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Too still, the world was too still in the wake of his question. Maybe that was to be expected after all that Fukuchi had put them through, all that he had done to push Fukuzawa to this point: trapped inside Poe’s novel, with the sounds of their childhood playing out in front of them forming a sharp contrast to the terse, shocked silence that gathered between them now, heavy as all the years that separated them from the boys they were. Nonetheless, he didn’t waver. After all, he had predicted this, had known how the horror would creep up Fukuzawa’s face and make him pale, followed swiftly by a wavering resolve that would not betray itself in the way his hand closed firmly around the hilt of Amenogozen, just above Fukuchi’s own.
By this point in their lives, he and Fukuzawa had spent years hiding from one another, evading one another, plotting and scheming and building and destroying. Still, Fukuchi had almost sunk the world into the pits of war, all because of his belief that Fukuzawa would be there when he needed him, to stop him from going too far. He hadn’t failed him yet.
Fukuzawa was the perfect commander, no matter how hard he tried to deny it; his ability, his resolve, his demeanour were all Fukuchi could have hoped for. So of course the One Order was programmed to respond to his voice from the beginning, Fukuchi wouldn’t have pulled the world to this brink if he hadn’t been assured of this outcome. If he hadn’t been assured of his best friend chasing him down personally.
They had been boys together, after all. Fukuchi was allowed to be confident in some things, no matter the way their paths had diverged.
Still, this was the pivotal moment of his plan. Where the wronged hero would finally bring the traitorous villain to his knees and do away with him. It was apt; Fukuzawa had been the classic heroic type since they were young, with Fukuchi being the ‘problem child’ to balance him. It was the final condition the notebook required, to abolish the concept of the state, and thus eradicate war in the world for good. Nobody would have to know that the villain had come to heel willingly, that the hero’s eyes looked like twin pinpricks, heartbroken.
Fukuchi Ouchi had only made requests of his best friend two times in his life before that moment. This would be his third, his final.
With a final sidelong glance at the mirage of the young boys, now watching the sunset outside their cramped dōjō, Fukuchi looked Fukuzawa in the eyes and asked him to kill him.
—
When he steps into the dōjō, he’s only slightly pissed off that it’s empty. Apparently Fukuchi’s reputation has preceded him and he smirks to himself, more cocky than anything, swinging the stolen shinai over his shoulder. Fukuchi Ouchi is barely 14 and he has taken down 39 dōjōs before this, barely breaking a sweat. He’s been saving this one until last because he’s heard good things– great things even, about a boy his age who might have a chance of actually giving him a challenge. If Fukuchi can beat him, then no one will question his abilities ever again. Maybe he can even move onto bigger, older opponents. Maybe the world will see him for what he is: a winner.
It doesn’t really matter how strong this so-called prodigy is, Fukuchi never comes to lose.
Just as he’s in the middle of gloating, he hears footsteps and turns from where he’s studying the view outside the door and comes face to face with a head of silver hair and an inscrutable pair of eyes, steel blue. He bares his teeth in a grin.
The boy in front of him is only as big as he is but Fukuchi can tell he’s good, rigidly so, by the way he stands so upright and the way he speaks like a proper little swordsman. It would be almost boring but there’s an undercurrent to his words, a cockiness that gets Fukuchi riled up, vibrating with the need to break it.
“Where’s everyone else?”
“I have asked them to evacuate.” Fukuchi looks the little swordsman up and down, takes in the perfect folds of his uniform and recognises the glint in his eyes for what it is. He’s seen it in the mirror all his life, after all. Still, he pushes a bit further.
“So you’re sayin’... ‘I’m more than enough to deal with you’?”
The boy doesn’t bother answering, merely swinging his shinai forward, a silent invitation to duel. Fukuchi watches it cleave the air and feels the rippling excitement for a fight for the first time in a long while. Without hesitating a moment longer, he takes a breath in– holding it for half a heartbeat– before leaping forward with a wild shout, the sun hot at his back and his blue-eyed challenger darting to meet him head on.
In later years, Fukuchi will return to this memory again and again, will count it as one of the most pivotal moments in his life. But right now he is young, arrogant. He doesn’t know the value of an equal, or the weight one person can be forced to carry. All he knows is the joy of his own body wielding its hard won strength, and the thrill of someone rushing forward to accept it.
—
It’s only later, when they’re both passed out on the floor and Fukuchi’s body aches that he realises he doesn’t know the other boy’s name. They went strike for strike, each landing 18. A perfect pair up, a formidable one. Fukuchi is beyond happy, energy still rushing through him. He marvels out loud at how unbelievable it is, that he’s found his match, ego still bursting at the edges of his words and the other boy snaps at him to be quiet. Fukuchi retaliates by calling him a cold fish, which isn’t his best insult but whatever.
In this moment, in the stillness after a fierce battle, is the first time that he asks something of the other boy, not yet knowing what lies ahead of them.
“Oi, cold fish. What’s your name? Mine is Fukuchi Gen’ichirou!”
His opponent huffs and Fukuchi thinks maybe he won’t get a name. Maybe he will have to come up with all manner of nicknames for his newest rival whilst he wheedles it out of him, maybe the young swordsman is actually more petty than he thought and–
“Fukuzawa.” Huh. Nevermind. Fukuchi mulls briefly over the similarities between their names. Fuku zawa and Fuku chi. Toe to toe, strike for strike, two boys passed out next to each other on the worn-out floor of a government run martial arts school, their entire lives reaching out before them like a glimmering ocean. It is then and there that Fukuchi makes a critical choice.
“I will polish my sword alongside you! The view from the greatest heights, let’s see it together!” he declares, the force of a thousand suns and sheer adrenaline fuelling his words as he punches his fist up towards the sky. It’s a rash statement, filled with that characteristic bravado that everyone around him scolds him for, but Fukuchi has never felt such conviction. Somehow he knows that Fukuzawa must be the one at his side, and must be there to witness just how great Fukuchi will become.
He can feel Fukuzawa staring at him, deadpan, and just as he attempts to look over he feels something thwack him on the head. Fukuchi startles, sitting up, already protesting and sees the beginnings of a sly smile curl up on the other boy’s mouth.
“Nineteen.”
“That’s not fair! Hey, Fukuzawa, you cheat!”
Maybe the astute little swordsman is more trouble than Fukuchi had given him credit for.
—
“Hey Fukuzawa, if you had one wish to use and you could have anything you wanted, what would you wish for?”
“What kind of question even is that?”
“Just answer! You have to have something.”
Picture this, a great cherry blossom tree sits outside of a small dōjō. Two young boys perch in the tree, on opposite sides of the trunk and watch the world inch slowly past them. Neither of them have any clue about real ideals yet, content to spend their days training and testing each other’s strength, pleased by the simple fact of their companionship. Neither of them have any idea how desperately large their values will grow, how their friendship will buckle and strain under the weight of their passions. One boy watches his friend think over the question he has asked, delights in having forced his quick-wittedness to a halt with his words. He already has his answer, and the idea of knowing something the other doesn’t makes him giddy, makes him proud.
Eventually, his friend looks up at him, his usual confidence settling into his face, still soft at the age of 15.
“I would wish for the strength to protect the people closest to me.” He says, steadily. Even this young, despite his inexperience, he is certain that the world can be no larger than the width of his loved ones’ shoulders. “What about you? What would you wish for, Gen’ichirou?”
The other boy grins, eyes electric, chest puffed out. He is a little calamity perched safely in a tree for now but with all the potential to become something more.
“I would wish for world peace!”
—
Nobody can anticipate just how quickly years vanish from the future into the past. Even Fukuchi catches himself surprised by just how much time has slipped by him, as he bows respectfully out of his old school on a spring day. One moment he’s a young boy, edges still blunt. He works on impulse, chasing every adventure, every chance to grow stronger. Above all, happiness is a simple thing: a dōjō to grow up in, a peer to grow up with, a friend to grow to love. Then, he blinks, keeps his eyes closed a second too long, and he is 27 and uncharacteristically anxious. His katana is heavy at his side and his hands are twitching slightly as he approaches a figure sat on the grassy banks beneath a familiar cherry blossom tree, back ramrod straight just as it was the day they had met.
Thirteen years of history and Fukuchi has never hesitated to tell Fukuzawa anything, even now that their days are spent apart more often than together. Having a best friend is like that. Today though, they are meeting after months because Fukuchi had specially requested it.
Fukuzawa had taken on some government job as a bodyguard a while ago that Fukuchi had raised an eyebrow at but also admitted was perfectly suited to the Bokutō Jizō. A discreet, solitary career. Fukuzawa hadn’t offered many details when probed, even over an inordinate amount of sake, so he had left well enough alone, knowing exactly how quickly Fukuzawa could lose his patience when being pestered.
After graduating, Fukuchi had thrown himself into teaching. He never could stand being left to his own devices, not without causing trouble, anyway. Still, it was safe to say not one of his teachers or classmates had expected him to end up with a job where he was trusted with responsibilities. He can vividly remember Fukuzawa choking on his tea when he broke the news to him, turning to look at him with an expression so incredulous that Fukuchi almost felt offended. Almost.
In the years after leaving the dōjō, Fukuchi had taken on scores of disciples and made a career for himself as a military man, a powerful and dependable commander and strategist, the combination of Mirror Lion and his raw martial skill gaining him the recognition he had chased doggedly as a child. Fukuzawa’s martial arts had garnered similar praise, sealing him as one of the Five Great Swords of the nation; naturally, he was Fukuchi’s equal in every way. And he couldn’t be prouder to admit it.
Today, Fukuchi is bringing turbulent news. The fruits of his labour are paying off, before him is a chance to begin realising a dream he has had since he was old enough to understand how the world worked beyond the dōjō. The path ahead of him is more challenging than ever so, of course, he’s come to tell Fukuzawa about it. He is also here to make a request.
This is the second time in his life that he will be asking Fukuzawa for something, and Fukuchi is not a man accustomed to asking at all. He knows what he wants and sets about getting it, he is strategic and often successful. It’s what makes him a valuable asset where he’s going. It’s also what makes him vulnerable.
He drops down beside Fukuzawa and stares out at the scenery before him, scratching at his wrists as they launch into small talk that he knows they both find tedious. He lets it continue anyway, for the first time needing to build resolve before he reveals his plans for the future, before he asks something of his friend that he knows has the power to drive a wedge between them. He lets Fukuzawa mutter on, making a passing jab at his tendency to skive off of his current job, poke fun at him for being a troublemaker through and through. Fukuchi lets his voice curl around him, so familiar yet so different. Absently, he thinks about how much he came to enjoy the sound of it, the proper intonation in all of Fukuzawa’s words, the immoveable quality of his tone. Whether he was yelling with exertion in a fight or instructing anxious juniors during lessons, Fukuzawa’s voice was an anchoring sound.
“I’m hearing that you’re the most successful around.” Even now, filled with that false lightness that they’ve never had to use with each other, Fukuchi leans on the tenor of his friend’s words to take the leap, and say what he means.
“I’ve received an appointment from the military.” He thinks he can hear Fukuzawa audibly swallow. Pictures the way his knuckles might briefly go white around the teacup he’s holding, how his throat might work around the lump in it.
The letter of appointment had arrived some two weeks ago, the paper smooth and thick, a heavy weight in Fukuchi’s hands. The red seal stamped on the bottom seemed like it was sealing his fate in blood. He had sat at his desk for hours each day, pouring over every one of the words printed neatly onto the document. He still hasn’t responded and the deadline is fast approaching. It doesn’t matter if Fukuchi is one of the most decorated fighters and commanders in the country, bureaucracy waits for no one.
When Fukuzawa finally speaks, his voice catches.
“You… You’re going to war?” Fukuchi’s katana gets heavier by the second.
“Tokoyami Island. Several of my disciples haven’t returned. I have a bad feeling about that place.”
So many young, bright faces that Fukuchi had sparred with, taught strategy, and taken out to meals. So many of them: gone without a trace, shipped off like livestock to feed the war that plagued the island known as Hell on Earth. Fukuchi couldn’t in good conscience hear of any more of his students, his peers, leave for that place whilst he sat in Yokohama and skived his shiny, plastic government career.
Fukuzawa presses him further, “You’re worried that you might die?”
An easy fear, a completely logical one at that. Many people fear death, Fukuchi will never begrudge them their apprehension. But it isn’t that simple for him. Fukuchi doesn’t enter battles expecting to die, expecting to be defeated.
“No. That I won’t return as myself, that’s what I fear.” The admission, kept mostly to himself, drops like a physical presence between the two men. Fukuchi trusts Fukuzawa, cares for his subordinates, knows that he is a winner and a survivor. He finally turns to look the other man in the eye, not letting himself be deterred by the horrified, pale expression on his face.
“Won’t you come with me?” It is as close to an admission of his true feelings that Fukuchi will ever get. He knows what he is asking of Fukuzawa: to follow him into hell and risk his life, risk his sanity, to watch the world burn. But who else is there to turn to?
“What?” The reply is softly uttered, as if Fukuzawa can hardly believe what Fukuchi has said. His eyes narrow, he can already tell where this is going by the careful way his friend’s face smooths over after his initial shock.
It would be easy, he explains anyway, aware that now he’s as good as begging. A frightened dog asking for a leash. Fukuzawa joining the war would be a courtesy, really, due to his lofty status he insists. He would need no military position. There is a terrible, swollen pause and Fukuchi thinks he can hear the sound of something small breaking, a high-pitched cracking sound beginning in his ears. He can’t tell where it is coming from.
Fukuzawa is looking down at his hands, as if they hold all the answers Fukuchi can see him struggling to find. “I… dislike organisations. Neither the general nor the soldier would be a position for me.”
It’s a rejection, it’s a no. Fukuchi can stop here, walk away with a goodbye that’s only slightly strained and fuck off to war to die or change irreversibly and let Fukuzawa deal with his governments and put-on airs and accolades. He can make the choice to dance the awkward mid-point in their friendship, one borne purely of separation and age.
But he has never been good at doing things half-way. Fukuchi goes full throttle, every time, with everything, no matter what. So he opens his mouth and says the stupid thing, the worse thing. He forces Fukuzawa to abandon his careful balancing act and actually respond to him .
“And as a friend? Would you come with me then?” He pretends his voice isn't fraying at the edges. Fukuzawa looks away from him.
“The only things found at war are the deeds that take away lives.”
He’s wrong. He is wrong and Fukuchi tells him as much, letting himself get angry on behalf of every missing report he has seen, the ghosts that appear in his sleep, the weight of the government bearing down on soldiers like boots on ants. He tries not to let anything else shine through his front and doesn’t entirely succeed. He leans into the space between himself and his friend, imploring.
“I beg you, Fukuzawa! It must be you! You’re the only…” hope I have . Fukuchi never finishes his sentence, arrested mid-tirade by how Fukuzawa has turned away from him, not a single spot of the previous tension in his posture, like there is nothing that Fukuchi can say that can affect him now. Somehow, all around him, the cracking sound from earlier amplifies to its peak. The sound of a sledgehammer striking a mirror, the sound of a blade screaming against metal.
Fukuchi lets whatever is breaking shatter, staggering up and looking down on the man he’s called his best best friend for years with fire licking under his skin, hackles raised. He won’t ask again, shouldn’t have bothered insisting on the issue.
He leaves without saying goodbye, nails digging into his palms, pretending that he doesn’t hear the apology whispered after him.
It will be years before he speaks to Fukuzawa again.
—
No one goes to war expecting to come out unscathed, of course. It isn’t possible. Becoming a soldier drags you to the limits of humanity, where in the fray human lives are tossed around like gambling chips at the whims of governments and world orders that will never have to set foot in the mire. Fukuchi knows this. Has seen the way veterans return from war as if they have crawled out of the jaws of death but would rather it had finished them off. How they describe their bodies as being foreign objects, missing the pieces that let them define who they were.
Still, there is nothing that could prepare him for the reality he sees before him now, the one he helps sustain and create.
There is not a single day where he doesn’t return to the barracks covered in blood, or worse. He wakes up every morning to see another comrade from his troops have their limbs torn away by the force of a blast. He gears up every day and heads out into the field to mindlessly torture enemies, innocents. Men, women, children. None are spared. He loses track of the number of times people beg him to kill them.
He hears that somewhere in the forces, there is a garrison of immortal soldiers who don’t even get the mercy of death, kept alive and thrown out into battle again and again using the abilities of a dangerous gifted, under the orders of a particularly bloodthirsty commander. There are rumours that the gifted in question is an 11 year old girl.
Today, a devastating bomb has detonated too close to their facilities for anyone’s comfort, not that comfort is really a luxury afforded in a warzone. There are casualties, of course. Already injured soldiers picked apart by shrapnel or crushed into bloody masses under falling debris. They had no intel on this sort of weapon, on this sort of scale and they had sent their best spies into European intelligence quarters for months on end. Fukuchi was one of them. He picks his way through the wreckage, yelling himself hoarse for survivors. A haze of red surrounds his vision and the ringing in his ears won’t subside so he strains himself further to try and pick out cries for help, signs of life anywhere.
He’s been searching for an hour before he finally makes his way to the edge of the blast zone, lungs struggling under the smog and smell of gore, and finds someone alive. The soldier is one of his friends from the barracks, one of the men he had arrived with years ago when he first joined the military. Fukuchi feels his relief flounder as soon as it arrives upon approaching. The man’s face is slack, he can see the way his chest rattles with every uneven intake of breath and his arms are limp by his side, his legs bent in truly nightmarish ways. If he lives, Fukuchi knows he will not be able to walk ever again. In some ways, his friend looks more like a broken puppet than a person, his skin waxy and surreal where it isn't covered with grime or abrasions, as Fukuchi gets close enough to notice. Moving to kneel in front of him, Fukuchi can’t get him to respond to his questions with anything more than gurgling, wheezing or moans of pain. He decides to heave him up, half carry him back to the nearest medical tent but the man is a deadweight against him and Fukuchi has his own injuries making it harder to move. He tries his fucking hardest anyway, teeth grit desperately against the undue panic he begins to feel as he tries to wade back through the muddy ground. He ends up stepping in a hidden pothole and almost loses his balance, his grip on the injured man loosening, letting him slouch suddenly against Fukuchi’s shoulder.
Fukuchi tries to readjust him, spewing apologies that he knows mean jack shit at the moment. Feels frustration as it rises in him, bitter and deadly. He ends up trying to tug the man back into position a little too forcefully in his rush and something about it jerks him awake. Fukuchi finds himself face to face with a creature more ghoul than human, eyes clouded over, bleeding from the hairline down into his mouth. The man lunges at him and Fukuchi startles, tries to fend him off, settle him before he aggravates any injuries but gets pulled back in by the collar. His comrade drags him back, making Fukuchi look into his eyes as he twitches and spasms, drooling from the corner of his mouth as his neck lolls from side to side unnaturally.
“I want to– live. I don’t want to die… here–” he chokes on his own words, his own blood. Fukuchi follows him as he falls to the ground and stares up at the sky, unseeing.
“Lord Fukuchi–”
A bolt of hatred goes through him at the sound of that god forsaken fucking title. He presses closer to his dying friend, puts his ear to his torn, cold lips.
“I beg you for revenge. Revenge, Lord Fukuchi, for our remorse– I beg… I beg you–”
Blindly, the man reaches upwards, spluttering. Fukuchi grabs his arm, pulls it back down to his side. Watches how the soldier’s muscles still against his body, how his chest no longer rattles. How his mouth drops open and does not move again, the inside black with drying blood.
He’s died. Kneeling in the mud cradling his corpse, Fukuchi remembers distantly that he had a sister back home who was getting married, a sickly father. Remembers how he had introduced himself with a muted smile and firm handshake the first day on the truck drive to the base. He cannot, no matter how hard he tries, remember the man’s name.
—
When the message came through initially, he was in his office sorting out assignments for the field squad he had deployed in the next city over. He had their files spread out before him, deciding who would be best for the more delicate political leg of the operation that was coming up, as negotiations with European representatives were increasingly terse as the years passed. He was interrupted by the sound of hurried knocking at the door and when he admitted his unexpected visitor, they looked mildly green in the face. He knew it was probably going to be something unpleasant.
He was surprised, then, to be handed a note on flimsy paper. No official seal to give away the sender. As soon as he opened the paper, he realised why. He would have recognised that obnoxiously neat penmanship anywhere.
Fukuzawa’s request was ballsy, given that neither of them had seen hide nor hair of each other since that day he refused the invitation to the military. The bastard hadn’t even called in after Fukuchi’s return to Yokohama, having been discharged from the army at the end of the war, though he had heard rumours that he had been seen at the awards ceremony, lingering near the back and avoiding all attempts at conversation. In fairness, Fukuchi hadn’t made much of an attempt to contact him either, more than anything preoccupied by the sheer amount of demand for his expertise in national security departments and the military police stationed in the city. You’d think that after being discharged from war, a man could rest a little easy.
He had nonetheless seen his fair share of reports about Fukuzawa’s activity. He was apparently still working with high profile clients in the bodyguard job, still wasting his life away working for people with enough money lining their pockets to make the average man keel over in shock. Still, it was just like him to march back into Fukuchi’s business with an urgent request to meet with one of the most infamous child-assassins the underworld had to offer. The assassin that he himself had turned in not two days ago to the high-security prison that he knew Fukuchi had some authority over.
Apparently, Fukuzawa was much the same as always. Determined above all to pursue what he thought was just, regardless of who he might upset on his merry way. More wry than people would ever give him credit for.
Fukuchi arranged the meeting for an hour after the messenger brought him the note.
—
Strolling up to the main gates of the underground complex, Fukuchi didn’t know what to expect. How exactly did a man greet an old friend that he had parted ways with on such… strange terms? He realised as he made out the tense silhouette of a gentleman escorted by two guards at the entrance that he was nervous. An entire god damned display case of medals of honour back in his home and a gruesome military history under his boots and Fukuchi Ouchi was nervous to see Fukuzawa again. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his uniform to make sure he didn’t fidget.
The guards turned at his approach and stood to attention and Fukuchi dismissed them with a sharp jerk of his chin. They spared a moment to salute him before they marched back into the building via a side-entrance. Fukuzawa had not turned yet to look at him.
Fukuchi slowed his footsteps until he came to stop at the stairs that lead up to the main front doors. Staring holes into the other man’s back, he both willed him to turn around and meet his eyes and silently urged him to vanish into thin air right where he stood. Fukuzawa was taller, broader around the shoulders though he had always been of slim stature. His back was held straight and Fukuchi, despite all the time between them, could pick out the tells that gave away his apprehension: the slight twitch of the head, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to turn around or not, the way his hair was mussed up at the back from running his hands through. It had grown out a little, the silver slightly thinner and more muted, occasionally revealing a hint of nape.
Fukuzawa was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing since ditching the kendo uniform of the dōjō. Fukuchi swore he must have 8 different copies of the same, bland outfit in his wardrobe that he cycled through: the black hakama, the deep blue haori that matched his eyes. Still running around in sandals as well, which Fukuchi couldn’t even pretend to understand the practicality of. Around Fukuzawa’s neck was the only obvious show of his exceedingly poor taste, a bright yellow scarf that must have been a dead give away on stealth missions. Fukuchi lingered on that scarf for a moment, remembering vaguely the day that Fukuzawa had bought it.
—
It had been a rare day off for them from the dōjō, just after the new year in their final stages of training. Fukuchi had been the one to spot the scarf in a discount section of a clothing store they had passed by, and he made some stupid remark about how yellow made Fukuzawa’s eyes pop, touting corny phrases he had seen on the covers of fashion magazines. He had been joking, obviously. Back then, when had Fukuchi not been joking around? But Fukuzawa had stopped in his tracks to duck into the store, coming out a while later with the scarf thrown haphazardly around his shoulders, looking for all the world like it was the most normal thing he could have done. Fukuchi had stared at him, mouth slightly agape and Fukuzawa had matched his gaze, only the small twitch at the corner of his mouth giving away his amusement.
After he was done spluttering over the sight, unused to being on the exasperated end of things, Fukuchi had stepped closer on impulse to arrange the hideous thing around his friend’s neck properly. He had glanced up at Fukuzawa’s face before stepping away, and the look in his eyes had heat flaring in his chest. Blue eyes, mellow, had watched him from beneath dark lashes. Suddenly the world around Fukuchi seemed to shrink, making him tense up. In the end, he had flicked the end of the scarf up into Fukuzawa’s face to dispel the strangely intimate mood and bolted off down the street, laughing as if nothing had happened.
Their late adolescence had been filled with moments like those, where staring matches were imbued with a feeling larger than either of them, where every point of contact during kendo duels was a distraction, where hands lingered and words got caught in throats. Of course, these moments never blossomed into more, how could they? There were far more important things than childhood infatuations. Still, Fukuchi couldn’t blame himself for what he had felt.
Other kids had their handsome idols or pretty seniors or the person they walked home with every day. Fukuchi had Fukuzawa. And that had been enough.
—
He broke himself quickly out of that reverie, remembering that he had of course been called here for urgent matters . Their past was deadweight behind them now, anyway. Fukuchi and Fukuzawa had changed since then. Without waiting any longer for Fukuzawa to turn and make any sort of acknowledgement of him, Fukuchi strode forward into the building, calling over his shoulder to the man he knew would be following behind him.
“Long time no see, Bokutō Jizō. Tell me, what urgent matters have the esteemed Fukuzawa Yukichi making house calls to pint-sized serial murderers?” Fukuchi’s tone was genial, giving nothing about his inner troubles away, if you ignored how he hadn’t so much as glanced at Fukuzawa’s face yet. To his credit, Fukuzawa didn’t question it, keeping a respectful distance behind Fukuchi as he led them both down past security to the lowest levels of the holding complex, debriefing him on the murder plot at some high-end theatre that he and his new ‘protégé’ had become caught up in, and how said protégé was apparently a reckless idiot who had gotten himself kidnapped in order to expose the wider operation behind the scheme. Fukuchi was impressed at his guts, Fukuzawa on the other hand seemed to be getting more anxious by the second.
The assassin was important as, being infamous as he was, he may have made contact with a client asking him to take down ability wielders. According to Fukuzawa, that client either belonged to the organisation behind the theatre debacle, which had been a cover-up for the attempted abduction of a high-ranking Gifted under government protection, or was in some way connected to them.
“More than anything, I need to know where their base is. That’s where they’ve taken Rampo.” Fukuzawa’s voice wavered, “They could kill him.”
Fukuchi stayed silent as they passed through the last of the security doors and arrived at a corridor of cells that were all empty, aside from one. He gestured to it and cast a sidelong glance at Fukuzawa as he shuffled past, just about catching the strain in his voice echoed in the lines around his eyes. His plan was to leave Fukuzawa alone to ask his questions and then have him escorted out by other guards, no need for Fukuchi to waste more time there, but something about the way Fukuzawa had sounded so exhausted, so genuinely concerned had him leaning against the wall next to the cell and closing his eyes. He wanted to see how this would play out.
It turned out that Fukuzawa had been correct in his deduction, the assassin (Oda Sakunoske, he remembered) seemed to know something significant about the organisation Fukuzawa was hunting down. Of course, it couldn’t be as easy as that. He had refused to give up any information and Fukuchi was intrigued to see just how Fukuzawa was going to negotiate his way out, not expecting the man to immediately offer to vouch for the assassin’s innocence and freedom as repayment. Fukuchi opened his eyes, staring at the chipped stone wall in front of him.
In his life, he knew that Fukuzawa wasn’t the pure, righteous, law-abiding citizen that people loved to mistake him for. No, Fukuzawa Yukichi simply did what benefited him most, what kept the people he cared for safe. It just happened to be that most of the time, he was able to balance those ambitions with some form of valour and justice. The man was a one-person acrobatics act where morals were concerned. Fukuchi reckoned that if it came down to the wire, Fukuzawa wouldn’t hesitate to slit throats and shed blood. He knew he had done it before, just preferred to keep things clean. Thus, where Fukuzawa could solve conflicts with martial arts alone he wouldn’t resort to extreme violence (and his skill in the former helped him out there, for sure). But for fucks’ sake, the man carried a katana around everywhere and at least two hand knives. That wasn’t the behaviour of someone unused to taking drastic measures.
Still, this offer right off the bat was surprising. Fukuchi smiled to himself and pushed away from the wall, resolving to leave as he had initially intended and assigning a guard to escort his guest out of the compound before he left.
If Fukuzawa wanted to play games like that with wanted assassins, Fukuchi wasn’t going to compromise him by making himself a witness to foul play. He was going back to the office to pretend he didn’t hear a word.
On his way out, he conceded that perhaps Fukuzawa had always been a bit of a stranger to him. That maybe it had been cocky to think he knew him well at all.
—
Fukuzawa and Fukuchi had never needed to dance circles around each other growing up, they had figured that out soon into their friendship. It’s what happened when you found an equal, someone to fall into step with you no matter where you went. At some point in their youth, the two boys had developed a habit of communicating silently, entire conversations passing in the space of a few seconds of eye contact. It had driven the other students in the dōjō insane, all of them begging to be let into their world, not knowing that it wasn’t something they could ever orchestrate. Fukuzawa and Fukuchi were just like that.
A quirked eyebrow. Do you want to ditch the next lesson?
A pursed lip. Don’t be disrespectful.
A nudge of the shoulder. You’re way too uptight.
A sidelong glare. Shut up.
This was how Fukuchi and Fukuzawa talked to one another, without anyone else understanding. This is how they grew to trust one another, both chasing the same dream that manifested in their hearts at the small, small age of 14, accompanied by the breathless realisation that Oh. There’s someone else.
Fukuchi didn’t know when that unspoken trust between them became a shelter for lies, that quiet space between two men growing wider and more fraught, a fraying rope rather than a solid bridge that connected them. Those secrets that accumulated pushed them so far apart they eventually ended up back where they started, Fukuzawa challenging Fukuchi to a duel, assuring him that he would take him on all alone. The world was ending, would end as soon as Fukuchi made the call but how could he when Fukuzawa stood across from him, katana drawn, looking like he wanted nothing more than for Fukuchi to come at him head on.
A hiked up shoulder, muscles coiled. Face me, once again. Like before.
Left to their own devices, the two of them would be stuck in a terrible loop of chasing and losing. Luckily, that had never been Fukuchi’s plan. He was going to die to set them free, even if it meant cursing the man he’d cherished for so long. There was no fate more honourable than dying at the hands of an old friend, in his opinion. It was perhaps more than he deserved but Fukuchi had never been good at keeping his shamelessness under wraps around Fukuzawa anyway.
—
The first and last he heard about Fukuzawa’s incident after escorting him to the prison was a story in the news about the successful prevention of a high-society murder scandal and the raiding of a shady base that turned out to be empty. Fukuzawa got his brat back, presumably and Fukuchi got an unsigned thank you note and a bottle of very expensive sake delivered to his house. There was no whisper about the child-assassin and when Fukuchi looked into it, he was mildly surprised to find that he was still behind bars, with the only change being that every week he was served a helping of fancy curry rice instead of the usual prison meals. He didn’t bother himself with it any further. Concerning his old friend, Fukuchi assumed that the next time he would see Fukuzawa was when his newfound tendency for taking in orphans off the street landed him in trouble again.
Though, the other man had also seemed to develop a habit for defying Fukuchi’s expectations lately.
One morning, a few weeks after he received the request for urgent help from Fukuzawa, Fukuchi received an invitation. This time, the paper was thick and official, with an expensive seal from an organisation he didn’t recognise, though when he opened up the envelope, the handwriting gave his anonymous sender away at once. Fukuchi’s eyebrows crept an inch up his face at the note scribbled beneath the official invitation print.
Dear Gen’ichirou. I know in recent years we have grown apart
but I wouldn’t be starting this agency without your help on that
case a few weeks ago. It would mean a great deal to me if you
could be at our opening party. For old time’s sake.
– Fukuzawa Yukichi
Direct, straightforward. Unassuming. Fukuchi sat down at his desk in his office with his chin in his hands and traced the slopes of the handwriting with his eyes. He hadn’t forgiven the other man yet and this invitation, inviting him to celebrate Fukuzawa starting an Armed Detective Agency with some random teen he had plucked out of the gutter barely a month ago rubbed him in all the wrong ways.
I don’t like organisations. Neither the general nor the soldier would be a position for me.
Fukuchi clicked his tongue, glanced once more at the date, time and location listed on the card before throwing it unceremoniously in the trash.
—
Two weeks later, he showed up to the celebration in his best suit; the one he saved for the most ostentatious military awards events, the most mind-numbing political dinners. Fukuchi could play those games ‘til kingdom come, surround himself with fluttering, simpering politicians and smile through the urge to wring their necks for the way they fine dined without a care for the droves of people they had sent into active warzones. It was a good skill to have, especially since that was what this opening celebration was bound to be.
Fukuchi had arrived early, staring up at the red brick building that was far too modern for what he knew of Fukuzawa. All his memories of him had been associated with traditional dōjōs and proper Japanese-style apartments, since Fukuzawa had a theme and rarely wavered from it, stubborn bastard that he was. This place as a headquarters… a fourth floor office above a cosmopolitan café. It was just so western, so new. Sighing, he braced himself for the rug being pulled out from under him more than once that evening and made his way to the top floor, taking the stairs two at a time.
He hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he’d opened the office door (proudly embellished with a gold plaque labelled ‘The Armed Detective Agency’). Fukuzawa, sure. Maybe even his newly-adopted police academy reject. A hastily decorated office space, moderately sized, nothing lavish. If Fukuzawa had been really proactive, perhaps a few more prospective colleagues. Instead, when Fukuchi stepped into the headquarters, he had come face to face with a man in a sleek suit. Or rather, had come face to back with him. It didn’t occur to him that this mysterious man could be Fukuzawa until he turned around and smiled ( smiled ) directly at him. Fukuchi was stumped. There was a lot to process.
He put his dumbfounded reaction down to the fact that it had been at least a decade since he had seen Fukuzawa in anything other than his usual hakama and sandals get-up. He had held onto a very specific image of the man in his head, no aspect of which accounted for the suited-up agency founder ( agency ) that was walking towards him now, still smiling in a way that made Fukuchi want to walk backwards out of the room, down the stairs and back to the safety of his own home as fast as he possibly could. Instead, he played nice, grinned wolfishly back at his approaching friend and somehow managed to gather his thoughts enough to reach out for a handshake. He should have been given a medal just for that display.
Alas, it seemed that Fukuzawa was determined to test him that evening. He paused far closer to Fukuchi than the other was completely sure how to handle, brushed aside his extended hand and instead reached out to clasp his shoulder firmly, blue eyes brighter than he’d seen them before. Up close, the various press articles and government files didn’t do Fukuzawa justice. Fukuchi hadn’t ever been a poetic man but he was sure that the sight in front of him was the sort of thing described in great detail in lurid period drama novels when the valiant, sword-wielding hero came swooping in to save the nation from evil, or to carry a heroine off for marriage. Time had treated Fukuzawa Yukichi well because of course it had. The universe was a joke and Fukuchi was the butt of it.
His hair had more silver in it than he remembered, the strands almost seeming white in the bright lighting of the office which really should have made anyone look hideous. Instead, it highlighted the masculine sharpness of Fukuzawa’s cheekbones, the soft upturn of his thin lips, the smile lines that had worked their way into his face. Fukuchi wondered who had put them there, what Fukuzawa had been smiling for. His dress shirt was buttoned up to the collar which rested just below his adam’s apple, protruding more sharply than it had in their youth and the lines of the black suit accentuated the way he had filled out, long torso and legs, deceptively delicate-looking wrists peeking out from his jacket cuffs. He was distantly aware that he was being studied in turn, Fukuzawa’s eyes roving over his face before a pointed cough sounded behind them.
The hand on his shoulder trembled briefly as Fukuzawa’s eyes widened, then it slipped down to squeeze his elbow.
“I’m happy you came.” The words were spoken quietly, like a secret, as if Fukuzawa himself couldn’t believe that Fukuchi was here. That made two of them.
He then stepped away completely, turning to motion the interruptor over. Finally able to concentrate again with Fukuzawa not in his space, Fukuchi looked down to see the new kid (Edogawa Rampo, his mind helpfully supplied) squinting up at him. He had been wrangled into a slightly ill-fitting suit and waistcoat, though he had stubbornly kept a hold of some sort of hat. The boy was twiggy, short and looked vaguely like a porter in his formal wear, making Fukuchi want to snort. Instead, he reached his hand out yet again for a handshake. The boy simply stared at it, as if his hand were a dead rat dropped at his feet, and then folded his arms across his chest in a clear rejection. Well, then. Fukuchi wondered if all the agency members in future would make a point of ignoring his handshakes.
“Rampo–” Fukuzawa began, a reprimand evident in his tone. Before he could say another word, however, Fukuchi had reached up and pulled the boy’s hat down over his face. There was an indignant squawking sound from beneath the brim and Fukuchi couldn’t hold onto his guffaw any longer, throwing his head back and wheezing as the kid tried to position his cap correctly again. Fukuchi could feel Fukuzawa’s eyes on him, but this time they felt lighter, less demanding. As the door behind them opened, bringing in more guests, Fukuchi allowed himself to think that, maybe, he could survive this.
—
He was fucking wrong. Served him right for trotting up to the opening party for a government sanctioned detective agency thinking that the company would be less horrific than the usual dross at any other political gathering. After the initial moments of amusement he had experienced upon his arrival, the evening only went downhill. As much as he tried to stick to Fukuzawa’s side, tried to make conversation, both of them kept being pulled away into various long-winded interactions with minister so-and-so or vice-president this-or-that. Fukuchi wanted death. The closest he got to it was steadily downing glass after glass of whatever fancy alcohol the refreshments table was being topped up with. Small mercies, he supposed.
Most of all, he was frustrated that his plan was falling apart. Before he had arrived at this circus show, Fukuchi had resolved to put distance between himself and Fukuzawa from then on. His feelings towards the other man were too messy, past and present all tangled and tripping him up whenever they interacted. Fukuchi would pretend more seriously to resent him, to move on properly with his life so that Fukuzawa didn’t make a habit of popping up unexpectedly, as he suspected might happen after this. It would be difficult, especially after the brief flash of what life could be like after he had stepped through the door but Fukuchi could muscle past that. He remembered Fukuzawa’s face when he had turned him down the first time, before he had left for Tokoyami Island, and could still remember the way the betrayal ate at him for months and months following. He had wanted this night to spend some last moments with an old friend before they parted ways once again, getting sentimental in his older age or becoming a masochist. Either worked.
Unfortunately for Fukuchi, that didn’t seem like it was going to happen. After two hours of high-society, boot-licking bullshit, he felt like he would implode if he didn’t find some reprieve soon. He peeled himself away from whoever was trying to talk to him about the tea trade ( the tea trade ) and all but ran out of the door into the cool air of the hallway outside. The ceiling lights hummed to life and Fukuchi let out a long breath, more keyed up than he had ever been at these sorts of affairs, testament to just how much Fukuzawa’s mere presence ended up fucking with his head. He leaned up against the wall opposite the door and let the cool plaster at his back ground him.
Thinking of Fukuzawa, he had always been the more steady one when it came to these things. Unbidden, the man’s steel-blue stare appeared in his mind’s eye, the way he had aged so finely around his mouth. Fukuchi clicked his tongue, shaking his head around wildly to dispel the image. It would have been better if Fukuzawa had gotten married in the last few years, at least then Fukuchi wouldn’t be standing out in a damp hallway thinking about the bastard’s mouth without any remorse. This was the last thing he needed after an evening of playing nice with piggish elites and pretending to be far drunker than he was to escape conversation.
Musing on it this long, Fukuchi began to feel the familiar itch to do something drastic, impulsive. He wanted to wipe that cool, polite expression off of Fukuzawa’s face, like he used to by messing with the younger kids at the dōjō, or swiping sweets from street stalls. Something to make the jaws of those money-laundering assholes inside drop open in dumb shock. Fukuchi pushed himself off of the wall, puzzling out the best way to cause a stir when a gleam of dull gold caught his eye: the doorplate. For Fukuzawa’s agency , his brand new organisation . And perhaps his next decision proved that he was more out of it than he’d admit, bored out of his mind and distracted by Fukuzawa’s… everything – because he hesitated only a moment before unzipping his slacks and pissing all over the placard.
He was in the middle of cackling to himself when he spotted what seemed like a shadow moving at the other end of the hall. He hoped it wasn’t someone coming to cause trouble; getting caught with his dick out, half drunk was not the best way to start a fight. But when he squinted a little more, he could make out the aghast face of the brat that Fukuzawa had so graciously adopted, staring at him as if Fukuchi had just killed someone and was standing in a pool of their blood rather than his own piss. His laughter started anew. He had no hard feelings towards the kid, even if he found Fukuzawa’s appraisal of him to be exaggerated but he knew by now that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Judging by the way the boy looked ready to punch him right then and there, scrawny arms and all, Fukuchi certainly wasn’t endearing himself to his friend’s new charity case. Just as he was about to make a barb at the stuttering boy, the door cracked open and a familiar shadow fell over him. Ah, caught in the act . Fukuchi had barely had time to make himself decent before Fukuzawa’s fist was coming down on the top of his head. Success .
The other man stepped over the puddle on the ground with a barely concealed look of apprehension, shutting the door sharply behind him as Fukuchi rubbed his head, feigning sheepishness. The kid was making spluttering sounds like a fucked up water pipe and Fukuchi was amused enough to brush off the weight of the exasperated stare that was drilling into the side of his skull. In the next moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder pulling him around and prepared himself to be met with the direct force of Fukuzawa’s disdain, just as he’d planned but was struck dumb by the expression on the other’s face. Sure, there was a furrow between his brows, the stubborn set of his shoulders as he shoved a mop (presumably retrieved from the corner of the corridor whilst he was busy gloating) into Fukuchi’s hands but beneath all that, there was a horrible acceptance in his eyes. That metallic blue was soft around the edges, somehow still amused after Fukuchi had literally pissed all over his precious new business. It was unbearable. The fondness for him plain in Fukuzawa’s gaze, even when he was being disgusting, got under his skin and made him itch.
More than anything the idea that Fukuzawa trusted him after all this time, as if they were still boys playing at combat in the safety of the dōjō rather than murderers and pawns stranded in the violence of the real world, made irrational anger flare in his mind. Fukuchi had pretended to resent him, had barely made contact with him after he returned from the battlefield, was planning on pushing them further apart after this night ended– and yet here Fukuzawa was, casting that private smile that was reserved for Fukuchi over his shoulder, the one that only showed around the eyes, as he firmly guided his shell-shocked brat back into the office, leaving Fukuchi alone in the hallway with a rickety mop in his hands, a puddle of his own piss to clean up and many conflicted feelings. As if nothing had changed between them, as if he would put his willing neck in the reach of Fukuchi’s sword and trust him not to go for the kill.
“What the fuck.” He muttered to himself, suddenly more tired than anything. He wanted to go home instead of running this charade into the ground any further, instead of going back into the white light of the Detective Agency’s office to schmooze and get sidetracked occasionally by the sight of Fukuzawa’s nape above his ridiculous starched collar. He had reached his limit.
Still, for years after that evening, Edogawa Rampo would inform anyone who asked that when the Armed Detective Agency celebrated its opening, Fukuchi Ouchi was the very first guest to arrive at their party and the very last guest to leave.
—
Being the owner of a time-space bending sword had its ups and downs. Mainly ups, Fukuchi would argue, thinking of all the battles he had won with his ability and weapon combined. Amenogozen was a fitting prize for the tireless effort that Fukuchi had put into honing his craft over the years, proof of his reliability as both swordsman and leader. Power seeks out power, after all.
Then there are the downsides, such as looking up from paperwork on an otherwise uneventful Monday morning to find said time-space bending sword appear in front of you, bearing a haunting warning from yourself 32 years in the future about the end of the world.
Fukuchi would have thought it was a joke if he wasn’t so familiar with Amenogozen by then, with himself and his values. Plus, he could feel a horrid, nauseating sensation in his stomach, a tightness in his chest that told him that this was more promise than prophecy, of a multinational conflict so huge that it would bring about the death of 210 million people. It would be more than a war, it would be a bio-weapon and ability-fuelled extinction event.
Fukuchi had fallen into a frenzy, turning his workspace upside down in his scramble to find his footing in the wake of the message, trying to even begin to parse the action necessary to stop that future coming to pass when he heard his office door creak open. He’d been on guard immediately, after express orders barked at the house staff and security to not interrupt him for the foreseeable future. As his unbidden guest entered, hands raised in an ironic show of good faith considering Fukuchi could see two of his guards knocked out on the floor outside, he tightened his hold on his katana and pulled the gun hidden behind his back out further from its holster. Something about the man, though he seemed outwardly harmless, frail even, set him instantly on the defensive. Still, when the guest looked him in the eye and told him he had a solution to the threat of war looming over Fukuchi’s head, it was hard to resist hearing him out. And so he did.
—
Fyodor Dostoyevsky was measured and mildly spoken, which was sharply in contrast to everything else that Fukuchi discerned about his character. He had plenty of experience dealing with the various masks and guises people put on to hide their motives and Fyodor was a walking, talking masquerade, every word out of his mouth coiled tightly around multiple hidden meanings. Making conversation with him, Fukuchi could feel himself sweating. It was its own espionage mission, trying to wring anything genuine from the man. Fyodor was like a knife dangling overhead, suspended on a thin thread. Bargaining with him was as good as dancing with the Devil.
But Fukuchi also knew enough to know when he was out of his depth and this ploy was clearly something larger than a handful of people working to cause havoc. Doomsday papers had been signed in blood far before he had any influence on the Japanese military scene, it seemed. Fyodor’s convenient arrival in the midst of Fukuchi’s downward spiral, his equally convenient and fully-thought out plan, the unbelievable elements that plan consisted of, were proof enough of that.
Fukuchi had obviously had his doubts about the methods. A pale, possibly volatile Russian man who knew more than he had any right to about foreign government secrets had sauntered into his office and assured him that he could stop the end of the world. Fukuchi would have been an idiot not to suspect him at every possible turn. Really, if reality altering notebooks existed, surely someone out there could simply write the impending war out of existence? But even as he said it, he knew there had to be caveats.
War was not something that could be written over or out of the world, mainly because it was not a singularly defined entity. War was a writhing, bloody mass of limbs and bone and nearly every recogniseable state had a hand in making it. It was a culmination of one million different choices and values, as large as the Earth and as small as a lump of dirt all at once. It was who was given rights in the eyes of governments, it was the international debts between countries, it was the desire for resources on a limited planet, it was the increased price of fresh produce in local supermarkets, it was the signature on the bottom of provincial laws.
War was what crawled out of the shadowy ravines between an artificial ‘us’ and a presumed ‘other’. Having spent years on a battlefield, Fukuchi knew this better than anyone else. War was born out of alienation. It was no path to justice or peace and Fukuchi scoffed at the very thought, he had found that out the hard way himself. Thus, to eliminate war on the global level, there had to be an event that eliminated false boundaries between nations and dissolved the concept of ‘otherness’, at least on the political level. The solution, simplified, boiled down to the eradication of the ‘state’. A state was an entity that could define itself as independent and thus, in its formation, create an ‘other’ and therefore create possible enemies against which to enact violence on the global scale. If individual nation states no longer existed, if enough pressure was put on all governments simultaneously, if a terrifying enough threat was made against the world as a whole, then it would force nations to unify against a common undesirable outcome, preferably under the command of one leader. War would cease to be.
The absolute irony wasn’t lost on Fukuchi, that to destroy the possibility of war, he would end up orchestrating one of the largest terror plots in human history.
He had to hand it to Fyodor, he knew how to pick his pawns. Any other person would have sent him packing as soon as he revealed that his plans relied on kickstarting a vampire plague and rewriting reality. But war had changed Fukuchi in ways that meant he was the perfect candidate to lead this group that Fyodor was proposing: The Decay of Angels. He was a man with influence, experience and military power. He had the pulse of the Japanese State Security under his thumb and would have the least trouble bypassing preventative measures to make sure the Angels’ plot would be carried out without too much interference. He had the bloodlust, the personal motive, as well. Fyodor’s plan sounded like the justice Fukuchi had been seeking ever since he left Tokoyami island and returned to Yokohama, forced to play tea-parties with the people who had his comrades’ blood on their hands.
Still, Fukuchi wasn’t stupid enough to trust him completely. After they had spent hours discussing the steps required of the scheme, Fyodor had gotten up to leave only to be met at the door by military police reinforcements. Fukuchi had called them in as soon as he and Fyodor had sat down at his desk.
“What an unpleasant surprise.” Fyodor had mused, not sounding surprised in the slightest. Fukuchi felt a cold sense of dread drip down his spine. The sooner this man was locked away, the better.
“My apologies, Mr. Dostoyevsky. It’s only a matter of technicality. I assure you, Mersault is more comfortable than the rumours suggest.”
Mersault was the highest security anti-gifted facility in Europe, and thus the best bet Fukuchi had of making sure the threads of malice he had seen in Fyodor’s persona would not endanger more people than necessary in this convoluted plot. Still, when Fyodor left without a fuss, barely batting an eyelash at the news that he would be being imprisoned until further notice or the multiple guns aimed at his head, Fukuchi was not in the least comforted. Everything about Dostoyevsky spelled disaster.
Still, Fukuchi had limited options. Time seemed to have sped up since Amenogozen had first appeared in front of him and he could feel the way desperation had settled under his skin, knew it would not budge until he had seen this plot through to the end. He suddenly felt so achingly old.
For a long time after Fyodor had been led away, Fukuchi stood motionless in his office, staring unseeingly into the dark corners of the room.
500 lives. That was the price tag that Fyodor had attached to this plan. Fukuchi would have to sacrifice no more than 500 lives in order to eradicate war from the future of human history. 500 lives weighed up against 210 million. For Fukuchi, it was a hysterically simple choice to make, if there had been any real choice to begin with.
How many deaths had he seen in a day at war, and how many had been at his own hands? What was the weight of a single life on the back of a government-sanctioned killing machine. What was the weight of 500? Was there any weight at all? It wasn’t for Fukuchi to decide.
The other condition was the far stranger one: the complete defamation of the Armed Detective Agency. The organisation had only gotten more and more famous over the years, engaging with many illustrious clients, bearing down on underworld mafia plots and most recently, saving Yokohama from obliteration at the hands of the hostile group of American gifteds known as The Guild. Their sacrifices and accomplishments had been plastered over every newspaper and talk show in the country. Fukuzawa had received a peace award for his actions as director.
The city was still rebuilding itself in the wake of The Guild’s actions as well as the Yokohama fog incident that had followed soon after, and there was unrest brewing in quiet corners of Yokohama after the two separate events, muttering about foreign interference and invasion. The Agency had played an invaluable role in suppressing such attacks and restoring peace to the city, to the nation. They were most likely good people.
And now, Fukuchi was going to drag their names through the mud and paint them as terrorists.
—
A blinding white light accompanied them as Poe’s novel world vanished. Fukuchi was left kneeling at Fukuzawa’s feet as his friend towered over him, katana poised to take his head. Fukuzawa had always had such perfect form. Fukuchi closed his eyes, bowed his head, the perfect picture of a bested villain.
“Any last words?” he ignored the way Fukuzawa’s entire voice seemed to tremble, the inherent quality of his sound fractured and frightened. Fukuchi shook his head, there was nothing left to say. He heard the whistle of Amenogozen as it sliced through the air, preparing for his execution and braced himself, hanging on the sound of his friend’s breath above him–
But Fukuchi had barely felt the blade brush his skin before the sensation vanished, and there came the sound of a sword clattering to the ground, defeated. Ah .
“I’m sorry.” He had never heard Fukuzawa so absolutely wrecked, “I can’t do it.”
Fukuchi stayed kneeling for a moment longer before he pushed himself up onto his feet, ignoring how his injured, battered body protested at the movement. He looked across at his old friend, the way the colours of the sunset etched his grief deeper into his face, how they gave his silver hair a dim halo. Sometimes, Fukuzawa looked more like a fallen angel than Fukuchi did.
“It’s okay.” He closed his eyes briefly. I forgive you . “I expected this.”
And he had. Perhaps Fukuchi and Fukuzawa had changed over the years but there were some things that never did. He understood that now. He knew, had known nearly all his life, that no matter what had happened between the two of them, he was the person that Fukuzawa trusted most in the world. They were the oldest and truest pair of friends, probably more than that, though neither of them had bothered pushing that aspect of their companionship further.
Still, Fukuzawa should not have let his guard down. He knew better than anyone how determined Fukuchi could be. The sound of small footsteps approaching should have set off alarm bells in his head, as well as the way Fukuchi hung well back from him instead of reaching for his friend like he wanted to.
And god, Fukuchi had seldom wanted anything so badly in his life than he wanted to take Fukuzawa’s trembling hands between his own at that moment.
Yet no matter how much his heart, knowing the end was nearing, pleaded and begged for a few more moments, another chance at reconciliation, another afternoon spent under falling cherry blossoms, the world would always be larger than him and his desires. Fukuchi had gotten used to seeing his plans through, with or without Fukuzawa’s compliance.
In the next breath, Fukuchi felt the blade of a sword as it ran right through his chest, the strength of a broken heart behind it. He heard the strangled, awful sound that Fukuzawa let out upon realising what he had just witnessed and turned over his shoulder to look down at Teruko as she leaned all her weight on her weapon, speaking through the terrible, searing pain.
“I’m sorry, Teruko.” His most loyal soldier, the most devoted of the Hunting Dogs. It must have been hell to do what she did, he mused, pain already making him delirious as he watched her eyes spill over.
“You knew how I felt! And yet you still– you still–” Her words cut off as she pulled the sword from his chest with a choking sob. Fukuchi knew what she was trying to say, anyway. Had known that Teruko’s admiration for him had been more than the respect given to a superior. In the end, he had used it against her, used it to make her promise to fulfil his plan if Fukuzawa could not. Fukuchi felt remorse for it, of course but what could he do? His heart had been a done deal the year he turned 14. Teruko was still young yet, and formidable. She would be alright.
At least now, Fukuchi could rest easy. He let relief rush through him like a flood, letting go of all the walls he had kept up for the last decades as best he could, all the things he didn’t let himself think about. His mind scrambled before he lost consciousness for the last time, as if unsure what to do without the usual rigid discipline keeping it focused solely on the tasks ahead. Fukuchi had always been future-oriented, knowing that change did not come from traversing the past but on his deathbed, he reckoned an old man could be forgiven his nostalgia. As he stumbled forward, he sank into the arms of one of his most potent memories.
—
Eighteen years ago, Fukuchi Ouchi had sat down under the old cherry blossom tree outside his childhood dōjō and asked Fukuzawa Yukichi a question that would alter the course of their relationship forever. Today, Fukuchi was finally going to take those words with him where they always should have gone: his grave. Even with a time bending sword, there were things Fukuchi couldn’t undo, words he couldn’t cut out of his mouth before they formed in the air and twisted into something beyond his grasp, so he would just have to wait to die with them instead.
On that day, all those years before murder and plots and dying angels had driven them both to the ends of their wits, Fukuchi had sat down next to his best friend and told him he was running off to join a terrible war. He had asked ‘won’t you come with me?’, knowing that it was just a cipher. A little Russian nesting doll of his most erratic sentiments, yet unrealised from his boyhood, that he couldn’t let go of. Really, he had already known what Fukuzawa would say, had already known he would be going into battle alone. Fukuchi was prepared to lose everything. Even so, he found himself watching Fukuzawa closely that afternoon, the hum of the insects in the grass and trees amplifying just how still the two young men sat, one gazing placidly into his teacup, trying to ignore the weight of the other’s eyes on him. A breeze had filtered through, lifting Fukuzawa’s hair from his face, framing him briefly in light as the branches of the trees parted and Fukuchi allowed himself to appreciate the details he never usually got close enough to see: the beginnings of wrinkles around Fukuzawa’s eyes, the minute workings of his jaw that indicated he was thinking a lot harder about what had been said than his expression betrayed.
When he finally moved to say no, Fukuchi tuned out his reasoning for just a moment to focus on the way the muscles in his neck worked, tensed, the set of his chin and the way his mouth looked curled in disdain over the words ‘soldier’ and ‘general’. Wryly, absurdly, he had thought about how long the war would be at that moment, and about how different Fukuzawa would look when he got back. Whether he would let his hair grow longer, whether he’d have more smile lines set in his face.
He hadn’t let himself linger on the thoughts for long. There would be no answer which would satisfy him, comfort him, alter the diverging paths they were both setting down. Fukuchi had called upon the small flicker of betrayal that flared up in him and exaggerated it, making his rage about lost comrades, about unity, about duty. Made it seem like he was resentful of Fukuzawa’s lone wolf act, his selfishness. As he turned his back on the man he had called his best friend for the first time in his life, he even managed to convince himself briefly that it wasn’t really about him and his fear, or how he had overestimated his importance in Fukuzawa’s life.
No, that sort of self-pity had no place in an army man like Fukuchi. He had people to protect. He was one of the most celebrated swordsmen in Japan and he would use that status, that power, to make a change.
Fukuchi and Fukuzawa had been so young then. They hadn’t known anything apart from that their values were not the same.
—
And that was it, at the end of the day. The differences between two mens’ hearts, their love.
Fukuzawa's love had always been made to walk in circles around him on a taught leash, rarely yielding. Fukuzawa’s love had sent him to lay down roots in a fourth story office, bargain with infamous assassins, take in young boys frightened of other peoples’ shadows, play at politics with the worst men Yokohama’s underworld had to offer. Fukuzawa’s love made him decide that the world was only ever as large as the people he cared for most, the city he grew up in.
Fukuchi had always thought that was a load of bullshit, he could never understand it. His love had taken him to war and kept him there like an animal in a zoo. His love could have eaten the world whole.
But he supposed that was why there could be no one else. No one else that he could walk away from, beat into the dirt, threaten and manipulate. He could not have asked anyone else to drive his own sword across his neck, after telling them that he’d made them fight against a future free of war.
Yes, Fukuchi had always been utterly shameless, but this sort of gall he would always save for his best friend. Fukuzawa was always where he’d return. Where else could he go? Who else, after all this time, would accept him?
It’s why he was so scared, for the first time in a decade, when he reached out in the middle of dying, his futile heartbeat in his throat, and didn’t find anyone there to hold him. He was going to die and Fukuzawa was going to let him fall through the cracks alone. In his addled state he had called out in a final plea and only then had he felt the familiar fabric of Fukuzawa’s haori, the trembling line of his body beneath it. Fukuchi was distantly shocked that the other man had stood there and let Fukuchi bleed, as if he didn’t believe that he would pursue his own death to the end, as if Fukuchi could have let himself live after all he had done.
“Fukuzawa…” He felt rather than heard his friend’s response, his body shifting so that Fukuchi could make out the strong, rapid thumping of his heart from where he was leant against his chest. He was so warm, had always been so warm. “I’m… a little tired.”
And he was. Fukuchi was exhausted. Of betrayal, of the schemes, of the plotting and espionage and of watching people die. Most of all, he was tired of pushing Fukuzawa away, he was relieved he would not have to lie to him again. That distance between them, even before he had become the leader of the Angels, had taken more out of him than he could have admitted to himself. The loss of the closest relationship he had in his life had played a part in the poor decisions he had made, the way his body felt hollow even before he had been a soldier. He was glad that he would not have to feel Fukuzawa’s absence anymore.
“Rest up.” There it was. His voice, still reassuring him. It was selfish of him to feel pleased, selfish of him to take more from Fukuzawa than he already had but he was so heavy. So, so heavy, and those two simple words made him feel light enough to finally leave.
Though, even as his consciousness slowly crumbled, Fukuchi could make out the muffled sounds of someone’s gut-wrenching scream. He twitched slightly, hoping in his last moments that some other person could help them, soothe them.
They sounded awfully like a young boy in pain.