Chapter Text
“When in doubt, choose to live.”
Terry Prachett, Thief of Time
Chuuya was drained. At twenty-three years old, he felt like he was turning seventy.
He made his way carefully down the long-abandoned streets that led away from Port Mafia’s imposing headquarters. His shoulders sagged beneath his coat; eyes downcast as his legs surged forward unsteadily. The summer night was cold, with a light mist rising from the wharf and whispering through Yokohama – not like the mist that had plagued them only a few months before, where there had been a dragon, and Dazai, and Chuuya’s sacrifice as he jumped out of a plane because Doctor Glasses (of all people) had found a way to get in contact with him during that emergency.
He could feel something fluttering in his chest – anger, he realized dimly, and wasn’t it just nice to feel something again, anything, before the moment passed and exhaustion left him hollow. His bright eyes darted around, not quite seeing, but noticing, out of habit more than attention. His gaze slipped over dented trashcans, broken sidewalks, and crumbling buildings. The decrepit neighborhood barely stirred around him. It reminded him of Suribachi City, when he was twelve, and stupid, and trying to get by – a place taken by the lost and claimed by the forgotten.
He wasn’t sure what time it was. The sky was still pitch above the halo of streetlight, and he never was any good at tracking stars – if any could be seen through the city’s smog.
Despite the late hour, and the weight dragging his body down, this was one of Chuuya’s favorite times of day. For one brief moment, the city – his world – was silenced.
He walked the familiar path to his apartment – he could have taken a car, probably should have, but he saw no need for it when he finally filed the last of the reports (he had been awake then - caffeine and purpose thrumming through him, forcing his focus to the task at hand).
That was nearly an hour ago. His mind wandered, going over the stack that would be waiting for him in the morning. He knew the Black Lizard was on assignment, and Hirotsu was never late in sending in his reports, not like Tachihara, whom Chuuya had to track down sometimes and babysit the mafioso. It was incredibly similar to…
Chuuya should demote Tachihara, but the gun-wielding lunatic was too good at his job to do so. Even Chuuya noted that Tachihara was reckless, but the job did get done, and really, Chuuya wasn’t one who could say anything about risky undertakings. This train of thought took him the rest of his way back to the tall building he lived in, up the seven flights of stairs, and to the nondescript door to his apartment.
His apartment opened into a sizable main room, with a short hallway leading off to the two bedrooms (one of which had been converted into an office soon after… Chuuya wrenched his mind from those thoughts deftly) and the bathroom. There was a half-wall bar divide between the main area and the kitchen. Chuuya dropped his hat and coat on the rack he kept next to the door and shuffled his shoes off. He made sure it was neat before moving onto the cool wooden floor of the room.
His vision blurred for a moment, and he leaned on the wall to steady himself. When had he started being this tired? Was it the return of Shibusawa? No, it was before that – the Guild, perhaps? No, but also yes.
It had started the day he had walked down those long, stone steps into the bowels of Port Mafia, self-satisfied smirk on his face, to greet his former partner after four years.
Ever since Dazai had come sprinting back into the redhead’s life with his know-it-all smirk, Chuuya had rarely had the chance to return to this place – more often catching a brief nap on the couch in his office at Headquarters in-between workdays that had become longer with each new situation or being confined to a hospital bed due to the other’s incredible stupid schemes. Chuuya was glad he never had to pay the bills for that, as his time in the hospital had tripled since the other’s return.
He stumbled, eyes widening briefly in surprise that he had. When did he last sleep? It was Thursday… no, today was Saturday, because he knew that the Black Lizard had been dispatched onto a politician’s ship tonight, and the ship’s arrival had been Saturday morning. The Persephone, dock 17. 11:23am. Captained by…
Who was the captain? He had known… It didn’t matter. It was written down – and he would deal with that in the morning. He vaguely recalled that it was on a lime green post it attached to his computer monitor in his office.
For once, secretly, Chuuya was glad that he didn’t dream. Though he would not confuse that with a restful sleep. He’s pretty sure the last time he got any semblance of rest was in France a year ago, at Mori’s villa just outside of Paris. It had been fun times then, just him against an enemy organization with the simple direction of “Win.”
It was easy. Chuuya had stayed in France for two weeks just to relax and enjoy site-seeing, with Mori’s blessing. He had returned to Japan rested and in good spirts until…
Dazai. In the Port Mafia’s dungeon.
Chuuya thinks that was the last time that he felt rested. Since then, it had been one emergency after another, and Dazai was always at the center of it all, dragging Chuuya by the collar of his shirt, whether Chuuya needed wanted to be there or not.
He must really be tired if he was thinking so much about the other. The best thing to do, Chuuya thought to himself, was to sleep. And deal with everything else in the morning. Or not deal, as was his normal modus operandi when dealing with his former associate.
He barely managed to get ready for the night – brushing his teeth, washing his face, and changing clothes - before falling face first onto his bed. His arm curled instinctively around his pillow as his body sagged into unconsciousness.
Mornings were usually gray in Yokohama, at least when Chuuya was concerned. The pre-dawn light would soon give way to the bright day: the sunlight seeping slowly, lazily over the towering buildings of Yokohama. There was no trace of the rain that had fallen the previous night, though a light fog whispered in from the harbor, not enough to obscure vision, but enough to give the morning a damp feeling. Chuuya lay splayed on his bed, eyes blinking at the pre-dawn light that peaked through the window. He had forgotten to close his drapes the night before and scowled groggily as he rolled over.
Unfortunately, he had already woken up. Chuuya cursed his inability to fall back asleep once he was up for the day as he dragged himself to his feet. If anything, he felt even more sluggish than the night before. His head ached and it was hard to retain focus on anything through the slight blurriness of his eyes. He dragged his body into the bathroom to do his morning routine. He’d gotten nearly three hours of sleep, a record for this week.
It wasn’t even half an hour later that he was making his way back down the long, cracked streets towards Port Mafia Headquarters, rubbing what bleariness he could out of his eyes, wondering if he should get a chauffeur until he was able to sleep well again. He wouldn’t, but for a brief moment, he thought seriously about it. It would mean sleeping in a little bit, at least.
Whatever weariness was dragging him down was getting worse every day. Chuuya had no idea who he could confide about that to – definitely not Mori. He respected the man as the leader of the Port Mafia, and had sworn his loyalty and fealty to him, but he had never gone to Mori as anything other than his boss and he was not about to start now. Kouyou was out as well. While normally, he wouldn’t mind speaking with her about this, she had been distracted and distant lately, just as he had been. He could not recall the last time the two had even had an hour to enjoy a cup of tea together.
Briefly, the thought of Dazai crossed his mind.
He shook his head furiously at that, rattling his already aching temples.
There was a flash of something in his peripheral. Forcing himself to focus, Chuuya turned slowly in a circle, looking for it again.
Nothing greeted him, until-
There.
Blinking spots from his vision back furiously, he stepped warily into the alleyway, frowning as he noticed a slender man dressed in white. Violet eyes crinkled with deadened joy upon meeting Chuuya’s own.
Chuuya’s brow furrowed as the man’s smile widened, vicious and cunning and very similar to Dazai’s. A loud crack ripped through the air, shattering the stillness of the morning.
Before Chuuya could get a word out, he fell forward, pain erupting in his abdomen. He choked, feeling liquid burble up his throat, spilling past his lip. There was another surge of pain in his left leg, and he collapsed onto the ground.
What the hell had just happened? His mind was fuzzy, and he wasn’t sure if this was due to his mental state or the pain slamming through his body with each twitch and movement.
Footsteps approached him, and his fingers shook as they tried to find purchase on the concrete. Pristine shoes stopped in his line of vision, which was blackening around the edges.
“Don’t worry, Nakahara,” a voice whispered in his ear. “You won’t die from this. I have plans for you.”
Chuuya growled, the instinct to fight breaking through his haze as he pulled himself to his knees, glowing bright crimson. He pulsed his Ability out, looking to push the other away.
“Now, now,” the voice continued, bored. “We can’t have that.”
Pain screeched through his left side, drawing a surprised yelp from the redhead as his muscles seized and he fell forward again. He briefly realized that the man – enemy – was rifling around in his pocket. He tried to focus, but soon lost the battle with consciousness.
A phone buzzed in the drawer of a mostly barren apartment - kept for some shred of sentimentality, charged out of habit, but ignored as the owner went about his day-to-day activities. It rang dully, again and again, pressed against the dark socks.
No one answered and the drawer did not open.
When Hirotsu’s phone began to blare in the silence of his bedroom at 6:23 in the morning, a mere hour after he had gone to sleep, the old man was understandable both confused and irate. He sat up, long fingers grasping at the rattling device and answered it with a crisp, “Yes?”
No one on the other end would ever be able to tell that he had just woken up with barely any rest. Hirotsu was the epitome of professionalism within the organization, even more so than some of the more well-known leaders such as Mori and Kouyou.
He didn’t bother checking the caller ID. Hirotsu had a very strict policy against having any phone numbers saved.
“Good morning!” a warm female voice greeted him. “I am calling on behalf of Nakahara Chuuya, hoping to get in touch with his emergency contact, Hirotsu Ryurou?”
Whatever vestige of sleep that had clung to the edges of his mind was immediately beaten back by those words.
“I am he.” His voice was steady, not a hint of worry in its tone, even as he scrambled to shove the blankets off his legs and begin to get ready for the inevitable trek to wherever he needed to go.
“I am Aizawa Megumi from XX Hospital,” she continued, matching his professionalism with her own. “Nakahara was brought in an hour ago to our emergency ward. He had sustained three gunshot wounds and has experienced severe blood loss. Currently, he is in surgery. We have you as one of his emergency contacts. If you are able, we need you to come down to the hospital and fill out some forms, as well as help with the investigation into this.”
“Investigation?” Hirotsu echoed as he laid out his normal suit, swapping the normal brown scarf for a deep purple one.
“Yes,” Aizawa answered. “In the case of any suspicious wounds, such as guns or knives, we are required to report it to the local authorities.”
Hirotsu nodded. This was one of the reasons why there were certain hospitals across Yokohama for members of the organization, as well as temporary ones that would turn a blind eye for a fee. XX Hospital must not be one of those. It must have been serious for Chuuya to have been sent there instead of one of Mori’s chosen.
“Thank you,” he continued. “I shall be there shortly. Should I ask for you when I arrive?”
“Yes. I’ll be here all morning. Please travel safely.”
Hirotsu hung up the line without another word, finally allowing himself to process what he had been told. He sat next to the clothes he had laid out – he hadn’t even bothered to turn on a light, as the gray morning was more than enough to get ready by.
Three gunshot wounds. Three.
He felt his hands tremble before he shoved the emotion back. Fear would not help Chuuya right now and it would not help Hirotsu. He allowed himself one deep, stuttering breath before smoothing his features. Years of practice forced him forward, changing into his suit and grabbing the necessities from his apartment before leaving. He called a car from the organization, waiting patiently with a lit cigarette in the shadows outside his building for it to arrive.
Hospitals don’t vary much, Hirotsu noticed as he walked through the large clear doors into the Emergency Ward. There were uncomfortable looking chairs scattered around in rows, circling the perimeter. About one-fourth of them were filled, though no one seemed to be in a rush.
Just waiting, he surmised as he walked briskly to the front counter. A woman with bright pink hair beamed at him.
Hirotsu smiled politely back. “Good morning,” he greeted before she could say anything. “My name is Hirotsu Ryurou. I was called this morning on behalf of Nakahara Chuuya as he had been involved in…” He fumbled for a moment before continuing, “an altercation.” He pulled out his identification card and handed it over to the nurse to verify his identity.
“Ah!” she said, voice and demeanor warm. “We spoke earlier!” She pulled out a clipboard and passed it to him, with a pen. “Please fill out these forms while I go and check his status. I believe he is still in surgery, but I’ll let you know. You’re welcome to wait here.”
“Thank you,” Hirotsu said before arranging himself in one of those uncomfortable chairs and going over the paperwork that she had handed him.
Still in surgery.
The words swirled in his head. Disbelieving. Chuuya was one of their strongest, if not the strongest next to Mori. Hirotsu couldn’t even begin to imagine what had brought him down – and that it was bullets of all things.
What had happened to the seemingly untouchable gravity manipulator?
He filled out the paperwork, handed it back to the nurse and then began the insufferable wait for any news.
It was nearly six hours later, and Hirotsu was mildly sure that he had consumed at least one full pot of the arguable worst coffee he had ever had the displeasure of having, but he would rather drown himself in the weakly caffeinated liquid than miss any news. He had already briefly spoken to the Boss and to Kouyou, as they were the boy’s other emergency contacts, as well as to let them know that he would not be into the office that day, but his reports were already done and emailed to the appropriate parties, and if Kouyou could “please check in on Tachihara to make sure the boy was getting his report done, as Chuuya was unable to.”
Aizawa had already left at the end of her shift and introduced him to another nurse before she exited, though he could not remember the other’s name – a shame, she was kind and kept checking in with all of those waiting for news.
Hirotsu scrolled through the app on his phone that he kept his books, having already completed the one that he had been reading and was curious which he should start next when a voice called his name.
At first, he was quite sure he had been imagining it. The blond nurse smiled at him and waved him over. Hirotsu rose to his feet, feeling the creaks in his bones from the hours he had spent in the chairs – really, they should be more comfortable for those waiting, but he supposed that he would rather have the hospitals budget for the patients than those waiting, in the long run.
He approached warily, as he had not seen a doctor emerge from the wing. “Yes,” he asked carefully, looking at her name badge out of the corner of his eye, “Amamiya?”
She smiled. “Nakahara is out of surgery and is currently being transferred to our ICU wing. His primary will meet you there and discuss the next steps for him. I can escort you.”
A weight Hirotsu had not even noticed on his shoulders was lifted. His idiot boy had survived the first round. “Thank you,” he said, not helping the soft smile.
She beamed and led him down the maze of corridors until they reached Room 231. Nakahara’s name had been written on the dry erase next to the door and Amamiya opened the door for Hirotsu, bowing her head and stepping aside.
Hirotsu steeled himself for what lay inside, taking a deep, steadying breath and entering the threshold.
Chuuya was hooked up to at least three machines, including a respirator. His leg was in a cast, and elevated from the ceiling, and his bare torso was heavily wrapped, starting at his neck and going to his waist with padding bulging from his left shoulder. His bright hair was stark and limp against the white pillows and he had yet to regain consciousness. Hirotsu trailed his fingers down the boy’s cheek, as if to make sure this was not a mirage before composing himself and sitting in the – admittedly more comfortable – chair by the bed.
He stared at his child superior, lost in thought until a light knock on the door distracted him. He turned, just as the doctor entered – a younger man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair and bags under his eyes.
“Good morning,” the doctor greeted, coming closer before peering out the window. “I think. I’m Hasegawa Kaoru and I am the attending physician to Nakahara Chuuya.”
“I am Hirotsu Ryorou,” the older gentleman replied softly. “I am his…” He paused, voice tapering off in a very awkward moment before he shook his head. Chuuya was unconscious, he would not have to hear this anytime soon. “I am his uncle. Adopted.”
Hasegawa’s smile grew, though Hirotsu could also see the weariness behind it. “If I may be blunt, Hirotsu,” the doctor began and continued when Hirotsu nodded him forward. “It is incredibly lucky that we did not lose him. The next three weeks will be the most important, as it will determine the future of his recovery. For the next forty-eight hours, we will have him sedated to allow the surgeries to set in. He sustained three gunshot wounds, and, though we cannot determine the cause, there is some evidence of seizure in his muscles, so there is a possibility of further damage, possibly nerve damage.”
The doctor moved next to Hirotsu, showing the chart to the man. On it was a diagram of a sexless human, with red circled in three areas. “Bullets entered here-“ He pointed to the left shoulder. “Here.” The left knee. “Here.” The back, near the base of the spine. “The one in the left shoulder was a through-and-through. We stitched up the hole and we’re sure he’ll make a full recovery, range of motion, everything with physical therapy and rest. This one, in his knee, nicked the lateral meniscus. Once again, with rest and physical therapy, and medication, we’re hopeful on that one. With good treatment, it might ache, or inhibit his movement somewhat in cold weather but for the most part he should be able to continue.”
The doctor paused, waiting in case Hirotsu had any questions. Hirotsu instead smoothed the purple scarf hanging around his neck. “And the third one, Doctor?”
Here, Hasegawa hesitated. “That is the problem one,” he answered truthfully. “While, obviously, getting shot in any capacity is traumatic for the body, the bullet that entered here hit the side of the spine before becoming stuck in his intestines. We were able to extract it, as well as repair as much of the internal damage as we could but…” His voice trailed off.
“And that could mean?” Hirotsu asked, trying very hard not to speak as he would to a member of the Black Lizard that was beating around the bush. He wasn’t sure he rightfully succeeded.
“We aren’t sure yet, we must wait for him to heal a bit, and the swelling to recede, but it is entirely possible that he will face partial paralysis. This is the worst-case scenario, but the next few weeks are imperative to his recovery. We need to keep him sedated for the time being because he had multiple surgeries for his torso. It would be best for him to be asleep during the first leg of the healing process.”
Hirotsu felt his breath catch. The words circled his mind, stuck in a loop that he was having trouble breaking.
“When he regains consciousness, we will know more,” the doctor continued. “For now, we just need to wait for him to wake up, which should be in two days or so.” There was a brief pause, pregnant enough that Hirotsu raised an eyebrow, urging the man to continue.
“There is one thing that is worrisome as well, but we won’t know how bad until the bruising fully comes in, which can take a few days.”
“The bruising?” repeated the older man.
The doctor nodded. “There’s nothing we can do at the moment. We checked, and it looks like there was no internal damage, but you should still know in case we find anything wrong with it later.” He walked over to the unconscious man, carefully pulling the bandages away from his neck. There was a ring of deep angry red. Hirotsu felt his breath catch.
“Strangulation?” Hirotsu asked.
“Yes, with what may have been a fine rope or a wire,” the doctor answered. “As I said, though, we have checked the inner workings of his throat and aside from this mark, there seems to be no damage from that.”
“Strange…” the older man observed, more to himself than the doctor. Using a garotte of some kind had never been Hirotsu’s style, but internal damage was almost always present when strangulation was involved. Everyone in the upper echelon of the business had some sort of signature weapon, Hirotsu's cane, Tachihara’s dual pistols and impossible shots, Gin’s silent knives, Kouyou’s hidden katana, and so forth, he was struggling to remember if there was anyone who preferred strangulation as a method. He was coming up blank, but it was something he made sure to file away and check on. If there was one thing he could state about the organization, it was that everyone was set in their ways, and that most people would make a play for the higher echelon if the opportunity occurred.
The old man sighed, wishing that hospitals allowed for smoking indoors. While he knew there was a patio outside, he was reluctant to leave Chuuya. There was a flash in his mind of an embarrassed, seventeen-year-old child, clutching the cast on his arm, waiting for anyone to come and find him. Hirotsu frowned. It was true that they all had enemies – every one of the Black Lizard, the executives, probably even the grunts that were thrown to the wolves – but who would risk attacking Chuuya in such a provoking way? As much as he hated to admit it, Hirotsu knew that if this was a grudge against Chuuya or the organization, it would have been much easier to kill the redhead, rather than leave him maimed.
So that left the question of why.
The room was quiet as the doctor began to bustle around with his chart. He walked Hirotsu through the monitor set up and where safe places to touch the redhead were that would not interfere with any of the machines or healing. Hirotsu thanked him, and watching the doctor leave with the promise that he would be around for the next several hours should Hirotsu have any need, and that the nurses on call in this wing were all available as well.
Hirotsu sighed, left alone in the almost silent room, the sound of monitors beeping and Chuuya’s ragged breathing echoing against him. He sat down in the chair next to the redhead’s bed, not even sure how to begin to wrap his head around this – and how he was going to explain all of this to Mori and Kouyou. Now that he was no longer wound tight with waiting, and anticipation, and exhaustion, he was left feeling wrung out.
Rage boiled in his gut. Hirotsu Ryorou was not one to allow his emotions to get the better of him, or to dictate his reactions, but he wanted to hunt down whomever had done this to the mafioso and destroy them. He could feel the prickle of Falling Camellia beneath his skin, the static and charge of his Ability responding to his quiet turmoil.
He took a deep breath and quieted his mind. Tonight, he had to watch out for Chuuya. Tomorrow, he could begin to find out who had done this and deal with it appropriately.