Chapter Text
It seemed that no matter how high of a position you may have been in, your accommodations when held captive were exactly the same as any other victim. Or perhaps, it really is spite alone that makes it so he’s forced to kneel with one leg in a dirty puddle, arms bound behind his back and tied to a concrete pillar.
Keito holds in a sigh at his discomfort, as it might be interpreted as flippancy to his captors, who he isn’t particularly interested in aggravating further. He doesn’t resist either, but tugs against his restraints half-heartedly to simulate panic. That seems to satisfy whoever is in charge of this operation, and they begin their obviously rehearsed spiel about how they wished he’d show a little respect to his elders, that his gang had been around this territory far longer than Keito’s had, that he hadn’t appreciated his tone.
Keito wants to make a snide remark about how his downfall was inevitable, he had mismanaged his assets, he couldn’t maintain his territory or compensate his men, and so what the Lotus clan had done by annexing it through diplomacy was essentially charity. But of course, they had gagged him too.
He feels a serrated blade press against his throat and primal panic derails his mental lecture for a mere moment before his logical brain takes control. There might be four, maybe five people involved in this operation, including the leader. The remaining members of the gang had willingly joined his own, so these people are probably loyalists or plain stupid.
As he tunes out the frankly ridiculous monologue his kidnapper is delivering, his thoughts turn to rescue. His second-in-command and bodyguard, Kuro, would surely be looking for him by now. No doubt he’d be scolded for deciding to go off for a smoke on his own and getting swept away like some sort of damsel in distress.
He knows Kiryu is smart enough to deduce his whereabouts.
And yet, Keito feels a familiar pang of guilt at the idea of Kiryu risking himself to find him, imagining a new set of scars littering his confidant’s body. Just how many of those could’ve been prevented had he let Keito die, had he poisoned the food and drink that Keito heedlessly accepted from his hands? Perhaps if Keito’s life ended right here, Kiryu would be out of harm’s way for good. He had imparted enough knowledge to Kanzaki for him to run the clan without Keito, after all.
He’s brought back to reality by cold steel nicking his skin, drawing a short, strangled gasp from him.
“Are you listening, brat?”
His vision goes white as he’s kicked across the face, hard enough to send his glasses flying and make his nose bleed. He knows that there is no right answer to that question, it’s purely rhetorical, made as an excuse to justify whatever violence they wanted to carry out against him. He wonders if he’ll die before someone finds him.
That wouldn’t be good, he thinks hazily, ears still ringing from the hit. Kiryu might not like discovering a corpse. He decides he’d rather die another day, if only to spare Kuro the guilt of finding his body.
Seemingly frustrated by the indignant silence against all verbal and physical abuse thus far, his captors resort to disorienting and degrading him in other ways. They pour a bucket of icy water over his head, kick him in the stomach until he feels like puking, not nearly enough damage to be fatal but enough to coerce the average person to beg.
It’s been a little over an hour since he’d left the room for his ‘break.’ It’s been twenty minutes since he’d been forced to his knees and restrained. Keito’s unflappable exterior had begun to turn into an unwelcome sight for his enemies. It looked as though that was what they were after, some sort of apology, a promise to return territory, an admittance of guilt. He just has to be careful not to agitate them to the point where they’d actually kill him.
It isn’t like he has no fear of death, on the contrary, he’s well aware how much of his life is no longer his own, and of how much of his hard work would crumble should he disappear. It’s more so that he’s too busy worrying about other things.
His rescue is guaranteed, Kiryu would find him, he prided himself on picking out a fine guard dog after all. Not enough time had passed for him to begin doubting Kuro, more than a few days would maybe concern him, but he had utmost faith.
Keito hadn’t left a cold trail either. He'd made sure to ‘accidentally’ lose a few things in his struggle. His gloves, a shoe, his own handgun. Not ideal things to lose, but it should be enough.
God, these people are stupid, aren’t they? They hadn’t even cleaned up after themselves. How sloppy. If he wasn’t being kidnapped at the time, Keito would’ve lectured them on the importance of discretion.
He sighs, rubbing the pads of his fingers together to generate some semblance of warmth within his limited range of movement.
Any minute now.
—
Kuro doesn’t really want to come check in on Keito, especially not after he’d scolded him for “breathing down his neck,” and would probably do so again if he did. It’s just that thirty minutes was bordering on unreasonable for a smoke break, and the other clan heads were starting to get antsy, unable to carry on with their discussions without Keito present.
So Kuro had excused himself to come up to the balcony, where he’d often watched Keito stand and smoke, tapping his ashes into the gust swelling out from the railing. Upon entering, though, it’s immediately apparent that Keito isn’t there, and Kuro’s mouth twists in annoyance. He’s not thrilled about the prospect of wandering through the entirety of the Lotus clan’s sprawling territory looking for his leader just because Keito couldn’t be bothered to communicate his whereabouts.
Then something hard and curvilinear squashes under his shoe, and the mild annoyance in his gut turns to alarm.
It’s a cigarette, Keito’s favorite brand, and only a quarter smoked. And as anyone who’s met Keito could tell you, nothing that he does – whether it be negotiations, murders, or cigarettes – he does halfway. Paired with some streaks of rubber from shoe outsoles and the radio silence from Keito’s phone, it becomes increasingly clear that Keito hadn’t leave the balcony voluntarily, or alone.
Kuro swears colorfully under his breath as he hustles down the stairs of the headquarters and briskly makes his way to the room where their gun collection is. Everything about his body spells out anger, from the hard lines in his brow to the aggressive way he slams a pistol down into his holster. And he is angry, at the bastards who decided to abduct Keito, at Keito for convincing Kuro he wouldn’t need a bodyguard for a five-minute break, but most of all at himself. Because he takes his job of protecting Keito seriously, and he’s failing miserably at it right now.
(He doesn’t acknowledge the softer emotion underneath, one that sees Keito as not just a means to a paycheck. As someone who’s probably in some basement right now, bruised or bleeding or drugged or maybe, behind that fearless exterior, afraid –)
Kuro exhales. Not the time for that right now. Luckily, he has an idea of where they might have gone.
He arrives at the location around twelve minutes after discovering Keito’s discarded cigarette. He could have made it in nine in a hurry, but he’d decided to conserve his energy for the potential ensuing fight. He’ll need all the power he can get – he’s operating alone, not willing to reveal to the rest of the clan that he’d lost track of his own patron. Pride is a serious thing in the world of organized crime, and to prostrate himself in front of his seniors to beg for help fixing a problem he himself had created would be social suicide.
It’s remarkably easy breaking in. Two guards, two swift knocks to the neck from behind. Kuro wonders whether the Lotus annexation had really slashed the rivals’ budget so much that they had to rely on low-rank sentries instead of an alarm system, or if they’re just too stupid to put one in place.
In any case, Kuro’s now pressed up against the door of the room where Keito’s being kept. Even without being able to see or hear Keito, it’s clear by the nature of the captor’s taunts – give up on the district or I’ll knock your fucking teeth out next – who their target is. It’s embarrassing, really. They’re so drunk on their own egos that they don’t even hear Kuro’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
Kuro cocks the heaviest of his three guns and presses the muzzle of it against the door, towards the gang member who’s just walked back far enough to get a direct shot.
He fires, and the wood shatters, debris nicking his face as it flies past. Unfortunately, the door had slowed the shot and thrown it off course, so he doesn’t manage to hit anyone, only incite an enraged shout: “Who’s there?! Drop your fucking weapon if you know what’s good for you!”
The gunshot startles Keito out of his daze, and his shoulders slump in relief when he sees a familiar head of hair, crimson lit by the bright moonlight that had poured in when the door had broken.
Kuro sighs, emerging from behind the broken door. He’d preferred to just get this over and done with without much head-to-head, but it looks like he won’t be that lucky this time.
He glances briefly to his side to get a glimpse of Keito. He’s certainly looked better, pale and drenched, blood streaming from his nose and mouth and onto the floor next to him. He’s still breathing, thankfully, but from the glazed look in his eyes it’s clear he’s approaching his physical limit. No matter how much the sight sickens Kuro, though, he shouldn’t unbind him until he’s dealt with everyone else in the room first. Again, pride is serious here.
Instead, he holds up one of Keito’s discarded gloves. “The hell is this? Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs?”
At Kuro’s quip, Keito frowns. Sorry, I’ll make sure to install a hidden tracker next time, Kiryu. Or would a Bat-Signal suffice?
But of course, he’s gagged, so none of that makes it out of his mouth.
He can’t quite discern the finer features on Kuro’s face, his expression lost in the dim lighting of the room, as is anything more than the fuzzy outlines of his kidnappers as they swarm Kuro to the best of their abilities. Worry wells up in his chest; these people had guns as well, but he’s unable to do much more than hang his head and attempt to recuperate so he wouldn’t have to be carried back. He still has an ego.
Kuro’s a little disappointed that no one clapped back to his witticism – it’s not a movie, after all. Instead they descend upon him in a tsunami of bared weapons and screams of rage, and Kuro whirls his gun upright to unleash three or four shots into the crowd in return. In the same moment, he darts to the left, seeking a semblance of cover in one of the room’s concrete columns.
It’s incredible how adrenaline makes time run slow. Kuro’s never as in tune with his body and mind as he is when his life is threatened. His limbs act automatically to the sight of a gun’s barrel pointed at him in his periphery or the approach of footsteps behind him. It’s utter chaos, and Kuro can’t afford to make a single mistake.
One-on-five is pretty brutal, even if Kuro is confident his skill level is higher than any one of them individually. He’s managed to narrow it down to one-on-three when dodging the fist of one attacker puts him in the line of fire of another.
He hisses under his breath as pain sears through him, his vision doubling. His uniform splits, blood spurting from where the bullet has lodged itself in his shoulder. He’s afforded no mercy as the first attacker lands a kick in his torso, although Kuro’s still wieldy enough to shoot him in the stomach, putting him out of commission.
It’s too dark and blurry for Keito to make out the specifics of the altercation, forced to make assumptions based on the racket of gunshots and bodies hitting the floor. He sees it happen, almost in slow motion, a gunshot, the way Kuro staggers from the impact. Genuine fear begins to creep up on him as he watches Kuro be cornered helplessly.
One-on-two. Kuro’s breathing heavy now, gun switching between the last two attackers as they back him into a corner. He fires once, but the gun is dry. He does have backup ammo tucked away in his belt, but he’s losing blood fast, and his fingers fumble for purchase.
“Well? Shoot!” one of them barks.
“Wait,” the other says. “Boss would be thrilled if we’d captured not just Hasumi but his little lapdog too.”
Kuro wants to object to being called a lapdog – he thinks of himself as more of a Doberman, maybe – but he can’t really find the energy to retort. He can, however, slip his knife loose from where it’s sheathed behind his back and kick it discreetly across the floor, just in reach of Keito’s bound hands.
The light scraping of metal against concrete and the hilt of a blade bumping against his knee snap Keito back to the present, actionable reality. He twists his body and manages to grab the knife, maneuvering it to saw at the rope tying his arms together. A few seconds later, he’s freed them, and he moves onto his torso, all while keeping an eye on the exchange happening.
“What’s the point of that? It’d be like transportin’ a bomb – you know this guy’s the kind of dude to prefer bein’ captured dead than alive.”
“He’s not gonna kill himself if his Boss is still alive, ’sides, who knows, Hasumi might have a soft spot for his men. Could make negotiations easier.”
Keito grits his teeth at that. Partly because it's true and partly because he knows that it’d be a fatal weakness to have exposed. It makes him subpar at his job, throttles his efficiency and ruthlessness. He had originally gotten into this line of work because if he hadn’t, someone less forgiving would have taken over his area.
Finally done sawing through his restraints, he quietly rises to his feet, suppressing a wince. His ribs must be bruised by now. He can’t see well, so he cautiously shuffles across the floor, narrowly avoiding tripping on a metal pipe and a fallen body. That would be embarrassing.
Finally he’s behind one of the men, and wow, these guys have no radar for killing intent. Not that Keito had initially wanted to kill them, but since they had decided to kick his guard dog, they may as well pay the price.
Kuro doesn’t dare watch Keito’s escape for fear of giving him away, but he can hear it – the quiet sounds of knife cutting through rope, Keito’s shoes near-silent against the floor. He meets Keito’s eyes when they peer over the man’s shoulder before Keito disposes of him with a swift slice across the throat.
Keito’s victim falls to the floor with a gurgle, and the last remaining lackey yells and points their gun at him, but it’s a close-ranged fight now, and Keito gets out of the way fast enough that the bullet only grazes him, but his knee buckles and his ankle twists at an odd angle as he trips over the fallen body and God, where the fuck are his glasses, why hadn’t he removed the stupid gag, there’s blood all over his clothes now, his back hurts, he has work to finish, can Kiryu hurry up and shoot this idiot?
The final assailant is about to aim his gun again when Kuro finally gets a grip on his reloaded pistol, close enough to train it directly towards the man’s skull.
“Fire again and it’ll be your last,” Kuro rasps, and it’s clear by his tone that he means every word.
The abductor backs away, his gun flipping between them. Two-on-one. Even with both Lotus members staggering from injuries, it’s clear from their dark glares that killing one means getting killed by the other. And with no comrades left to avenge his death, the battle seems to have lost its merit.
At least, this is the calculus that Kuro assumes is running through the man’s head as he steps cautiously through the doorway and then makes a break for it, faster than Kuro can react to. Damn. If he plans to refresh his forces or spread word of their injured status, it could be an issue for them later.
Though with the immediate danger dissipated, he’s more concerned about the damage they’ve both sustained. He squeezes a hand around his arm to curtail the bleeding and, having seen him fumbling around, quickly locates Keito’s glasses for him. The lenses are shattered beyond repair, of course. Keito won’t be happy about that – they’re not cheap to replace.
He kneels and settles the broken frames on Keito’s bruised nose.
“Do me a solid and quit smoking.”
Keito manages to untie and spit out the gag while their opponent flees, so he’s able to bite back as soon as he hears Kuro’s quip.
“On the contrary, I think I’d like another cigarette after all this.”
Keito sighs. The lens of his glasses fracture Kuro into countless clear shards, but it’s enough to get a somewhat accurate assessment of injury. He neglects to acknowledge the small spark of warmth he’d felt when Kiryu had immediately retrieved his glasses for him. Those are important. It’s good to know that his subordinate knows as much.
“Should’ve killed him,” Keito mutters bitterly, pulling himself to his feet and wincing when his ankle throbs. Great. He stands up straight regardless, pride battling against his bruised and aching body.
“Sorry. Wasn’t thinkin’. That’s what you’re for. You should’a told me earlier, but –” Kuro glances down at the gag on the floor, steadily turning crimson from the blood puddling near it. “Yeah.”
Keito furrows his brow. “You’re perfectly capable of thinking. You found me on your own, didn’t you? If you really believed that you weren’t intelligent enough, you’d have been much later.”
Kuro huffs amusedly at that. “Yeah, well, when you leave an entire shoe pointing in the direction you’ve gone, even a bonehead like me can put two and two together.”
He frowns as he watches Keito struggle to balance on his feet, clearly biting back the pain that pervades every inch of his body. He doesn’t reach out to steady him, in case that ends up hurting him worse, but he does cut in before Keito can try to go anywhere. Not in this condition.
“Ain’t now about a good time to call a medic on the scene? ’Cuz there’s no way in hell we’re both makin’ it back to headquarters like this.”
Keito folds his arms, considering the merits and costs of asking for help. On one hand, Kiryu is right. On the other hand... This is embarrassing, isn’t it?
After a moment of contemplation, he walks over to Kuro’s uninjured side with a subtle limp and leans against him slightly.
“Let’s go outside. There might be a smaller base nearby.”
Kuro’s a little taken aback when he feels Keito’s shoulder bump against his own. Keito isn’t typically one to show any kind of weakness, so even this is a level of trust Kuro didn’t think he’d be afforded. Keito hired him to prevent harm, after all, not to help him recover from it. Besides, with his blunder today, this overt display of Keito’s faith in him makes Kuro feel like he’s being unfairly rewarded.
He’s not sure why he’s intent on making Keito’s every action mean something for their relationship. Rationally, he should be taking this as a warning sign that Keito is more incapacitated than he'd thought.
Kuro shifts subtly to support more of Keito’s weight against his shoulder, and slowly begins to walk them both towards the entrance, stepping over limp bodies and pools of blood in the process. Keito feels a slight twinge of guilt, leaning on an injured man, but he swallows it down and tells himself that Kuro is his subordinate so this is expected of him. Of the two, objectively, his life is of higher value. Naturally.
Kuro is surprised by the wooziness in his own voice when he speaks again – the blood loss must be taking its toll. “Well? What now?”
Keito scans their surroundings once they’re near the exit, making out dim neon signs and alleyways. Yes, he knows this area. There should be a smaller clan base nearby where they could find some stored medical supplies. He tries to stand up straight on his own again, hissing as his ankle throbs, but it’s just a sprain, so he pushes through the pain, hobbling ahead of Kuro.
However, he changes his mind a few seconds later. No, this wouldn’t do. He turns around far quicker than someone in his state should be able to and holds his hand out expectantly.
“Phone.”
Kuro blinks at the outstretched hand in front of him before it registers that Keito’s asking something of him. He fumbles around in his pockets for a moment – luckily, they're deep enough to have not lost the device in the scuffle – and retrieves it. After punching in the 0906 passcode, he passes it to Keito. “Knock yourself out.”
Kuro is spared the judgmental eyebrow-raise by the fact that Keito’s glasses are too damaged to discern what numbers he had typed in. Keito takes the phone and flips through his mental phonebook. Luckily, he’s at least proficient enough with phones to not have to look where he’s typing.
The phone rings, each interval of silence more worrying than the last until:
“Hu Hu~! This is Sora’s steamed bun delivery service! Sora regrets to inform you that we are closed for the night.”
A high-pitched, childlike voice comes out of the speaker, but Keito appears unfazed.
“Harukawa, I need…” He thinks for a moment. “Three and a half pork-filled buns delivered. I’ll send you the delivery location.”
“He He~”
The person on the other end hangs up, and Keito sighs, more exhaustion than exasperation. He messages a location pin to the number and crosses his arms. Nothing to do but wait. He walks up to a nearby wall and leans against it, tapping his uninjured foot impatiently. His whole body still aches.
“Did you bring my cigarettes, Kiryu?”
Sorry, I wasn’t exactly thinking about your post-near-death-experience-destress-activities, Kuro thinks. But all that makes it out of his mouth is a “No. Sorry.”
He hadn’t heard everything of Keito’s phone conversation, but he did catch something about meat buns. Kuro wants to complain that maybe they should get the bullet out of his shoulder before they sit down for a light snack, but now that he thinks about it, all that adrenaline did make him hungry. Maybe Keito had given up on their survival and intends for Kuro to at least have a good last meal.
No – that’s not right. Keito left him clues for his rescue, Keito killed one of the opponents, Keito leaned on his shoulder for support. Kuro is still useful. Just like his cigarettes, Keito would never retire a tool only half-used. He has some plan in place for them, Kuro just has to wait for the instruction.
He leans against the wall beside Keito, and as soon as his back finds support, his knees buckle in exhaustion. He slides down, his head light, as if it’s lagging two seconds behind the rest of him.
Keito curses under his breath but doesn’t demand anything more from Kuro, watching him slide to the ground with a faint crease between his eyebrows. He’d like to sit down next to Kuro, to listen to his breathing and track it just to make sure, but he remains upright, too proud and self-conscious to bend.
Should he waver outwardly as much as he did on the inside, he would be plucked off and pounced on. That was just how the world functioned. There is no room for this.
It occurs to him that if Kiryu were to one day decide he wasn’t worthy of his position, he wouldn’t mind being stabbed in the back. If it were Kiryu, that is.
It’s a morbid line of thinking, but it’s one that has him distracted enough that Kuro’s voice startles him.
“We should find shelter,” Kuro mumbles. “Not good for us to be vulnerable on an open street like this.”
“We’d have to walk back outside again anyways. Harukawa is quick, this shouldn’t take much more than a few minutes,” Keito reasons, not wanting to say out loud that he doesn’t want Kuro to strain himself more.
And Keito is right (as always). Because in a few minutes, a sleek black van with splotches of colorful paint and graffiti on the sides rounds the corner, inconspicuous for shady purposes largely due to the fact it is incredibly conspicuous.
“Ha Hi Hu He Ho~! Boss Kei-chan, Sora is here!”
A head of curly blond hair sticks out from the driver’s seat, and once the car is parked, a short young man hops out, in jarringly high spirits. Keito nods at him and he opens the back of the van for both of them to get in.
“Sora will drive you to a safe place, and then he’ll use a special magic trick he learned from Shisho~ to make the other people disappear!”
Keito nods again, and then turns to Kuro, offering him a hand up and a translation.
“He’s going to take us to the base and then throw the bodies in the river. Come.”
In his haze, it takes a moment for Kuro to register that Keito’s outstretched hand isn’t asking for a favor, but doing him one. Even so, he tries his best to support most of his weight himself as he lets Keito hoist him up, not wanting to put any undue pressure on the other’s ankle.
Kuro doesn’t like how innocent and impressionable the driver seems – a boy, probably just shy of 20, blue eyes round and sparkling like marbles. Any amount of time in these neighborhoods would be enough to make something that shiny lose its luster. As he steps into the van, though, it becomes apparent that this isn’t the kid’s first rodeo. The van is covered in a healthy layer of plastic wrap for easy removal and cleanup. When Kuro toes up the edge of one of the carpets, he can see bloodstains caked into the edges of the vehicle’s floor.
The boy beams at Kuro. “Ha Ha~ Sora will introduce himself to everyone he meets! This is Harukawa Sora of the Switch affiliate! Nice to meet you, mister –”
Kuro blinks. “Kiryu Kuro. I’m Hasumi’s, uh… Bodyguard. Thanks for the ride. And sorry for bleeding everywhere.”
“Ho Ho~ It’s okay. Sora has gotten used to the color~”
Kuro shoots a look at Keito at that.
“Besides, Sora doesn’t feel like the Red onii-san’s life is in danger. His color hasn’t turned all black and gloomy yet~ Sora will take you to somewhere you can get healed, okay?”
“Thank you.” Keito reaches for Sora’s head and pats him instinctively, before drawing back and trying to play it off as an ordinary, normal thing.
He gets into the back of the van after Kuro, mentally writhing over whether to sit next to Kuro or on the opposite side. Luckily the back of the van is well-lit enough that he can use his knees and pull himself inside without tripping. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help with his depth perception.
Fuck it. They almost died, he could barely see, and it’d be bad if Kiryu decided to go unconscious. He takes a moment to triangulate where and how to get himself seated. His life would’ve been so much easier had he worn contacts, but he’d sooner kill himself, honestly.
After squinting for half a minute, he sits down next to his bodyguard with utmost confidence.
It takes him around three seconds to realize that the surface under his legs are his subordinate’s thighs and not the seats at the back of the van.
Kuro is so bewildered by the action he can’t even speak or shove him off. A moment later, Keito seems to realize his mistake, and slinks off with a noise of embarrassment to the adjacent seat.
“Ah-em. Hm.”
Keito turns his head away to face the small window that opens to the driver’s seat.
“Harukawa, you can start now.”
“Hu Hu~ Sora will use the turn signals when he reverses!”
The car begins to move. For once, Keito has nothing to say. Or rather, nothing he’d feel would be appropriate to voice.
Kuro watches Keito’s cheeks go from pale to peach to red in real time, and can feel his own do the same. He hopes they have spare glasses at the new base.
(He also thinks about how underneath the layers of sweat and blood and cigarette smoke, Keito’s nape had smelled… sweet. A natural sweet, like rosewood or cedar. Subsequently, he thinks he must be the biggest creep in the world.)
“Sora will yield to oncoming traffic before making a left turn~”
At least Sora didn’t seem to notice the awkward interaction.