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Mushitarou enters the dingy, dim-lit bar, his clothes a mess from the light rain outside, and in desperate need for a drink.
He stumbles his way down the stairs, noticing the puddles he's bringing into this place, but not caring enough to feel apologetic. He reaches the end and heads for a bar seat with his eyes trained downwards.
The stools are cushioned and brown, creaking under his weight. The table's surface is scratched but still standing strong, and the bar's lamp lights give it an almost golden glow. Old brick walls, dark furniture stocked with bottles arranged by liquor type, and a singular man behind the bar—everything about this place screams traditional and timely.
It's not the kind of place Mushitarou frequents, but he's in need of somewhere unfamiliar today. Somewhere away from knowing, ghostly eyes, away from the intimacy of being seen.
The bar owner approaches him, still wiping a glass when he asks for Mushitarou's order. Mushitarou glances at the menu, and after a few seconds, just sighs and says, "Give me whatever. As long as it’s strong."
The owner simply nods, taking out a short, round glass. As he gets to work, Mushitarou's vision fades in and out of focus. He stares at the endless wall of liquor, struggling to force out images of a friend's final smile, of hands around a limp neck, of tears staining a freshly-written page—
It's Yokomizo's death anniversary today.
Mushitarou didn't visit his grave, not that there's a body to be buried. He didn't visit him even though he knew Yokomizo would be waiting, his knees held to his chest, probably, and a blank face that he can't remember propped up against two cold palms. He'd look at Mushitarou and smile and say I knew you were coming, and Mushitarou would taste bitter ash in his throat at the prospect of being known, at being expected, as if his blood-stained presence is still a ghost's earthly desire.
It's a routine he knows all too well. So on this day, the one where Mushitarou ripped his life away with his own two hands, he will not grant Yokomizo the satisfaction of being right. He will stay at this desolate bar and think about nothing at all and pretend that he doesn't feel like he's being consumed from the inside by a being that doesn't even exist anymore.
A glass is placed in front of him.
Mushitarou stares at the umber drink and the singular, spherical ice cube bobbing up and down inside it. It shines under the light, tempting, tantalising. He wraps his fingers around the cup, dragging it closer to himself, and looking inside.
Someone walks down the stairs just then, entering the bar. Their footsteps are quiet, in a way that is abnormal, barely even noticeable above the soft jazzy music playing overhead, and Mushitarou is inclined to look up at this mysterious figure.
When he does, he comes face-to-face with familiar eyebags and a mole above a downturned lip.
Ango doesn't spare him a glance, going straight for a seat two stools away. Mushitarou's gaze follows him—his slicked back hair, the bit of rain on the coat he's holding, the circular glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose, looking like it's about to fall off at any given moment.
Mushitarou hasn't seen Ango since he aided the Detective Agency, spending pretty much all his time at Poe's place. Actually, he hasn't even left since then, because he couldn't afford to be captured again, and Poe has everything he needs there anyway. Today is a special occasion, so he snuck out without telling Poe, and just his luck.
The owner nods at Ango in greeting and gets started on a drink. Ango must be a regular here, then.
Mushitarou drags his gaze away, trying to focus on his drink. Ango cannot be here to capture him, at least. From a government traitor to a jailbreak runaway, neither of them are very interested in following the law. There's a mutual understanding that they'll keep each other's whereabouts a hush.
Mushitarou watches, surprised, when the owner sets down not just one glass, but two, in front of him. One is filled with a bright red liquid, and when Mushitarou tries, he can smell the scent of tomato from where he's sitting. The other is a drink identical to his own.
Ango lifts the glass with the tomato juice, bringing it to dry lips. He sips, the liquid sliding into his mouth and down his throat smoothly. Mushitarou is entranced. He finds that he can't pull his gaze away, as if there was something magnetic about the way Ango holds his cup or the way he breathes, even.
When Ango finishes his drink, he places the glass down, wiping absentmindedly at his lips. He picks up his bag and coat, spinning around to get off the stool, and that's when he finally makes eye-contact with Mushitarou through the lenses of his round-rimmed glasses.
He makes no move to acknowledge him, walking right past. Mushitarou gets the urge to call out, though he's not sure why he would. He doesn't care for Ango. In fact, he's better off not interacting with any of the Seventh Agency ever again, having enough of their nasty tactics.
So…
So he doesn’t call out. He doesn’t try to catch Ango by his sleeves and demand an explanation or even just a few seconds of time.
For someone whose ability allows him to erase all evidence of crime, Mushitarou is oddly afraid to stain things with his blood-soaked fingers.
For some unknown, mysterious reason, Mushitarou ends up at the bar again.
He took note of the name last night when he was stumbling home without a ride—Bar Lupin, hidden inconspicuously on this dingy dark street, squished between two abandoned stores, only a small, flickering sign as an indication that it lives on.
He hesitates a bit when entering the bar, wondering if he’ll see the same tired government worker sitting there. Mushitarou tells himself that it’s out of wariness, the uncertainty for his safety at being so physically close to someone with so much power.
When Mushitarou arrives, the bar is empty. Well, it’s no surprise, for it is still early. He eyes the stool that Ango was at last night and decides to sit a bit closer, just one stool apart this time.
Mushitarou asks for the same drink, thumbing at the ice when it arrives in his hands. It wasn’t raining today, but his hands feel particularly cold. He picks up the glass and takes a measly sip.
About an hour later, when Mushitarou considers just leaving and calling it a night, his esteemed guest of honour walks into the bar.
This time, Ango takes note of him immediately. His nose scrunches up and his eyes dart to the side, as if considering just leaving straight up, but after a bit, he walks past and towards the same stool with a soft sigh.
Mushitarou watches, again, when Ango receives two drinks—one he finishes quickly, and the other he leaves untouched.
Maybe it’s the alcohol that has lowered Mushitarou’s sense of logic, but curiosity tugs at his chest and he cannot help but ask, “Why do you pay for both if you’re only gonna drink one?”
Ango’s fingers stiffen from where they’re wrapped around his glass. He doesn’t look at Mushitarou, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the inside of his empty glass.
Mushitarou waits. And waits. And waits some more.
His eye twitches when there’s no reply. It’s clear Ango heard him, so what is this game he’s playing at, pretending not to know him? “Oi, I’m talking to you, government lacky.”
At the mention of his job, Ango’s shoulders tense. Instead of a reply like Mushitarou was anticipating, though, he simply gathers his things and leaves with swift feet.
Mushitarou watches him go with a scoff. “The fuck is his problem?” he asks, mostly to himself.
He turns towards the barkeeper, who picks up the two glasses with his eyes downcast. He pours away the whiskey with an impassive expression and Mushitarou wonders how often this happens, or why the air seems so thick with sadness when it does.
Ango doesn’t come on the third day.
Mushitarou waits for what feels like hours, only giving up when his body is physically shutting down from exhaustion. He leaves the bar with the thick taste of whiskey still lingering in his throat and wonders, once again, what the fuck Ango’s issue is.
“Mushi,” Poe calls as he pokes a head into his bedroom. His raccoon sits on his shoulders as it always does, mimicking Poe’s feeble movements. “Are you doing okay?”
It’s about seven in the evening, right after dinner time, and Mushitarou was kind of getting ready to sneak out again. He’s holding a suit jacket that he hides behind his back, not expecting Poe’s sudden arrival. The man usually leaves him alone, anyway, plus the mansion is so big that there’s no reason for him to travel all the way over here to check on Mushitarou, not unless he has a direct purpose.
“What?” Mushitarou asks. “Yes, of course. What do you want?”
Even through his choppy bangs, Mushitarou can see Poe’s eyes, searching his face for a lie. A prickle of discomfort rises under his skin but he braves through it, keeping on a blank expression.
“…I can buy some alcohol to stock here so you don’t have to keep going out,” Poe says with a shrug.
Damn it. He’s been found out anyway. He should’ve known, really, that he wouldn’t be able to keep this up for too long. It sucks living with one of the smartest people in the world.
He bites his tongue, putting on a smile that feels too tight around the edges. "I'll be fine," he assures Poe. "Don't wait up for me."
Before Poe can protest, Mushitarou picks up his things and leaves the room, brushing past the taller man. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, not wanting to crumble unless he's far, far away.
Again, Mushitarou ends up at Bar Lupin. He looks up at the flickering sign, wondering if they're ever going to replace it or if it's just going to look weak and old forever, before heading down the stairs. Once he reaches the bottom, he takes off his coat and looks up, and the sight knocks away the air in his lungs.
Ango is there. He's earlier than Mushitarou is.
Mushitarou's gaze zeroes in on the extra glass next to Ango. His eye twitches in irritation—there's no way this happens almost daily, is there? It's such a waste of good, strong alcohol. And Mushitarou can attest to that because he's drunk the same drink on numerous occasions now.
The government must pay good money for Ango to keep wasting it like this. He wouldn't get it the way Mushitarou does, just how wasteful his behaviour is. It makes his veins spark with annoyance.
Deciding that he needs to do something about it, Mushitarou stomps up to him and slides into the stool right next to Ango, grabbing the glass, and saying, "If you're not going to drink this, I will."
Ango doesn't flinch at first, as if he had expected Mushitarou's presence, but his words make his back straighten. "What?"
"Hah! So you can hear me, after all," Mushitarou sniffs. He lifts the glass to his lips, giving him a few seconds to see if Ango stops him. He doesn't, but he does stare at him with hollow eyes and a wrinkle between his eyebrows, like he can't believe what he's seeing. "I'm drinking it."
Mushitarou presses the edge of the glass to his lips, tilting it and taking a sip. Immediately, he winces at the taste, coughing lightly. "What the hell is this?"
"It's probably a bit stronger than what you usually get," Ango explains. "It's a double shot."
"Oh." He tries not to wince, heat rushing to his cheeks. "Why don't you finish this?"
"No thanks. I can't really hold my liquor." Ango shrugs, gesturing to his glass of tomato juice.
Mushitarou wrinkles his nose. "Fine." He lifts the glass again, finishing it in a hurry even if that's a bad idea, and Ango doesn't move to stop him.
Like this, the effect of the alcohol settles in Mushitarou's blood a lot faster than usual. He feels his bones weigh down from exhaustion, a quiet buzz in his head drowning out his surroundings. It's to the point that he only notices Ango calling his name after multiple tries.
He's holding out a water bottle, Mushitarou realises.
"You shouldn't have drunk that so fast," Ango says as Mushitarou takes the bottle with shaking fingers.
"You're telling me that now?" he snaps, twisting the cap open. He throws his head back, swallowing a few mouthfuls of water and washing away the strong stench of alcohol. "Phah. How does anyone drink this shit?"
Ango hesitates. "Someone with a much stronger tolerance than you and I both, probably."
"Shut the hell up. You're drinking tomato juice at a bar. You might as well head to a supermarket for the same thing."
There's silence for a few seconds. Mushitarou squints through the haze in his vision, watching Ango sigh and push his glasses up higher, an absent habit. "That's true. I should."
If Mushitarou was in a clearer state of mind, he might catch onto the subtle sadness under Ango's words, like an old wound that never closed. Instead, he hacks up another coughing fit, and even the dim lights of the bar feel too bright right now.
Ango gives him an unreadable look. "It's been barely half an hour since you got here, but you should probably head home. Who's picking you up?"
Mushitarou scoffs, mustering up a glare. "No one. Fuck you. It's your fault for ordering this shitty ass drink."
"...You're right."
Before Mushitaruo can say anything else, Ango finishes his drink and tugs his coat back on. Then, he grabs onto the back of Mushitarou's collar and tugs, dragging him off the seat. He stumbles with a yelp, biting back another curse at Ango pulls him towards the stair, albeit weakly.
"You've got no fucking strength," he gripes, trying to stand up properly so he can walk instead of being lugged around like a rabid dog on a leash.
He rights himself up as they're walking up the stairs. Once they've exited the bar, the smell of incoming rain hits Mushitarou's nose. Ango shares that observation, glancing up at the dark sky, where heavy clouds are slowly looming over.
"You're still staying at Poe's, right?" Ango clarifies.
Mushitarou narrows his eyes. "Why do you want to know? You're gonna leak that shit to some of your coworkers?"
Ango takes a deep breath. "No. I am trying to make sure you get home safe."
Oh.
"For what?" he scoffs, even when his head spins. "I'm not your friend."
"...You're not," Ango agrees. "But I let you drink something without telling you what it was. It's my responsibility."
Mushitarou groans at another wave of dizziness. He struggles to find a cohesive argument through the mess in his head. "F-fine. Whatever. I don't even care."
He begins making his way back home, keeping to the side of this shitty, narrow road that smells like piss and garbage. Or maybe that's just the alcohol speaking. Ango trails beside him, keeping on the outside of the road and watching him with an unnerving stare.
Once they reach a crossroad where Mushitarou is supposed to turn right, he sees a figure on his left.
He narrows his eyes, squinting at it. Even if his vision is blurry, he recognises that silhouette anywhere, and right now, he wants nothing to do with it.
The figure lifts up a hand, beckoning him over. Mushitarou continues fighting this internal battle for another five seconds before he loses, as he always does when it comes to Yokomizo's callings. It's rare that Mushitarou sees him when he isn't writing, so this has to count for something. This has to be an opportunity that he can't lose.
Ango doesn't notice that they're going the wrong way, not that he even knows what the correct way is. Mushitarou drags his feet to the left, following Yokomizo's fading ghost, down a winding path that seems to get colder the further he walks. He should put his coat back on soon.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" Ango asks, like he finally picked up on how odd the empty road is. "There aren't many houses on this street."
In fact, calling this place a street is generous. It's more of an abandoned pathway, nothing but grass and road on its sides. There's a few buildings upfront, but they look like closed down warehouses that haven't been touched in years. Ango and Mushitarou are standing under a singular streetlight, its yellow light barely staying strong and being the only thing that illuminates this place. He's surprised it's even working, actually.
"Shut the fuck up," Mushitarou mutters. Any bit of distraction could make him lose sight of Yokomizo. "He's right there."
"...Who?"
Mushitarou's head snaps over to Ango's, a snarl on the tip of his tongue. However, his aggression fizzles out the moment he makes eye contact with the other man, who is watching him through the lenses of his glasses, lips pursed in confusion and concern.
For just a split second, Mushitarou sees Yokomizo, in the drooping, downturned eyes paired with strong eye bags from sleepless nights. Ango's eyes reflect the lamp's weak lighting, and the shade it produces is one Mushitarou hasn't seen in a while but would recognise anywhere.
A soft gold.
The resemblance disappears as fast as it came, but that's probably because Mushitarou's knees give in on themselves and he falls forward. Ango's arms dart forward to catch him, but he, too, crumbles under the weight, and the two of them collapse to the floor together.
A few seconds of nothing but heavy breathing passes. Mushitarou's knees ache in this position—funny, because he had no problem keeping this up when he had his hands around his best friend's neck.
When his head stops spinning, Mushitarou looks up. Yokomizo is nowhere to be seen. Gone without a trace.
It reminds him of his ability, where everything disappears. It doesn't matter who or what—if Mushitarou can hold it, he can get rid of it.
Something about the impermanence of life has always struck at Mushitarou when he was little. As time passes, the trees lose their leaves, old childhood stuffed toys are thrown away, and love always, always fades.
Mushitarou knows better than anyone else how easy it is to be forgotten, so it begs the question: Why can't he forget Yokomizo?
A shift in Ango's body reminds him that the other man is there. Mushitarou twists himself out of his grasp, pushing himself up on weak knees and backing off. Ango does the same, until they're just standing and staring at each other, an awkward gap between them.
"...Your shoes," Ango says.
Mushitarou looks down. His brown loafers, yes. They're both on his feet, looking exactly the way they did before he left Poe's place. He squints in confusion, about to ask Ango what he means, when the man continues.
"They don't know this path. We're going the wrong way."
Mushitarou freezes.
He's aware this isn't the way home, but how the hell did his shoes tell Ango that—
Oh.
Ango turns around, going the correct way. He doesn't look back to make sure that Mushitarou is following. He doesn't need to, though, for Mushitarou feels like he's being dragged along, his feet moving against his will to keep up with Ango.
They don't exchange any more words. Ango seems to know the path completely now, and Mushitarou knows he picked it up through his shoes using his ability. He glares at his feet, wondering how his own clothes can betray him this way.
They reach Poe's mansion. Ango comes to a stop right outside the gate, turning back and casting an impassive look at Mushitarou, who must not look very presentable, not that he cares. "Here you are."
"Right," he mutters, noticing the way Ango keeps his hands firmly behind his back. He doesn't know if that's a sign of respect—an apology for reading something he shouldn't have, but he's silently grateful for it all the same.
As Mushitarou enters the mansion, Ango says, "Nothing ever truly disappears if someone or something remembers it."
Something nasty and twisted rises up Mushitarou's throat. He swallows it down, walking away without a word.
Whenever Mushitarou picks up a pen, Yokomizo is there.
It's come as no surprise at this point. Yokomizo loved writing—it was embedded into his very being, the passion of a pen and paper. It makes sense that his presence would follow Mushitarou's strokes, ink bleeding onto paper the way Yokomizo's soul bleeds into Mushitarou's every waking memory.
So when Mushitarou lifts up a pen, sitting at a desk and writing Yokomizo's name at the top corner of the paper, he's not surprised to see Yokomizo a few feet away, that everlasting smile on his face, the bounce of his curly brown hair as he tilts his head, opening his mouth to speak.
"Nothing ever truly disappears as long as someone or something remembers it," Yokomizo says, except it isn't Yokomizo's voice, it's—
Mushitarou whips his head around, eyes searching for the familiar government worker, but to no avail. A shiver crawls up his spine as he stares in muted horror at the space Yokomizo occupied a few mere seconds ago—now empty, except for a pair of circular-rimmed glasses. Mushitarou casts a shaky look at the pen, wondering if he somehow picked up the wrong thing, but no.
Why? Why is Ango somehow sneaking his way into Mushitarou's head, and why can Mushitarou hear him, but not see him?
He stares at the glasses again, wondering if it has any significance. It's just a simple, every day item, but Mushitarou has already learned that the most mundane objects can hold the weight of a hundred memories.
If Yokomizo's soul is embedded into a simple black fountain pen, then perhaps Ango's soul is embedded in his glasses. Perhaps his memories are dictated by what he has seen, what he has watched come and go.
Still, why the hell is Ango here?
Mushitarou clicks his tongue in annoyance, setting the pen down. He stands up, grabbing his coat and leaving the mansion, down a familiar route that he's grown accustomed to by now.
When he enters the bar, he finds Ango already there. This time, however, Ango's legs are crossed, his knees tilted just ever so slightly towards the staircase, as if he was waiting for someone. He makes eye contact with Mushitarou once he reaches the bottom and nods at him, the first time he's acknowledged him first.
Mushitarou hesitates, looking around the bar as if Yokomizo is going to somehow jump out and replace Ango where he sits. He's unsure why his brain is beginning to associate the two of them together, but Mushitarou would rather die than acknowledge that, so he slides into the seat next to Ango and takes the cup of whiskey, glaring at it.
"I hope this is a double shot."
Ango casts him a confused look. "No. I requested it to be a single shot. For you."
"Eh?"
Something syrupy and unfamiliar fills Mushitarou's stomach. He hurriedly picks up the glass, downing the drink in one go in hopes that the burning sensation of whiskey sliding down his throat will get rid of it. Instead, all it does is amplify the sensation.
Ango sighs, reaching out and rubbing his back soothingly as Mushitaruo hacks up a storm. It makes his cheeks flush red and Mushitarou is sure it isn't because of the alcohol.
"What are you trying to forget about this time?" Ango asks, as if that's any of his business.
He voices out just as much. "None of your fucking business."
To his credit, Ango doesn't seem to take personal offence to that. He shrugs, going back to his stupid tomato drink, bringing it to his lips. Mushitarou watches him through the haze that's beginning to form in his vision—it blurs both his sights and sounds. His world feels muted as Ango sips, and when he brings the glass back down, juice stains his lips.
It's not as dark as blood, but it certainly looks like it with how terrible the lighting in this bar is. Mushitarou clicks his tongue in annoyance—he's always hated seeing blood, the most damning evidence anyone could leave behind. He reaches out, grabbing Ango's chin and wiping away the excess juice on Ango's lips with his thumb. It's only after he pulls back does he realise what he just did, and his heart does a little twist.
"Anyway," Mushitarou mumbles, unable to bear looking at Ango's face any longer lest he sees something he doesn't want to. "Uh. How was work today?"
Ango regards him with a judgemental, thrown-off look. "...It was alright. I don't think you'd be interested in the finer details."
"I am," Mushitarou lies. "Tell me."
He's not sure what he's getting at here. If he's being honest, he just wants to contradict what Ango says so he can assure himself that this man does not know anything about him, that he hasn't been stripped of all his walls and left exposed for who he really is despite the way he feels.
It's embarrassing how often Ango has seen him when he's vulnerable. When all his emotions are swirling and clashing in his chest, such that he cannot untangle them, only able to watch as they explode and eat him up from the inside.
It feels unfair. When has Ango ever battled such conflicting emotions? Mushitarou wants to see him brought down to his knees just once, if only to ascertain the fact that he's human, and not just some sleazy government robot.
"Tell me," Mushitarou insists. "How was your day?"
Somehow, through stilted words and a soft, hesitant voice, Ango heeds his request. He's still looking at Mushitarou like he's grown two heads, but he talks about endless paperwork and annoying coworkers and the boring, dreadful details of a corporate job. Mushitarou responds dryly, shitting on any coworkers that sound particularly difficult to deal with and thinking about how lucky he is to never ever be in that position, despite the other grievances he has with his life.
By the time Ango finishes his drink, they're walking out of the bar together. Mushitarou's vision does not feel any better even when they step out of the bar, and the churning in his stomach still remains when Ango's shoulder brushes against his, but at least…
"You came alone again, didn't you?" Ango asks, glancing back at him. "You shouldn't keep drinking if you're alone. It's not safe out here."
"I'll bet," Mushitarou mutters, struggling to keep up with the pace Ango is setting. "Slow the fuck down, God—"
"I'll ensure your safe arrival home. Hurry up before it gets dangerous."
"You're dangerous," Mushitarou argues, just to be petty. "You could kill me. Ever thought about that? How easy it is to kill a friend?"
His heart stops in his chest.
"You consider me a friend?" Ango snorts. He's still walking ahead, not giving Mushitarou a single look. Like this, only his back is visible to him, enshrouded by the shitty light of the flickering lampposts and the subtle shine of the moon. He looks like an empty shell—a walking ghost. "I wouldn't kill a friend."
"Bullshit," Mushitarou laughs, not a bit of humour in his voice. "You and I are cut from the same cloth. You'd do it if you had to, wouldn't you?"
Mushitarou feels it again—the hairs on the back of his neck rising, a cold sensation washing over his spine. He feels Yokomizo's invisible claws digging into his skin, scarring him, keeping his own memory alive by haunting Mushitarou's dreams.
Ango stops in front of him, his head tilted down like he's avoiding someone's gaze. If Mushitarou wasn't fighting his own battles, he'd ask to shoulder some of Ango's weight.
"Maybe you're right," Ango admits. "Or maybe I was wrong."
"The fuck does that mean?"
"It's fine." Ango shakes his head. He still hasn't turned to look at Mushitarou. "Let's get you home."
It becomes tradition of some sort, at this point.
Ango reaches Bar Lupid before Mushitarou does and orders two drinks—tomato juice for himself, a whiskey on ice for Mushitarou. Mushitarou stomps down a bit later, drops onto the stool next to Ango, and drinks like he's trying to forget his entire existence, before asking Ango to share about his day. And Ango always says the same thing, unable to share the finer details of his job, but still giving enough to make Mushitarou laugh and ignore the ghost living in the back of his mind.
They then walk back to Poe's together, and even though Ango looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, he drags Mushitarou back if he has to, as if adopting the responsibility on his own accord.
That is why, when Mushitarou heads down to Bar Lupin one day and sees Ango with two glasses of whiskey in front of him, he knows that something is wrong.
"Someone's had a bad day," he sing-songs, sliding into his usual seat. Ango doesn't greet him with anything other than an odd grunt.
Mushitarou picks up his drink, peering into it and watching the ice sphere bob up and down. He hums, taking a small sip, considering throwing it all back before restraining himself. He gets the feeling he needs to stay completely sober tonight.
"Wanna talk about it?" he offers, not that he particularly cares.
"No," Ango mumbles.
"'Kay. You look like shit, by the way."
"Mhm."
"Did you even sleep? Those eye circles make you look like a panda."
"I didn't," Ango grumbles, giving him a nasty side-eye. "Why are you so chatty today?"
"Why are you so moody?" Mushitarou shoots back.
Ango doesn't deign that with a reply, taking a small sip of his drink. His face twists like he doesn't like the taste and Mushitarou cannot fathom why he picked this. He snatches Ango's drink out of his hands, lifting it to his nose and taking a whiff before gagging at how strong the smell is.
"The fuck? Is this a double shot?"
"Yes," Ango grunts, snatching it back. He drinks another mouthful, hacking up a lung right after. Mushitarou rolls his eyes.
"For how much you're always chiding me, you sure aren't any better at holding your liquor," he scoffs.
Ango groans, dropping his head onto the table. His forehead hits the surface with a painful thunk.
Mushitarou spends the next few minutes with just himself for company, Ango providing no commentary other than the occasional grunt to confirm that he's still alive. Many times, Mushitarou pulls his glass towards him before thinking better of it and pushing it back. If Ango notices, he doesn't point it out.
By the time the bar starts getting crowded, Mushitarou stands up, tugging Ango's elbow. He can waste good alcohol for one day. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
Ango proves to be an absolute hassle when he's drunk. His legs don't cooperate and he drops all his weight on Mushitarou, who absolutely cannot carry another man, and he slurs through all his words and he's just completely sluggish. Bringing him up the stairs was already like pulling teeth.
"How the hell are you getting home?" Mushitarou complains once they reach open air again. The roads are a bit wet. The flickering bar sign finally looks like it’s about to give out, barely emitting any light at all. "Did you drive? Hell, I don't even know where you live."
Ango does not provide any helpful response.
Mushitarou glares at him even though he's still struggling to support his weight. He could just dump Ango here in this dingy alleyway and let him pass out. If he wakes up, he'll be able to recollect himself and contact someone to bring him back. Maybe one of his fellow government coworkers. Maybe even the shitty one that he really hates.
Mushitarou considers it. He really, really does. But when he tries to actually carry it out, something irritating nags at the back of his head, telling him that he shouldn't.
Ugh, this is so stupid. Since when did Mushitarou develop a moral compass? He doesn't even like Ango. He's just hanging out with him through unforeseen circumstances and for free alcohol. It's not like they're actually friends.
"...Fuck," Mushitarou says through gritted teeth, hauling Ango up. "Let's go home, you big baby. Not too far from here."
Poe probably wouldn't mind if Mushitarou brought home a guest. He actually leaves Mushitarou alone most of the time, anyway. If they're quiet and don't disturb Karl, then it should all be smooth-sailing. That is, if Mushitarou can even get Ango there on his own.
"Why is this my life," he says to no one in particular, holding back another sigh and beginning the arduous journey home.
When they've reached Poe's place, Mushitarou keeps a firm hand on Ango's wrist as he drags him through the place towards his assigned bedroom. Ango is surprisingly compliant when he's drunk, but maybe he's just really out of it and tired. He lets Mushitarou pull off his coat and toss it to the floor, as well as drag off his shoes and tie. Mushitarou has no clothes to lend him, but it's not like Ango is able to get himself to the bathroom and shower, so he ignores it.
As he shoves Ango onto the bed, he racks his brain for what to do. He keeps the lamp on, bathing the room in a dim golden light, and grabs an unopened water bottle. He pushes it into Ango's hands, mumbling for him to drink. That will somewhat help with the hangover, he thinks. He isn't even sure if Ango will stay the whole night, but that's a problem for future them.
Mushitarou leaves Ango alone to take his own shower. It's rare that he returns home sober these days, so the shock of cold water wakes him the hell up. He contemplates sharing the situation with Poe—this is his place, after all, but decides that he really doesn't care either way.
When Mushitarou returns back to the bedroom, Ango has made himself home on Mushitarou's bed, laying on his back with a hand held to his forehead. He clicks his tongue in annoyance—but he was the one who brought him here, so he supposes he should reap what he sowed.
Mushitarou crawls onto the bed, mumbling Ango's name. He doesn't respond and his eyes are shut, so he's probably knocked out already. Mushitarou bites the inside of his cheek, helping Ango take off his watch and placing it on the bedside table. After a bit of consideration, he reaches for Ango's glasses too, his body looming over him.
At that, Ango's eyes flutter open, and Mushitarou freezes.
He gives no sign of recognition, but something akin to pain flickers through his irises, and Mushitarou pulls back like he's been burned. He drags himself to the edge of the bed as something icy and raw crawls down his spine, and for a moment, Mushitarou truly expects the ghosts of his sins to emerge from the shadows and strangle him right there and then.
Instead, all that comes out is Ango's weakened voice, "I don't understand."
Mushitarou pauses from where he's folding his glasses up, ready to place it next to the watch on his night stand. "...What?"
"You're nothing like him," Ango says with a deep frown. "You're irritable. Rude. You don't even look like him. You look like— hic— like you can't grow a beard to save your life."
"Hey!"
"So I don't understand why I like you so much."
Mushitarou's throat feels like it's closing up on itself. He chokes on his next breath, staring down at the ground with wide eyes.
Ango doesn't say anything else. After a few moments, a soft snore fills his ears. He's really asleep now, then.
He probably won't even remember this in the morning—something said in the spur of the moment, no barricades or filters barred. But Mushitarou will remember it, and it will haunt him like everything else does, following him like the shadows that stay beneath his feet and like the sins he can never truly wash away, not even with his ability. Such is the curse of Oguri Mushitarou, who cannot hold onto things without leaving behind guilt.
Gritting his teeth, he turns back to look at Ango, to stare at the slope of his nose and the sunken hollowness in his cheeks and the mole near his upper lip. He stares unabashedly, drinking in the sight of a man at peace, even with the inner turmoil comparable to a hurricane.
He doesn't know who Ango was comparing him to earlier, but he supposes he can sympathise. Despite their similar looks, Ango and Yokomizo aren't very similar. Where Yokomizo is open and gentle, Ango is guarded and defensive. Where Yokomizo's passions shine, such that even his voice is as genuine as can be, Ango's words taste like lies.
Still, Mushitarou feels drawn to Ango in a way that he cannot explain.
Perhaps it's not something that needs explaining, though. Maybe it's something that can just be allowed to exist.
Like a small piece of grass sprouting through the cracks of concrete, or the quiet drifting of clouds passing an open field, some things exist just because. There's no divine revelation, no rhyme or reason—only the fact that it's there.
That's all there is to it.
"I like you, too," Mushitarou mumbles, a subtle weight lifting off his chest when he admits it. No one hears it, for it falls on unconscious ears. No one needs to, though.
Mushitarou sets Ango's glasses on the bedside table, turns the light off, and crawls under the covers, his back pressed against another's and lulling him to sleep.
In the middle of the night, Mushitarou awakens.
He rubs his groggy eyes, heart stuttering when he feels a presence behind him before recalling what happened. Without so much as a glance, he drags himself out of bed and towards his desk.
Mushitarou uses the light from his phone, not wanting to risk waking Ango up, and sits down on his chair. A pen, a sheet of paper, and the stars for company, he begins to write.
He expects Yokomizo to show up the moment he touches the pen. That's how it's always been, after all, and that's how Mushitarou ensures he doesn't disappear. This time, however, his old friend doesn't appear.
Instead, Mushitarou sees slicked back black hair, tired brown eyes behind round-rimmed glasses, and a bright red cup of tomato juice held between bony fingers. Yokomizo's figure does not rise from the shadows, and oddly enough, Mushitarou does not mourn.
He feels as if the shackles around his ankles have been broken, allowing him to step forward. No longer chained down, but that isn't to say that Mushitarou will forget about Yokomizo. That was his best friend, after all, and maybe even something more.
And so he'll continue to write. He'll continue to write letters to Yokomizo as long as he has something to share, as long as he has purpose in his shitty, quiet life.
If that purpose comes in the form of a dingy old bar and Sakaguchi Ango by his side, then that's all there is to it.
Dear Yokomizo,
I see scraps of you everywhere I go. I see your hair in the clouds and your clothes in my closet and your hand wrapped around my pens. But I no longer see you. You haven't disappeared, of course, there's no getting rid of the scar you've inflicted on me, but you do not suffocate me anymore. Is that wrong? If I don't spend my whole life repenting, would your death have been worth it or in vain?
Well, not that it matters.
I'm heading to the bar again. Ango left earlier, but he thanked me and told me he'd see me tonight if I'd like. I'm kind of excited, even if I loathe to admit that. He's still a sleazy government rat, and I hate those damn pests.
But… I suppose there are some things about him that are bearable. Likeable, even. Don't laugh at me. I can hear you, even if I can't really hear you anymore.
It's quite funny, isn't it? I never thought I'd see the day where you don't show up in my room, even when I'm writing you a letter like this one. But I suppose I should be grateful for that. You're really annoying, you know. Almost as annoying as Ango.
I think there is no point in reminiscing about the 'what-ifs' and 'could-haves' of our lives, but a part of me will always wonder about a different fate, for you and me both. Even if you're in the past, you'll never truly slip my mind. I'm okay with that, though. I've finally made peace with that fact. I'm not too sure about Ango, but I think he's going through something similar. I know better than anyone else how much an old friend can torture you, even when they're dead!
I'm ready to move on, Yokomizo. Not that this is a goodbye letter, but I have a feeling that these will be a lot more sparse from now on. Will you be mad? I don't think so, but either way I don't care. That isn't to say that I never did, though. Even if I've never told you this, never even dared to admit it, I've always wanted you to be happy. And… It might be selfish, but I want to be happy too. Even after everything I've done.
Well, whatever. I guess this is it for now. I hope you're doing okay, wherever you are.
— Oguri Mushitarou