Chapter Text
—
“Mr Hayakawa?”
Tiger scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes squinting against the intruding light of his apartment’s hallway, “That’s me.” His hand drifted upwards to ruffle his hair absentmindedly, attempting to stifle his obvious bed-head. He must look like a real mess right now. “What’s going on?”
The officer hesitated, her eyes drinking him in in all his sleep-deprived glory. He didn’t miss the way her lips twitched into that of a frown. “Sorry to interrupt you so late at night.” She started, “But we received your name as a point of contact for several individuals.”
“Point of… contact?” His voice came out rough, laced with the last remaining dreads of sleep. “What…?”
“Point of contact.” Her partner chimed in, confirming. “An emergency contact, so to speak. I’m sure you’ve filled in your fair share of forms regarding that over the years.”
He blinked, “Oh.” Yeah, yes, he had. Though he wasn’t aware that he had his details written down by people for him to be one of their main contacts. Weird. Who would want him as their point of contact? “For who, exactly?”
“Ah,” The policewoman cleared her throat, glancing down at her work-issued phone, “Four individuals by the names of Yugiro Takashima, Kylo Moriyama, Kendo Tsuchiya and Miko Hayashi.”
His heart stopped.
“-have all been contacted already,” She rattled on and on and on, “but given the situation it’s been decided to branch out into secondary contacts for all victims involved. This way we-”
Victims..?
“I’m sorry, what…” His voice was no louder than a whisper, but she fell silent as if he had yelled, “What happened..?”
“Unfortunately we cannot discuss it here as it's a private on-going investigation.” She sighed. It was a soft, apologetic sound. It grated against his ears like nails on a chalkboard. “But we can begin to disclose details as soon as we’ve escorted you to the hospital. Okay?”
“I don’t- what do I-?” His lip wobbled, teeth quickly sinking down into the skin to hold it in place. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t. “I’m sorry, I-”
A gloved, warm hand planted itself firmly on his shoulder. “We understand.” Her partner said, his voice gentle, as if he were speaking to a cornered animal. “It’s a lot to take in, and I’m sure you have questions, and we will answer what we can, but only when it's safe for us to do so.” He squeezed his arm once, before pulling away, “If you need anything, I highly suggest bringing it along now.”
“Things like your phone, charger, a toothbrush-” The list was rattled off as Tiger stumbled backwards into his apartment, fingers beginning to tremble as he reached for item after item, shoving them into an old backpack of his. “-change of clothes, any medications you take, books-”
Books? Why the hell would he need a book? His friends could be dying and she was telling him to pack entertainment-?
“You might want to change as well. Before we go.” The male officer pointed out softly, “You’ll most likely be there a while.”
Tiger peered down at his pajamas- at his stupid patterned trousers with silly little cats on them -a gift from North for his birthday- and at the deep, rich, midnight blue shirt he’d fallen asleep in, worn and badly frayed with age.
His throat squeezed shut.
“Tiger?”
Tiger fluttered his eyelashes, tilting his head innocently. Kylo and Keita snickered behind him, “How may I help, my dearest Captain?”
Miko curled an amused brow, “Where did you get that lovely shirt you’re wearing?”
“Oh, this old thing?” Tiger lifted a hand to smooth down the front of it, fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the wolf embroidered into the blue cloth. “Nowhere fancy.”
“Nowhere fancy.” Miko echoed, walking closer, slowly. His lips curled into a grin, “You little shit that’s one of my favourite shirts-!”
“Spare me-!” Tiger cackled, darting away as Miko’s hand reached out in an attempt to snag him, “Please!”
“Okay.” Was all he could whisper.
—
The scent of sizzling meat filled the air, thick with smoke and spice. The grill hissed as Rasta flipped a slab of ribs, his face set in deep, focused satisfaction. The man took his barbecue seriously- that much was obvious.
Bo lounged at the nearby table, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the grill with the intensity of a wolf watching its prey. “How much longer?” he asked, not for the first time.
Rasta chuckled, shaking his head. “And here I thought you knew what patience meant, man. You can’t rush greatness.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but greatness smells ready,” Bo grumbled. “I can feel my soul leaving my body, Rasta.”
“You’ll live.”
“If I die before you finish, you’re feeding my ghost.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious, Rasta.”
Rasta grinned as he brushed sauce over the meat, the glaze sizzling and popping as it hit the crackling heat. “Your ghost will have to wait, too, you know. You always this dramatic when there’s food involved, or is it just mine?”
Bo snorted. “Have you met me?”
“Fair enough.” Rasta huffed a quiet laugh.
For a moment, they let the easy silence settle between them, the only sounds the wispy snapping of the flames and the distant hum of insects.
“You ever think about opening a restaurant?” Bo asked suddenly.
“Nah.” Rasta flipped another piece of meat, then took a sip from the beer in his free hand. “Then it’d be a job. This?” He gestured loosely to the warm night air, the grill, the company. “This is nice. I cook at my own pace, make whatever I want, however I want. Can’t do that with a restaurant.”
Bo hummed in agreement. “Still…” He stretched his arms out, voice drawn out and easy. “If you ever change your mind, I’d be your number one customer. You know that, right?”
Rasta smirked. “Like you aren’t already?”
“You say it like its a bad thing-”
“Hey, guys?” Joe’s voice was loud enough to break through their conversation. It sounded wrong, however. It sounded so very, very wrong. Shaky and small, like a child calling out for his parents. It broke the pair from their little bubble in an instant.
Rasta turned first, grin still half-formed, before it slipped away entirely. Joe, who had moments before been lounging sleepily on the couch, idly watching TV, was now sitting upright, wide awake. His big, huge, horrified eyes were locked onto the screen before him, mouth agape.
Any carefree warmth he had vanished as soon as Rasta followed his gaze.
BREAKING NEWS - NAKAMA FC MASSACRE: MULTIPLE PLAYERS DEAD, COACH ARRESTED
“What the fuck.” Shakes breathed, also having turned to look at the TV. “What the fuck?”
“Turn it up.” Bo demanded.
Joe fumbled for the remote, “-from Tokyo, Japan. A tragedy unfolded here early this morning- sources report that Ura Giri, coach of Japan's Super League team Nakama FC, allegedly attacked several of his own players. At least four players are confirmed dead, with that number expected to rise-”
“This can’t be real.” Shakes was muttering under his breath, eyes never leaving the screen, “There’s no way this is real. There’s no way.”
“Family members and friends have been seen arriving at Jikei University hospital, including well-known ex-Nakama player and current Supa Strikas player Twisting Tiger, who was pictured here by onlookers only moments prior-”
The screen flashed to a recorded video, the amateur footage blurry and shaky for a brief moment before focusing in on Tiger. He was flanked by two police officers, his head lowered to the floor, following their lead as he was guided inside. He refused to acknowledge any questions thrown his way by the public surrounding him, his face obscured from view by the hoodie he had on, the hood pulled high up and over his head. The tip of his nose and some escaping red hair were the only confirmation that anyone truly needed, however. That was most definitely Tiger.
“-sources say that Ura Giri, the alleged suspect of this brutal attack, was apprehended by police when members of the public alerted them to the scene after hearing screaming and yelling coming from within the building. It’s unknown currently what the reasoning behind the attack was. Ura Giri is being held without bond until further notice as evidence is collected-”
“Tiger…” Joe sounded physically pained, “Shit.”
“Should I- should I call him?” Shakes’ voice wavered, his lip quivering as he reached for his phone. His fingers trembled minutely over the screen. “I should call him, right?”
No one answered him at first. Joe had his head buried deep in his hands- Rasta was still staring at the screen, unblinking. The room grew deadly silent, even as the reporter droned on.
Shakes swallowed, hard. “Guys-?”
“No,” Bo’s voice cut through the silence gently, his tone soft. “I wouldn’t.”
Shakes turned to peer up at the man, “I don’t- why?” His nose scrunched, “We have to do something, Bo, I can’t just-”
Bo shook his head, “He’s… He’s just got there, Shakes. He’s got enough to deal with right now.” His voice was steady, even if Bo himself looked ready to break, his jaw clenched tightly, “I know you want to help, but give him a minute and just… Just wait. Please.”
—