise; the detective had assumed the other player’s precursory aptitude with firearms meant that he preferred to play as a gunslinger. Due to the finesse the game demanded to master a single playstyle, many players opted to scale the imposing skill curve of only one weapon. Instead, Shinshi appeared to be more double-faced than Jun'ichiro had expected. Intrigued, and a little bit impish, he split his screen and typed up a private message.
(t.kuroguro) u play samurai too
(shinshi_tm) yep
(shinshi_tm) i like both
(t.kuroguro) no regrets when i pwn u
(shinshi_tm) haha
Jun'ichiro considered himself a relatively skilled player, having specialized in hit-and-run tactics that reflected his abilities in real life, by no coincidence. Sometimes, the detective believed that his close encounters with spilt blood and traded blows outside of a pixel world contributed to his level of experience in digital reality. Although he had a better chance of winning a match against a gunslinger compared to a balanced melee fighter such as samurai, Jun'ichiro did not expect to lose. Assuming that Shinshi’s expertise with guns was mutually exclusive to being a proficient samurai was his hubris, the match acted out to the plot of a Greek tragedy.
The Game Over screen flashed red, and Jun'ichiro blinked at his screen, dumbstruck.
(t.kuroguro) wtf
(t.kuroguro) gg
(shinshi_tm) gg
(shinshi_tm) having any regrets, kuroguro?
Jun'ichiro gaped. The small text bubble oozed the lofty smirk playing against invisible lips, and the detective felt his face heat up, a mixture of humiliation and outrage coloring his complexion red. He deserved to lose, for underestimating his opponent.
(t.kuroguro) maybe
(shinshi_tm) care to elaborate?
(t.kuroguro) asshole
(shinshi_tm) haha
(shinshi_tm) want to go again?
(t.kuroguro) yes
As Jun'ichiro immersed himself in playing against his virtual friend, the minutes easily snuck away beneath his notice, adding up to hours filled with muffled laughter and idle chatter. Jun'ichiro was not sure when the conversation shifted away from the results of their matches, but he found himself sharing pieces of his life in exchange for Shinshi doing the same. They were both around the same age, which had startled Jun'ichiro, since he assumed that Shinshi was older based on what he knew about the other’s occupation. Neither of them had a college degree, they had one sibling each, and they were not on amicable terms with family.
(Jun'ichiro passed up the opportunity to elaborate on that fragile subject, and Shinshi did not seem eager to divulge his ghosts either.)
When the detective looked up, the digital clock on the counter displayed the early hour of the morning, and he winced. He still had to go to work in the morning.
(t.kuroguro) i should prolly go 2 sleep
(t.kuroguro) gn
(shinshi_tm) thats cool
(shinshi_tm) good night
Jun'ichiro powered his phone off and stood up, stretching his aching muscles before hobbling back to his futon. As he tucked himself beneath fleece blankets, cherishing the cloud-like texture of the mattress against his spine relative to the kitchen cabinets, his phone lit up with a new message. Unable to resist the temptation, Jun'ichiro rolled over to check his phone.
(shinshi_tm) it was nice talking to u
A small smile surfaced on Jun'ichiro’s features.
(t.kuroguro) same here
“Did you get a boyfriend and not tell me, nii-sama?”
The intervention into Jun'ichiro’s love life struck without warning, in the form of his sister ambushing him as soon as he began his lunch break. Her feet were planted shoulder width apart, her arms crossed. Haruno offered an apologetic smile from where the assistant was ostensibly supporting Naomi. Jun'ichiro craned his neck back and directed a frown at his sister’s intimidating stare, seated at his desk with an unopened bento in front of him.
“What makes you think that?” Jun'ichiro responded quizzically, as he unwrapped his lunch box and was unsurprised to discover that Naomi had arranged his meal into the shape of a heart. At least she hadn’t replicated his likeliness in edibles again; it was disconcerting to consume his own face for lunch, piece by piece. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Then who have you been texting?” Naomi shot back, and Jun'ichiro was beginning to see the full picture. “You can’t lie to me, nii-sama—I’m always watching you, and these past four weeks you’ve been glued to your phone looking stupidly lovestruck!”
Jun'ichiro balked, too distracted by his sister’s accusation to protest her stalkerish choice of words. “I’m—that’s not—I don’t—” Heat rose in his cheeks as he spluttered, and Naomi raised one eyebrow primly.
“In other words,” she drawled, shrewdly, “You don’t have a boyfriend, you have a crush .”
At that, a wicked smirk curved Naomi’s lips, large indigo eyes twinkling in a manner that sent shivers dancing up Jun'ichiro’s spine. He shrank away from his sister’s intelligent gaze; Naomi never lied when she paraded how well she knew Jun'ichiro, though she liked to insinuate fallacious glimpses into their private life that had strangers giving them sideways glances on the street. Jun'ichiro fidgeted with the sleeves of his shirt, eyes darting around the office in a silent cry for help. When it became apparent that his coworkers had abandoned him to the mercies of his sister, Jun'ichiro dragged his gaze back to meet Naomi’s probing indigo stare, and melted like a snow sculpture in spring.
“Maybe,” Jun'ichiro admitted, for the first time. It was an embarrassing confession to make, that he was crushing on the faceless friend he connected with online. Shinshi was both witty and charismatic, and they meshed well. More often than not, Jun'ichiro caught himself hoping that they could meet in person one day. Yet any fictitious daydreams of such nature were crushed by his cowardly nature, anxiety tearing down his desire to see his crush in person with a laundry list of reasons why he should not dare to lust for more than what he already had.
Naomi crossed her arms, unsatisfied with the admission. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“I see,” Naomi said flatly, then turned on her heel and walked away.
Surprise bubbled up in the pit of Jun'ichiro’s stomach, since his sister had never been the type of person to relent easily. The notion made his better instincts flag, suspicion tugging at the back of his mind. After a moment of turning over the possibilities in his head, the detective deflated with a begrudging sigh. He had a habit of indulging Naomi in whatever she was inclined to do, and he had no precedent to start opposing her whims now.
Jun'ichiro would later regret not being wary of his sister, when he found his missing mobile phone tucked behind a stack of manilla folders the following morning.
[You have (3) unread messages.]
Jun'ichiro’s frowned, a knot of anxiety becoming tangled in his gut. He didn’t have his phone last night, so it should not have been as concerning as it was to have a backlog of unanswered text messages. Perhaps that was what set off the flashes of Danger! Caution! swirling about his thoughts; Shinshi had a habit of sending a string of texts at late hours of the night, regardless of whether or not Jun'ichiro was awake to read them. The number three paled in comparison to some of his more talkative evenings.
Bracing himself for something unpleasant, Jun'ichiro opened his instant messages.
(shinshi_tm) sorry my boss called
(shinshi_tm) lunch doesnt work.
(shinshi_tm) dinner instead?
Jun'ichiro’s eyebrows knit, unable to decipher the meaning of the texts. Remembering his conversation with Naomi the day before, a suspicion rose in the base of his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as swallowed his trepidation and scrolled up.
(t.kuroguro) this may seem sudden
(t.kuroguro) but do you want to meet up irl?
(shinshi_tm) oh
(shinshi_tm) no its ok
(shinshi_tm) i would like that
(shinshi_tm) i live in yokohama
(t.kuroguro) what a coincidence
(t.kuroguro) me too!
Breath stuck in his throat, Jun'ichiro’s heart pounding loud enough to reach his ears as he read the conversation. He recognized Naomi’s texting style, though he had already been harboring suspicions. As usual, Jun'ichiro couldn’t find the backbone to hold a grudge against his sister, not when she was many times more capable than he was. The notion that Shinshi lived in the same city was too distracting anyway, Jun'ichiro could have passed him on the street without knowing, or met him while working on a case for the agency.
The possibility made Jun'ichiro’s head spin.
(shinshi_tm) damn
(shinshi_tm) what r the chances
(t.kuroguro) lol
(t.kuroguro) we could get lunch
(t.kuroguro) are you free tomorrow?
(shinshi_tm) yea
Naomi and Shinshi had agreed on a meeting place not far from the Armed Detective Agency office. Jun'ichiro scrolled back to the three most recent messages from Shinshi.
(shinshi_tm) sorry my boss called
(shinshi_tm) lunch doesnt work.
(shinshi_tm) dinner instead?
(t.kuroguro) hi
(t.kuroguro) sorry
(t.kuroguro) my sister stole my phone last night
(shinshi_tm) oh
Palatable disappointment radiated from the little text bubble, but Jun'ichiro dismissed the sensation as his own imagination projecting his feelings onto Shinshi. He bit his lip. There was no reason to deny himself the opportunity now. With the newfound resolve to meet his internet crush in person, Jun'ichiro typed out a new message.
(t.kuroguro) i still want 2 meet u irl
(t.kuroguro) if thats k with u
There was a spell of unbearable silence as Jun'ichiro waited for Shinshi’s reply. Fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, the possibility that Shinshi would change his mind hung over the detective’s head like a guillotine.
(shinshi_tm) oh
(shinshi_tm) yea im still down
(shinshi_tm) so. dinner?
(t.kuroguro) yes ty
An exhale of relief passed Jun'ichiro’s lips, and he decided that he was not angry with Naomi at all. Jun'ichiro would purchase flowers to thank her later .
Jun'ichiro ended up deciding against walking back to the Agency dorms to change into nicer clothes before leaving to meet up with Shinshi. They were seeing each other as friends, and their dinner plans were not a romantic date. Having rehearsed that fact within his head to sober his palpitating heart en route to the local park they agreed on, Jun'ichiro was not prepared to encounter a familiar face when he reached his destination.
Shinshi was sitting on the old swing set, years of rust causing the structure to screech every time the weight it was holding shifted. Even from a distance, the side profile of choppy ginger hair and characteristic band-aid pasted over the bridge of the mafioso’s nose was enough to make Jun'ichiro reflexively shroud himself in his ability, heart dropping out of his ribcage as he inched closer to confirm what he already knew.
There was no one else in the park at this time of day, the sun sinking sleepily below the Yokohama skyline as men and women clocked out of the work for the day. The mafioso cradled his phone in his hands, staring at the screen pensively. The thoughtful expression ventured to soften the harsh countenance from Jun'ichiro’s memory. Forced to reassess the past month through the lens of a revelation the detective was not ready to swallow yet, he affirmed that nothing he knew about Shinshi contradicted what he knew about Tachihara Michizou.
Maybe he didn’t know much about Shinshi at all. In the first place, that was why Jun'ichiro wanted to meet in person—because he longed to know more about the faceless character he considered a friend, and hopefully something more.
Jun'ichiro was not sure how he felt about Shinshi—no, Tachihara Michizou—now that he could put a name and face to his crush. Objectively, Tachihara was attractive; a fact that Jun'ichiro ascertained now that he could study the mafioso’s face without red creeping into the edges of his vision, a fierce grin oversimplifying personable, boyish features into the encroaching threat of a bullet through Naomi’s forehead.
The illusionist was not sure what gave him away, but Tachihara seemed to pick up on his presence as soon as he was close enough to notice the natural black roots peeking out beneath ginger hair. Looking up from the dim light of his phone screen, Tachihara whipped his head around until his stare landed on Jun'ichiro’s face. Brass-gold eyes passed over his panicked stare—reassuring the illusionist that the mafioso did not see through his ability after all—and squinted at a fixed point somewhere near his ear, as if Tachihara was trying to look for something he knew was there.
Seeing the mafioso’s hand drift to where Jun'ichiro was certain he kept his handguns, spurred the illusionist into willing Light Snow to melt away, and he took a bold step forward before he could figure out whether or not he still had a crush.
“Hey,” Jun'ichiro took a stab at civility, “It’s me. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Tachihara’s eyebrows shot up, his mouth falling open soundlessly. After a beat, the mafioso withdrew his hand from where it was frozen halfway beneath the lapel of his military jacket, and Jun'ichiro felt his shoulders relax. “You…” Tachihara trailed off, brass eyes unfocused as he mentally assembled the puzzle pieces. His assessing stare widened when he was struck by the same realization Jun'ichiro had weathered minutes prior. “You’re Kuroguro,” he said finally, with a hint of disbelief.
“What are the chances,” Jun'ichiro echoed the message Tachihara had sent in response to learning that they lived in the same city. An awkward silence fell over the two, almost as if they were attempting to actually do the math in their heads.
“Insane,” Tachihara breathed finally, and Jun'ichiro could see the tension draining from the mafioso’s frame as he spoke, “Insanely small.”
Jun'ichiro took the response as a sign that the other had decided that their unexpected encounter would not escalate into a fight. Smothering his instinctive caution towards dogs of the Port Mafia, the detective sat down on the neighboring swing. The metal frame groaned in discomfort. “So,” Jun'ichiro prompted.
“So,” Tachihara repeated.
“Is dinner canceled?” Jun'ichiro ignored the way his heart lurched at his own suggestion.
Tachihara made a faintly amused sound, and Jun'ichiro was reminded of the manner in which Shinshi would laugh through text, the inconsequential mannerism sneaking up on Jun'ichiro and pulling him deeper into love before he realized he was already falling. “I haven’t eaten yet,” the mafioso extended something of an olive branch, “Just a light breakfast and an energy drink from the convenience store.”
“All day?” Jun'ichiro tilted his head.
“Yeah. Missed lunch, remember?”
Jun'ichiro had forgotten. Shinshi canceled their original plans for lunch because he received a call from his boss. Knowing what his friend did for work put that statement into morbid context, and the detective winced. “Ah,” he said, at a loss for anything else to say. “We can get dinner, I guess.” There was a certain subtext to the plural pronoun he used that Jun'ichiro refused to acknowledge on a deeper level.
“Fantastic.” Tachihara’s dry remark belied something else that Jun'ichiro was unable to identify.
They decided to eat at a locally owned noodle place somewhere halfway between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia headquarters. There was no one else inside the compact space, despite the hours posted on the sign outside promising that the business would not close for another two hours. Jun'ichiro deduced the reason when the waiter emerged with two bowls of ramen, one chicken, and one shrimp; the food was painfully average. A small snort sounded to Jun'ichiro’s right as Tachihara swallowed his first bite.
“This stuff is so plain I could cry,” Tachihara remarked, licking chicken broth off his lips. It was the first attempt at small talk since they sat down, though it had not taken very long for the cook to prepare their food. Perhaps that was why the noodles were mediocre.
“It doesn’t taste bad. At least,” Jun'ichiro said doubtfully.
Tachihara snickered. “At least,” he mocked, staring into his bowl with pseudo derision. Jun'ichiro thought the mafioso’s stage condescension was a little too similar to the expression he actually wore when pressing the muzzle of a gun to someone’s forehead. Had there been anything about Tachihara Michizou that was difficult to reconcile with the person Jun'ichiro met online, it was that haughty gangster-like attitude that distinguished their first meeting during cannibalism in his recollection of their exchange.
A theory crossed Jun'ichiro’s mind, and he was burnt-out enough not to reconsider voicing it out loud before opening his mouth. “Why do you fake your personality?”
The reaction was instantaneous. Tachihara froze, dropping his chopsticks and pointedly did not turn to meet Jun'ichiro’s inquisitive stare when he managed to unfreeze his tongue. “You think so?” He responded carefully, neither a denial too hasty to be believed, nor a confirmation that could lead to inspecting something about the mafioso that Jun'ichiro was certain neither of them wanted to discuss over impromptu dinner plans.
“Mmm, you’re just different from how you act online,” Jun'ichiro gave him an out, and Tachihara took it, tearing brass eyes away from the center of his bowl to meet hazel brown.
“That’s normal,” Tachihara stamped out the line of questioning with an air of finality, but he seemed to know that he wasn’t fooling Jun'ichiro. “Why do you sleep with your sister?” the mafioso redirected the conversation with vindictive intent, and Jun'ichiro choked on a mouthful of ramen, breaking into a coughing fit.
“I don’t!” Jun'ichiro vehemently denied after clearing his throat, “Naomi is my sister!”
Tachihara raised his eyebrows, teasing, “ Right .”
Pointing a cold glare at mafioso’s amused expression, Jun'ichiro seethed, “You’re an asshole.”
“You’ve told me that before.”
The conversation dwindled as a spell of silence was cast, only the sound of slurping between the two. Tachihara finished his meal first—testament to how hungry he was—and seemed content to watch Jun'ichiro do the same, resting his fist against his chin. Jun'ichiro was hyper aware of the way the other’s eyes slid downwards and settled on the curve of his lips as he tipped the remaining shrimp broth into mouth, before wiping his chin with the back of his hand. The notion that he wasn’t the only one who might have developed an internet crush was both reassuring and wholly terrifying.
(Jun'ichiro was not dense; especially not when it came to attraction. Back in high school, other kids would consult him before confessing—as he could usually speculate accurately whether someone’s crush was requited or not.)
It was terrifying, because Dazai may make interorganizational relationships with his nemesis work by some miracle, but Dazai was never a good model to follow—despite what poor Atsushi may have deluded himself into believing. It was terrifying because Jun'ichiro barely knew who Tachihara was, and the detective was seeing that for the first time, the cautious, cowardly part of him begging him not to lose his common sense now , when he has never been the type to thrust himself headfirst into promised danger.
His lack of bravery had gotten him an unflattering nickname and his life intact countless times. And there were many reasons why Tachihara Michizou was a horror story in the making.
They were entangled together with Jun'ichiro’s lips on Tachihara’s before the illusionist could escape certain doom, retreat back into his safety bubble before it was too late. The contact was messy and uncoordinated, but Jun'ichiro knew that he happened to be a great kisser, to the credit of certain informative sources he indulged in his off time, so he pushed forward, wrangling control of the kiss. The small noise of surprise that Tachihara made against his mouth had satisfaction curling in the pit of Jun'ichiro’s stomach.
Tachihara tasted a little bit like the food, but perhaps Jun'ichiro owed their kiss to the flavorless ramen, as the detective easily spurned the lingering taste of chicken broth aside, in favor of cataloging more intimate details about the mafioso. His cologne smelled faintly of citrus, but it was not nearly enough to mask the traces of gunpowder that clung to him persistently like a wraith. When Jun'ichiro moved his hand from Tachihara’s shoulder upwards to comb through disheveled hair, the dry texture of each strand tickled the palm of his hand and evinced how long the mafioso had been dying it. In the brief moment Tachihara was forced to pull away to catch his breath, Jun'ichiro noted that the fine steel chain he had felt when he cupped the nape of the other’s neck hung a military issued dog tag. The name embossed into the metal face was not Michizou, though the family name was telling enough.
By the time they separated and were too breathless to go back for another serving, Tachihara’s face was almost the same warm hue as his hair dye. His voice winded and husky, the mafioso managed to quip, “Wow. Are you sure you’re not practicing that with your sister?”
“I’m sure,” Jun'ichiro said honestly, lacking the energy to snap back.
Tachihara still looked mildly awestruck, kiss-swollen lips parted in silence.
“We should do this again sometime,” Jun'ichiro threw out with as much cool dignity as he could conjure with the burn of Tachihara’s lips still hot against his mouth. “But I should get back to the dorm before Naomi starts worrying about my virtue.”
“Okay, now you’re just asking to get teased.”
Jun'ichiro smiled cheekily, riding the thrill and smooth confidence of their impromptu make-out session. He learned a lot about his new friend—boyfriend, maybe?—and his better instincts to run far away from whatever had shaped between the two had been extinguished in favor of his single-minded thirst for more, the kind of feral recklessness that awakened in Jun'ichiro only when he threw his inhibitions aside.
His rationale was a bit like a bubble, like the cover of Light Snow. Sometimes he let it dissolve and with it his safety, but that was okay, as long as it was for the right person.