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Sometimes, Nishikiyama gets home and thinks about killing Kazama.
Sometimes, Nishikiyama paces his room with the gun in his mouth and the safety off. He looks in the mirror and knows he could do it. Going over the fantasy again. Savouring the catharsis, crashing down to earth and mourning the reality.
"Akira," Kazama would say, measured as always. "I misjudged you."
And Nishikiyama would pull the trigger.
It all came back to the gun.
The cold winter sun shone brighter and the crisp air bit harder into his cheeks, the noises of the city were louder than ever before, and Nishikiyama had a gun. The first time he pulled it out was on a Shimano family punk who barely knew his own territory yet.
"So," he kept his voice from shaking. "Wanna fuck with me?"
He and Kiryu had been small when they swore up, drowning in their suits, and he was angry about it now. Retroactively, looking at this young kid filling out his starched dress shirt and dark yellow blazer. But Nishikiyama was the one with the gun. It doesn't matter that he was a boy. It doesn't matter that he was alone, or afraid, or that Kashiwagi still doesn't think he can earn like Kiryu, because Nishikiyama is the one with the gun.
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Nishikiyama doesn't get what he wants. As far as he was concerned, such was the way of the world. Businesses flourished and then failed, scum flocked to the streets, and Nishikiyama watched the objects of his desire slip between his fingers. He could dig those fingers into the earth and have it crumble beneath him. Still, crazed and starved, he continued. There wasn't any other way to live as far as he was concerned. Avarice.
The gravity of the gun didn't hit until he had it, dull, cold metal, in his hands. It was only a pistol, he thought about it logically while his throat dried up, small and sleek and compact.
(Out of focus, beyond Nishikiyama entirely, there was a click. A perfect fit. Two thoughts, two pieces, two ends of possibility slotting together snugly. That was it. Said and done. Locked into place.)
It was childish, but fuck did he feel cool.
That night in Kiryu's apartment, with the gun in an inner pocket of his blazer, he had been ready to show it off. He had been practicing cocking it, uncocking it, quickly in front of the mirror.
Kiryu's eyebrows quirked slightly before he settled back into a neutral expression. He held Nishikiyama's over-excited gaze. "It's getting that serious for you?"
Nishikiyama avoided reading into what Kiryu said. Either he would come up short and get frustrated, or he wouldn't like what he found under the surface. He would spit it out eventually anyway. "Wanna see?"
Kiryu looked away too quickly to be casual. He cracked open a can of coffee. "No. I'll let you keep your toys."
Nishikiyama accepted the olive branch and smiled. He took his blazer off.
Kiryu dropped his head onto Nishikiyama's shoulder. "Stay the night."
"Akira," Kazama would say. "You don't have it in you."
And he would pull the trigger.
"Nishiki," Kiryu said, and ground down onto Nishikiyama's thigh.
Nishikiyama's eyes opened lazily. "Again?"
Kiryu nodded, clenching his thigh muscles and burying his face into Nishikiyama's neck. "I need you so bad. Right now." He bit down until Nishikiyama gave him a squeak of pain and then traced his tongue over the indentation of his own teeth. He bit down again, but this time sucked the skin back into shape and then into a darkening bruise.
Nishikiyama knew how Kiryu liked to be fucked, but more importantly he knew what Kiryu would put up with. He flipped their positions, got Kiryu on his back and got him out of his pants. Kiryu's hands wandered up Nishikiyama's abdomen, his chest, massaging his pecs. Nishikiyama stroked him slowly, tighter at the base and twisting just barely at the tip until Kiryu made breathless little sounds.
"You're so close already," he said, breaking contact almost entirely. Kiryu, breathing hard, watched impatiently as Nishikiyama steadied himself with one hand next to his head and then cupped his balls with the other. Kiryu grunted, protesting, and Nishikiyama squeezed.
The noise Kiryu made was almost embarrassing. He grabbed Nishikiyama's offending hand, guiding it back to his cock. Back arched and hands planted firmly against Nishikiyama's hips, he bit back a low, needy sound. He hid his face in the curve of Nishikiyama's wrist, face flushed hot. Nishikiyama brought his hand to Kiryu's face, grabbed his chin, and angled his face.
"Look at me."
Kiryu's eyes were glittering in the low light and his mouth hung open slightly, lower lip shuddering with every thrust. "Nishiki--"
Nishikiyama leaned forward and kissed him. He would make Kiryu ask for it. Beg for him. He stroked faster, listening to Kiryu's breathing quicken in response, free hand squishing the meat of his upper thigh. Then, he stopped.
"Beg."
"I need this," Kiryu continued, furrowing his brow as he thrusted into Nishikiyama's still, loose fist. He grabbed onto any part of Nishikiyama that he could reach. "I need you."
"Akira," Kazama would say. "I-"
And Nishikiyama would pull the trigger.
In the beginning, Nishikiyama held onto the fantasy that his rise through the ranks would be expedited. He could be recognized for the effortless fluidity while fighting in tandem with Kiryu, or maybe he would be acknowledged for keeping the books balanced and the channels clear.
"Akira," Kazama would say. "I misjudged you."
Days dragged on and Nishikiyama's death came by one thousand shames.
The older guys wanted someone to blame. He was the obvious pick. That was to be expected; he should have expected it. If Kiryu had been with him would things go differently? At the very least they would be together.
He did the books wrong. Missed a zero here, added one there, forgot the fake names associated with the accounts. Kashiwagi sent him to do collections. He took a client on his word and came back with half the outstanding total. Kashiwagi hit him. He was told to make the tea, empty the ashtrays, and he heard someone say "Akira-nee-chan." And he endured. He was good at making the tea and the coffee and he was good at doing the housekeeping.
"Akira," Kazama would say. "This will be your final disappointment."
At the hostess clubs, the girls would tell him anything he wanted to know. He got to show off. He had the money to shut down any inklings that he may just be an errand boy. Or, at least, to keep them from saying it out loud. He bought champagne, some fruit and chocolate, and chalked it up to business expenses. The girls liked him. They told him how to keep his hair smooth and shiny. Men get drunk and let their secrets slip. They were a good source of info.
"Nishiki-kun, is it true that your boss is in jail because of mutiny?"
It was rare that any of the girls brought up his work unprompted, but he had a feeling that Miwa was more acquainted with yakuza than the rest of the girls. She had always been a reliable source of rumours in the past. Still, this gave him pause.
"Mutiny, huh?" He smiled as he said it. "That's a serious accusation. Tell me what you heard."
"I have a regular who made me wait outside a phone booth on a date," Miwa said, quieter now. She moved in close, pressed up against Nishikiyama now, craning her neck to speak into his ear. "And he said "officers got the captain busted so now I get a bigger cut." Next time he came in I made sure to look at his pin. Dojima."
Nishikiyama's head was starting to spin. Kazama being set up from the inside, from the Dojima family, would be an executable offense. He threw back the rest of his champagne and Miwa poured him another flute. Unless it was sanctioned from the top. Unless it was Dojima himself. Then it wouldn't matter that Nishikiyama was the one with the gun and anything he did would come back to Kiryu, directly under Dojima. Kazama's golden boy would be a juicy target for these same pawns who would brag about getting the captain locked up.
He pulled out his pocket bell when the waiter came by to announce their time was almost up. He sent Kiryu a quick message, thanked Miwa for a wonderful time, and almost tripped on his way out.
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He wanted to run to Kashiwagi for help, to corner him in the Kazama family office and tell him everything and plead for his help, and he thought he had time. God, he thought he had more time than this. It all fell apart quickly. The man on the news with the hole in his head in the empty lot-- Kiryu, out of the family. Somehow, Nishikiyama outlasted him. Standing on the pile of selves he had partially shed and was unable to kill. The pin on his lapel was heavy. Maybe he had drank too much earlier; he felt sick.
Kiryu was set up. He would have had to be. Nishikiyama was the one with the gun. Over a collection— it didn't make sense.
"Take me home," he said.
Kiryu, on his stomach with his head cushioned in his crossed arms, was silent. Nishikiyama wasn't gentle. He knew what Kiryu needed. He pressed his palms flat against the delicate dragon on his back and pushed through the despair— the grief over these wasted years Kiryu had pledged to a man who would use and discard him this way. Kiryu grunted underneath him, voice rough. This is what he needed, just a little pain. Just a little more. To bring him to pieces under Nishikiyama.
"Nishiki," Kiryu gasped.
And Nishikiyama would pull the trigger.