Chapter Text
Chuuya isn't an alcoholic. Really, he isn't - he enjoys collecting wine of all kinds, from the most expensive ones to the rarest kinds. His collection is a testament to his very refined taste, mind you; a hobby he indulges in proudly.
Rarely does the red haired executive of the Port Mafia actually drink. Instead, he reserves such pleasures for rare occasions, like celebrations or comfortable talks with Kouyou. Their conversations almost always are accompanied by the quiet clinking of glasses in a dimly lit room.
Lately, however, something has changed. The once-in-a-while indulgence has transformed into a habit. Chuuya finds himself reaching for the bottle more often, pouring wine into crystal glasses with increasing frequency. Whiskey now joins the ranks of his coveted wines, each sip beckoning him further.
As the intoxicating warmth spreads through his veins, Chuuya seeks solace in the haze, a refuge from all else he allows himself to indulge in either in the quiet of his office or the emptiness of his overly decorated penthouse. Yet, amidst the swirling vapors of alcohol, a nagging unease lingers, a silent question he dares not confront.
And then there are the cigarettes.
Chuuya never considered himself a smoker, yet the cancer stricks have become a familiar companion in recent days. Their acrid scent mingles with the heady aroma of whiskey or wine, intertwining in a symphony of vices. Each puff is a release, a fleeting respite from the burdens that weigh heavy on his shoulders.
And as much as he tries to hide, his habits haven't gone entirely unnoticed. Kouyou, with her keen eye for detail honed by years of observation, can see the subtle shifts in Chuuya's demeanor.
At first, it's the lingering scent of smoke that clings to his clothes, despite his best efforts to mask it with cologne. Then, it's the slight tremor in his hand whenever he reaches for his glass, a telltale sign of nights spent drowning in more than just his thoughts.
But it's the subtle weight loss that troubles her the most.
She knows he was malnourished when he was younger, living in the streets and all, and suddenly joining the Mafia and actually having what to eat probably threw his body off - resulting in gaining more muscle mass over fat.
Now, though, she notices the way his suit hangs a little looser than it used to be, and the shadows beneath his eyes that weren't there before.
More often than not, she watches silently as he pushes food around his plate, his appetite clearly long gone. She tries to get him to eat at least something whenever she can, but he manages to change the subject each time.
Kouyou knows better than to pry into Chuuya's personal affairs. Their relationship is built on mutual respect and unspoken understanding. Yet, she can't help but worry as she witnesses the gradual unraveling of the boy she once knew.
(Boy , because to her, she's still the fifteen year old that got dragged into this mess. She still wishes she could've done more for him.)
"Lad," she begins one evening, her tone casual yet laced with an underlying worry, "you've been burning the candle at both ends, haven't you?"
Chuuya, caught off guard by her observation, attempts to deflect with a nonchalant shrug. But Kouyou sees through the facade, her gaze piercing through the layers of bravado he wears like armor.
"It's nothing," he assures her, though the words ring hollow even to his own ears. "Don't worry about it, ane-san."
And she leaves it at that. Or rather, the conversation dies there. She chooses to watch and wait, biding her time as she observes the subtle changes that have begun to take root within him, dragging and pulling.
Kouyou notices it all, cataloging each subtle shift with a mixture of concern and determination. For Chuuya, she well aware, is more than a fellow subordinate or a comrade-in-arms.
He's family, bound to her by ties stronger than blood. Otherwise, she wouldn't be his ane-san.
She'll be damned if she lets him slip through her fingers without a fight.
—
The dimly lit room is filled with the members of the Port Mafia as they gather for their regular meeting. Mori, seated at the head of the table, presides over the proceedings with his usual air of authority and calm demeanor.
"Ah, Chuuya-kun," Mori's voice cuts through the quiet murmur of conversation, drawing all eyes to the fiery-haired executive. "I trust you've been keeping yourself busy as always."
Chuuya meets Mori's gaze with a steely resolve, though the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with unease. He knows better than to show any signs of weakness in front of the boss, but there's something in Mori's demeanor that sets him on edge.
He doesn't think too hard about why.
"Of course, boss," Chuuya replies, his tone clipped and professional. "I've been handling the recent operations with the utmost efficiency."
Mori nods, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he rises from his seat. With deliberate steps, he approaches Chuuya's chair, his presence looming over the executive in an uncanny way.
Placing his hands on either side of Chuuya's chair, Mori leans in just a bit too close. The uncomfortable proximity sends a ripple of tension through the room, though no one utters a single word and several people avert their gaze.
"Excellent," Mori says a bit too kindly with a smile showing too much teeth. "I knew I could count on you.”
Chuuya forces himself to remain still, as he always does, though every fiber of his being screams to recoil from Mori's touch. It's a delicate dance, one of power and submission, and Chuuya knows he must play his part - executive or not.
As Mori retreats back to his seat, continuing the topic of the meeting, the atmosphere in the room relaxes ever so slightly, though the memory of his unsettling presence lingers like a shadow. The meeting continues on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, but beneath the surface, Chuuya feels his skin crawling.
Kouyou feels a surge of anger boil within her veins. Though she maintains her composed facade, her grip tightens around the stem of her wine glass, the delicate crystal threatening to shatter beneath her fingers.
She shoots Mori a sharp, pointed glance, the silent message clear in her steely gaze. The indignation burns brightly within her, a fiery defiance against the oppressive atmosphere that hangs heavy in the air.
But beneath the anger lies a deeper, more visceral emotion - fear. Fear for Chuuya. She watches him, her heart aching at the sight of his zoned-out expression during the rest of the meeting, the fire in his eyes dulled by the weight of Mori's unwelcome advances.
Oh, how this certainly makes things worse for him.
Although Kouyou prides herself on her strength and resilience, at this moment, she feels powerless to protect the ones she holds dear.
Throughout the rest of the meeting, Chuuya remains strangely withdrawn, his thoughts seemingly lost elsewhere - perhaps a better place, or simply nowhere in particular. Kouyou watches him with a heavy heart, her own worries mirrored in the depths of his troubled gaze.
As the meeting draws to a close, Chuuya rises from his seat with a silent grace, his movements lacking their usual vigor and purpose. He doesn't exchange a word with anyone, his departure as abrupt as it is silent.
‘Silent’ is not a word that goes along with him well.
Kouyou's gaze follows him with a sense of helplessness and a sigh, her heart aching with the weight of unspoken emotions. She knows she cannot force Chuuya to open up, but that doesn't stop her from wishing she could ease the burden he carries upon his shoulders, carry some of the weight.
—
In the confines of his office, Chuuya finds solace in the whiskey bottle that beckons to him from across the room. With practiced ease, he pours himself a generous measure, the liquid sloshing into the glass with a heavy weight that matches the burden upon his shoulders.
He takes a sip, relishing the burn that courses down his throat, though it does little to numb that which lingers within him. The events of the meeting replay in his mind like a broken record, each moment etched into his memory with painful clarity.
He tries to push aside the nagging discomfort that gnaws at the edges of his consciousness, the memory of Mori's too-close proximity, his invasive touch. But try as he might, he cannot shake the feeling of unease that clings to him.
Chuuya knows he should focus on the tasks at hand, bury himself in his work and drown out the itch beneath his skin. But now, even the familiar silence of his office fail to provide the sanctuary he so desperately seeks.
He swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching as the liquid dances in the warm light, a fleeting distraction from the thoughts swirling around his head. I knew I could count on you.
After all, he's an executive of the Port Mafia - the most powerful and dangerous one at that. He shouldn't be bothered by such trivialities, shouldn't allow himself to be shaken by the actions of his superior.
(What happens, happens. No use dwelling on it.)
But as the weight of the whiskey settles in his empty stomach, Chuuya can't help but wonder just how long he can keep up the facade before it all comes crashing down around him.
It should be fun to guess.