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“Slowpoke,” Nagumo goads him, pretending to check his non-existent wristwatch.
The mission should have been simple, a cleaning house of a syndicate dealing in illicit weapons, but the JAA intel neglected to mention that the place was booby-trapped to hell and back.
He stabs another lackey in the neck. He tries to neatly sidestep the blood spurting from the neck wound, but still some gets on his shirt. The lack of sleep is catching up with him.
He hears Nagumo’s surprised yelp and turns to see his friend jerking backward—a shot to his shoulder? He’ll be fine with some rest. Before he can turn away, a glint of silver shoots across the room, and, like he is seeing it in slow motion, the booby trap’s projectile hits Nagumo in the neck. Once again, he sees bright ruby red blood, but this time it's coming out of his friend’s pale skin.
Suddenly, Taro feels the hair in the back of his neck rising. Not the time, shouldn’t he be by his friend’s side? With a frown, he twists around and blocks the katana - not even a fraction of Takamura-san’s skill? He pulls out his gun and neatly places the shot in the assassin’s forehead. He takes stock of the rest of the assassins crawling out of the woodwork.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Steady hands, steady rhythm, aiming and dispatching his targets. Blood painting the walls in fine droplets of red. The dead assassins slumped down, bleeding red into the grey concrete floor.
He does a quick sweep of the room, no more killing intent. The hostile assassins are all dead. Nagumo did well for himself. The man was also surrounded by the corpses, strewn around his shoes, his long tan coat stained red. Nagumo’s left hand is holding pressure on the wound as he grins at Taro, “I have been waiting for you to finish,” but he didn’t seem to manage his normal mocking tone before Nagumo’s knees buckled, his bloodied hands falling to his side.
Taro is by Nagumo's side in a flash. Up close, he can see that Nagumo is pale. He grabs Nagumo's hand and presses it harder against the dark-haired man’s neck, trying to stem the bleeding. Granny Miya will figure out any contaminations later, right now the priority is keeping Nagumo from bleeding out into the dirty concrete.
Undoing his necktie and pulling out his handkerchief, Taro bunches up the white cloth and ties the necktie to keep the pressure on the wound. Under his palms, Nagumo's pulse is sluggish, the skin of his neck pale.
“Hah, your stupid face looks so worried,” Nagumo says, glancing at his furrowed brow. Taro ignores the jab, he remembers the last time he and Nagumo were in a predicament like this. It was JAA’s second-year survival practicum. All the students were thrown out into the freezing winter night. Taro was feverish and disoriented in the frozen landscape. All he remembered was Nagumo poking his fever-red face while cooing, “Sakamoto-kun, you look so stupid, but still lugging Taro on his back to the rendezvous point anyway.
Now it’s his turn to get Nagumo out safely. “Sorry for this,” Taro says as he slings Nagumo over his shoulder and feels Nagumo's full body shudder at being jostled around.
Luckily, this mission didn’t call for discretion, and their ride is right outside the warehouse. “Almost there,” Taro mutters to Nagumo, slung over his shoulder like a rag doll. He strides towards his hidden motorcycle and hastily yanks the cover off.
“Hey, hold on to me.”
“Wuh—you?” Nagumo slurs out, eyes glassy. Fuck, the blood loss is bad, isn’t it? He sees the blood sluggishly continue to leak out from under the makeshift compress.
With Nagumo looking like he is on the brink of unconsciousness, he decided he can’t trust the taller man’s condition to hold on to the motorcycle—or to him. Dragging Nagumo’s arms around his waist, Taro whips off his scarf and ties it around Nagumo’s wrists, hoping it would secure him from falling off the speeding motorcycle. Taro shoves on his helmet before turning to the dark-haired man slumped over his shoulder, warm breaths humid on his uncovered nape.
“Hold tight,” Sakamoto says, twisting the keys as the motorcycle rumbles to life between his legs. One more glance at Nagumo’s pale face, he revs the engine, and they are off.
The spotlights illuminate circles on the dark grounds of the abandoned dockyard. Taro deftly navigates between the looming warehouses, avoiding the eroded pavement patches and shining puddles. He trusts his driving skills, but Nagumo’s life is trickling away with each second. Taro fears any mistakes would aggravate the neck injury. So instead of jumping the chained wire gate, he pulls out his Glock, the movement rattling Nagumo’s toolbox slung over his shoulder. He shoots the padlocked gate and revs the motorcycle, slamming it wheel-first into the gate as he speeds off onto the road.
Under the pale yellow streetlights, Taro adjusts the side mirror to keep an eye out for Nagumo’s condition, the man behind him motionless, his exposed skin looking pale. Taro knows Nagumo isn’t dead yet, the shallow rise and fall of his chest against Taro’s back a ticking clock. His mind is clear. It’s practicality, the years of JCC first aid training kicking in.
The empty night streets of Tokyo suburbs passed in a blur. It took him 17 minutes to get to his destination, a place he normally goes for the occasional chiropractic adjustment, not for treating life-or-death neck wounds. The dingy sign “Miya Acupuncture” flickers sadly as he stops the bike in front of the clinic and raps on the sliding door covered in yellowing paper signs.
In a moment, the door opens, revealing the wrinkled face of Granny Miya.
“Granny, I need your help. Nagumo’s injured,” Taro says, but why is his voice unsteady?
“Come on in then. Looks like Nac-chan is gonna need my help.” Granny turns around and takes a long drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray.
Walking into the waiting room with Nagumo on his back, Taro can see that Granny was in the middle of rolling her cigarettes—long herbal monstrosities that she is continuously inhaling. The clinic smells like stale smoke and Chinese herbal medicine that almost covers up the metallic scent of blood reeking from Nagumo and himself.
“Get him onto the cot,” she ordered. “You growing boys are too big for an old lady like me to carry around.”
He disposes of Nagumo on the clinic’s bed. Under the pale fluorescent light, he sees the nasty shoulder wound, the torn edges of Nagumo's gaudy shirt showing the small entry hole. The blood on Nagumo’s neck is smeared, a stark contrast to his pale skin under the bright crimson streaks. Before he can check the makeshift compress, Granny Miya strides over and wheels Nagumo away into her operation room. “Just wait outside, he’ll be fine.”
His mission is complete. Nagumo is in Granny’s capable hands. The syndicate is dead per JAA’s orders. Now, the adrenaline rushes out as Taro slumps into the folding chair left next to him—somehow he didn’t notice it. He isn’t injured anywhere, other than the normal fatigue after exerting himself on a mission. The front of his white shirt is splattered with the blood of the men he killed, the redness of the fresh blood turning dark. Peeling off his outer layer, the tackiness of Nagumo’s blood clings to his skin, the stain spreading from where Nagumo was slumped over him, the blood seeping through the makeshift compress, their combined body heat preventing the blood from drying out.
Taro feels restless and unsure. He should be satisfied, the mission is a success, Nagumo is in Granny Miya’s godly hands, but now he is left alone with his thoughts. The room is cool. With nothing to do but wait, Taro falls back into JAA training and counts the steady sound of the clock’s hand. 17, 18, 19. The blood-red second hand jerkily moving forward.
****************
Nagumo was in the operating room for just under an hour—exactly 56 minutes and 12 seconds—before Granny wheels him out unconscious, bandages peeking from under the blanket.
“He lost a lot of blood. I sewed him up and dug out the bullet—nasty one right there, if it was an inch lower, he'll be dealing with a deflated lung,” she says as she fiddles with the pot on the stove, spooning out a bowl of bone broth and putting it on the table between them.
“I’m going to sleep. When he wakes up, give him the bone broth.”
Taro glances at the cloudy broth in front of him, raising his eyebrows at Miya questioningly. It’s going to be cold by then.
“It’s for you,” her raspy voice reprimands him as she puts her hand on his shoulder and gives it a strong squeeze. “Don’t wait for it to cool.”
“Also shower, you reek,” she says as she scrunches up her nose. Granny leaves, closing the lights on the stairs behind her, and Taro is left alone with Nagumo’s sleeping body.
He mechanically spoons in the broth, ignoring the scent of Chinese medicine, until the bowl is gone. He keeps an eye on Nagumo, lying unnaturally still. Nagumo is always moving, twirling a pen around, tapping his fingers, rolling his shoulders. Seeing him motionless worries Taro, but if he looks hard enough, he can see the gentle rise and fall of Nagumo’s chest under the blankets.
Somehow he falls asleep in the hard wooden chair, slumped forward onto the kitchen table. as the clock ticks in the background.
****************
Taro wakes up to the vibrations of his phone in his pocket. It’s just before seven in the morning, and the sunlight is shining through the blinds, beams of light in the dusty clinic. In the warm morning light, Taro glances at Nagumo lying stock-still in the corner of the room. No sign of movement.
He fishes out his phone from his dress pants and sees notifications from JAA’s application. He keys in his passcode to check the unread messages.
“URGENT: Order members NAGUMO YOICHI and SAKAMOTO TARO are to report to the JAA Tokyo branch by 0900 TODAY.”
Glancing at Nagumo’s still frame in the light of day, the dark circles under his eyes seem more pronounced than ever. With a jolt, he realizes Nagumo looks weak—something he never associates with his friend. He is in no condition to go back into the field.
“Nagumo is down with a gunshot and neck wound. Recuperating at Granny Miya.”
He sees the little bubble move as their JAA handler types out his reply. The reply comes, and Taro is not pleased.
“We need you two now. He should be fine to move with Granny Miya’s treatments. Wake him up and report here by 10.00.
Nagumo is in no condition to go back into the field. Taro wouldn’t let him. He presses the power button on his phone with more force than necessary. Then, he fishes out Nagumo's phone and does the same before abandoning both phones on the kitchen counter. Stepping close to the bed, he notices Nagumo’s sleeping face looks pinched—Nagumo hates to sleep with the lights on, always snapping on a little eye mask when sleeping. Before Taro thinks too much about it, he grabs an extra pillowcase, folding it clumsily into a makeshift eye mask and gently draping it over Nagumo's face.
While Nagumo sleeps, Taro keeps busy. He peels off his shirt crusted with dried blood and hops into the shower. Scrubbing out the blood and grime, he leaves the shower refreshed, worries temporarily put to the side.
Dialing Kill'n Clean, Taro requests that they pick up his and Nagumo's bloodied laundry, specifying that the blood stains have dried out. Granny Miya sends him on small errands— taking the recyclables out, organizing her storeroom. In the warm afternoon, he cleans Nagumo's blood off his bike. Scrubbing with a brush to get the stains out of leather seats and washing the detailing with a soft sponge.
In his free time, Taro spreads out his weapons in the back room and starts cleaning them, a comforting routine. Nagumo’s multitool box opens with a soft click, and he takes out the weapons, and memories of them—Taro, Rion, Nagumo—catch him off guard. They always used to clean their weapons together. Nagumo prattling on about the latest gossip in the JCC, Akao’s cutting observations about the people featured in the story, and Taro, sitting between the duo as their voices wash over him. He remembers how Nagumo constantly whines about the upkeep of his myriad of knives—the rust, the dullness—as he cleans the specks of blood from the translucent glass blade.
Taro’s mind keeps returning to Nagumo’s blood, warming his back on the ride to the clinic. To take his mind away from the image of Nagumo bleeding out under his hands, Taro hides away in Granny’s home gym and does set after set until he loses count. After seeing him settling into the hard kitchen chair for the second night, Granny Miya ushers him to sleep in the cot next to Nagumo. “You need rest. We have plenty of room for both of you.”
****************
Two days later, Nagumo wakes up, looking pale and greasy. Taro busies himself as he takes out the soup container from the fridge - the thick broth has solidified into a jelly, which he spoons into a bowl and microwaves. As he gets out of bed, Nagumo winces as he flings the blanket off, his torn shoulder muscles screaming in protest. The warm bowl is dropped in front of Nagumo, who dragged himself to sit at the table, gently stretching his shoulders and wincing.
“Thanks,” Nagumo says as he methodically spoons the herbal broth into his mouth. Taro drops into the chair across from Nagumo and notices that his friend is making a face at the medicine - he always had a sweet tooth, but he keeps eating. JCC training beat out Nagumo’s pickiness with food, while Taro never had strong preferences anyway.
The loose patient robe gapes enough to reveal Nagumo’s pale skin, his collarbones more striking as he lost some weight from the forced bed rest. The knife wound on his neck has already scarred over, thanks to Granny Miya’s mystery poultice. The scar runs from the front to the back of Nagumo's neck, bisecting the neck tattoo with an angry red slash.
“Stop looking at me like I died, Sakamoto-kun,” but Nagumo's eye bags are a deep purple, the cheerful spark in his dark eyes nowhere to be found. “I reek,” Nagumo states, wrinkling his nose.
To remedy that, Taro ushers Nagumo into the shower, throwing him a towel and his own change of clothing. Basic wound care dictates that wounds should be kept dry, so Taro helps Nagumo apply the waterproof bandages, wiping the skin with the antiseptic wipes and smoothing the edges of the bandages over his tattoos—he spots new lines of text running along his ribs.
Nagumo comes out of the shower in Taro’s set of spare clothing. It reminds him of their JCC days, when their mess of a laundry system meant both of them often ran out of clean clothing. Rion laughing like a hyena and throwing whatever clean item she dug out of their closet at their heads.
Oh, Rion. He keeps thinking about her today. But the image of her cold body now is superimposed with Nagumo’s pale face, lying still in his sights for the last three days. He thinks of the gentle rise and fall of Kindaka's chest as the machine breathes for him.
Taro had had enough of people dying on him. Nagumo is going to live.
“Let’s go for a ride,” Taro announces to Nagumo.
“No work?”
Taro shakes his head, and Nagumo looks at him, a question in his eyes. They both know there is always a new mission to be completed, another target to eliminate. In their time in the Order, it was rare to have a day off, not to mention three days without work piling up. But Nagumo doesn’t press.
“Let’s go to an aquarium.” Nagumo’s gaze is now steely. Nagumo looks at him hard, his mouth a flat line—probably remembering Rion's words. Taro avoids mentioning their last days with Rion in front of Nagumo, the wound still fresh on both of their minds.
Undeterred, Taro keeps going. “There is probably one nearby. I’ll check,” and he is fishing out his phone to search for the nearest aquarium - Enoshima Aquarium - and he shows Nagumo the screen. Normally it’s Nagumo convincing him, but he needs to convince Nagumo about this impulsive decision.
“I—we have never been to one,” Taro adds.
Nagumo seems lost in thought, but he eventually shrugs and simply says, “Okay.”
Everything was quick afterwards. They said goodbye to Granny and packed up their gear. Nagumo insists that they help water the plants one more time, and then they leave through the front door, walking out into the bright morning sun.
Taro shrugs on his leather jacket. Opening the storage compartment, he fishes out an extra riding jacket for Nagumo.
They hop on Taro’s clean bike, Nagumo gingerly sitting down behind him. Unlike last time, a fully conscious Nagumo puts his hands on Taro’s shoulder and squeezes gently. The gentle touch is her own way of saying thank you.
Granny Miya waves them off, her parting words of “You are always welcome here” bouncing around his skull.
The sun warms up the cool winter air as they ride down the same road. This time without the urgency of Nagumo’s arteries bleeding out into the space between their bodies.
Taro keeps a steady pace, mindful of Nagumo's carsickness. He trails the speeding car ahead, and Nagumo's arms warm around his waist.
They merge onto the highway. Letting the cool winds and the rumble of the motorcycle soothe their worries.
****************
The Kamakura sea shimmers as they turn into the Enoshima aquarium’s parking lot. Nagumo goes to pay for their tickets and announces that they missed the dolphin show. Taro doesn’t mind as he trails Nagumo into the aquarium.
Taro doesn’t know what to expect, but he follows Nagumo, who scans the little information boards and keeps up a constant chatter of any facts he deems interesting. A cheerful little sign announcing the Master of Disguise exhibition catches his eyes. Disguises, Nagumo also seems to see it too, so he nods and follows him to stand in front of the glass tank.
The little octopus looks back at them, its square irises looking a bit too aware. Nagumo pulls on his sleeve. “The sign says the mimic octopus changes its skin color and its movement to imitate other species. Sea snakes, flounders, lionfishes.”
“Like your disguise skills,” Taro thinks of Nagumo gleefully pranking him in the JCC dorms, “They probably have fun.”
“Hey, I don’t think they enjoy being part of the food chain that much.” Nagumo huffs, looking lost in thought.
Under the aquarium’s dappled blue lights, Nagumo seems looser than he has in a long time. They shuffle around the hoards of chattering school kids to sit in front of the big tank, watching the shimmering schools of fish form and reform. Large fish slowly float by, their cloudy eyes staring into the visitors behind the glass.
“That ray looks like you,” pointing to a ray fruitlessly flapping at the top edge of the tank. Its flat underbelly is a pale gray, and its beady eyes looking at nothing in particular. Taro huffs and smacks the back of Nagumo’s head, “I’m not that stupid looking.”
The jellyfish exhibition catches his eye. Before today, the JCC’s poison class only taught them about poisonous box jellyfish with their long tendrils. But the jellyfish he sees today seem harmless, their translucent bodies glowing under the neon lights as they gently drift in the tank’s currents. The exhibition’s lights cast a blue glow on the darkened corridor, the fresh scar on Nagumo’s neck a dark line.
The reminder of Nagumo’s brush with mortality is a sobering thought, and Taro chooses to focus on the fish tanks in front of him and Nagumo’s shaggy mop of black hair leading him through the aquarium.
It is late afternoon by the time they leave the aquarium, the sun painting long shadows on the parking lot. The sea breeze brings the waves crashing into the tide breakers as they put on their riding gear again. Nagumo’s voice prattles on about the merits of motorcycles and cars: “I can’t sleep on a bike, but it’s not stuffy as—”
As Taro revs up the motorcycle to leave the parking lot, Nagumo gratifyingly shuts up as the bike picks up speed. There is peace to be found here, in the hum of the engine between his legs, the blur of the buildings he passes. How his hands are gently taming the motorcycle that responds to his commands, and Nagumo, sitting behind him, safe and whole.
In the light of the setting sun, Taro pulls off the highway into a small town, aiming to find a ryokan, but at the convenience store, Taro’s motorcycle wouldn’t start back up.
Nagumo is sitting on the curb, mouth full from snacking on the convenience store’s chocolate bun (“it’s soooo dry, Sakamoto-kun). They cannot expense this snack haul, Taro thinks.
He exhausted the basic vehicle care taught by JCC, and he normally would just call JAA’s mechanic services—something he is not keen to do with JCC’s unread messages weighing heavy in his phone. He should probably call a mechanic, but he isn’t sure if any would respond here, at least not as fast as JAA would for their star employees. Heh, not any more after the events of this morning.
Taro decides Nagumo would probably be better at finding an outside mechanic and turns to address him. “Hey, Nagumo. Do you know any— Taro trails off as an older man approaches them. Taro ticks off his mental checklist: Japanese man in his sixties, untrained, calloused hands—mechanic?—no killing intent. This man is a civilian, he is not a threat.
The man keeps going past them and kneels down next to Taro’s motorcycle. “Mind if I take a look?” he asks as he peers at the exposed parts.
After some minutes, the old man looks up. “It’s busted, but it’s nothing I can't fix back at the shop,” he declares. Despite his age, the man's eyes are sharp as he looks at them. “Where are you two going?”
They shrug. “Nowhere in particular. I think we have just gotten fired,” Taro replies. Nagumo, who has slinked back to his side, elbows Taro and adds, “We were trying to find a place for the night before this went out on us.” Nagumo gestures towards the stationary vehicle.
The old man hums, “There aren't a lot of places to stay in this village. My son just left for Tokyo, we have a spare room.”
It has been a long day, Taro thinks. He hadn’t thought about it before, but the idea of having to fix his motorcycle and then find accommodations for the night exhausts him. A quick glance at Nagumo reminds him that less than ten hours ago, Nagumo was still confined to the cot in Granny Miya’s living room. He decides there is no harm in going with the old man. If he is honest, they get their vehicle fixed and a place to stay for the night. If there is some plot to harm them, well, two ORDER members like them can easily deal with that.
Nagumo picks up on his decision. His eyebrows raise, but he answers for both of them, “We sincerely appreciate your kindness for letting us stay. I hate to impose on you, but we don’t know where else to go, especially with our only transportation busted….” Nagumo bows deeply, Taro following a beat behind.
“Sakamoto-kun would also love to learn more about his bike as well,” he adds, grinning at Taro’s surprised look.
The old man’s eyes light up. “I didn’t know youngins’ like you would be interested.” He slaps Taro’s shoulders and gestures to them to follow him, “My shop is just around the corner.”
Taro walks with his busted motorcycle alongside the old man, Watanabe-san. Nagumo trailing behind with his multitool box slung over his good shoulder. As the sun starts to set, the lights from the houses glow a warm yellow as they walk by. He wonders about the shop. Would it be as comforting as the warm lights spilling out of the residential homes make him feel? Would Nagumo feel safe there?
His thoughts are cut short when they arrive in front of Watanabe-san’s shop. The building has obviously seen better days. The faded hand painted sign “Watanabe’s Mechanic Shop” is illuminated with a flickering yellow light. The shop’s shutters are closed as the old man unlocks the door that leads to his apartment upstairs.
“Welcome,” Watanabe-san announces with a grin.