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Nagumo’s first love happens the same way most people’s do.
It’s laughable, how textbook perfect it is. Cliche, ripped straight out of a trashy romance novel. It happened the same way any ordinary high schooler often daydreamed about during class—staring out the window as they listened to dull lessons, imagining a budding romance to ensnare them in a whirlwind adventure free from a mundane life.
The day Nagumo meets Sakamoto Taro is the day he submits his transfer request to the Assassin Department.
In retrospect, he’ll claim it’s because the Spy Department was dull and boring. Lessons revolved around thick textbooks or titrating weird compounds the students from the Poison Department handed to you with poorly concealed glee. Teachers never said what they meant. People would smile at you then spit on your name as soon as you turned around. In comparison, the assassin department was much more appealing. Flashy. Direct. Hands on. Good for Nagumo’s mental and physical health. Or something like that. At the very least, a knife millimeters away from your face was a better indication of animosity.
“Oh, it’s you,” Akao says as she lights a smoke. The butt of her cigarette touches Sakamoto’s. Sakamoto brings the cigarette to his lips. He inhales with what seems like a practiced ease before he blows the smoke out, the little tension in his shoulders melting. Sakamoto’s chest falls and his arm begins to move—
“Thanks,” Nagumo grins, stolen cigarette nestled between his fingers and lips resting on the cigarette where Sakamoto’s mouth just was. He blows the smoke back into Sakamoto’s face. “Not my favorite brand, but it’ll do.”
Sakamoto’s face remains impassive as Nagumo takes another drag of his cigarette. There’s the slight twitch to his eyes, the way his fingers curl into a fist by just a millimeter. Nagumo’s been trained to read tells his entire life. It’s what the Nagumo family is known for, after all.
“Here,” Nagumo says as he returns Sakamoto’s cigarette. The smoke curls between his fingers as he smiles, wide and lazy. The way he was taught. The way he learned.
“No thanks,” Sakamoto says as he brushes Nagumo’s hand aside before he walks away, leaving Nagumo and Akao alone in the hallway.
An inhale, an exhale. Another inhale. The embers creep towards Nagumo’s fingers. Akao is the first one to put out her smoke, tossing it to the ground as she throws her hair back. She crushes it with her toes like she’s digging into someone’s neck.
“How’d you manage to piss him off so badly?”
Nagumo shrugs, putting his smoke out in a similar, though less aggressive, fashion.
“Beats me,” he says, thinking of the way Sakamoto’s fingers had lingered against his.
It would be easy. It would be so easy to pull Aoi by the strap of her green apron as she takes out the trash Thursday evening, before the garbage man comes. It would be so easy to yank her aside as she’s on her way back from dropping off that daughter of theirs. The one that’s the spitting image of Aoi, wide eyes and a large smile and dark black hair. There’s not a trace of Sakamoto’s looks in her and Nagumo can’t tell if that makes it easier or harder whenever she grips him with a strength no ordinary six year old would have.
Nagumo would take off her hairclip and hair tie first—making sure none of the sensors Sakamoto’s placed in them go off—before he slits Aoi’s throat. Quick and painless because it’s the least he can do. He’d tie that emerald green apron around his waist as he shrinks himself into something that could actually hold Sakamoto’s attention.
It would be so easy to wear Aoi’s face, her smile, her hairclip. It would be so so so easy to take on that cheery tone and throw back his head to laugh with Sakamoto—just because it’s a different cadence and pitch doesn’t mean its not genuine. At the very least, when he’s around Sakamoto, Nagumo could even fake the bottomless depth of motherly love she has for that small thing. He could pat Hana’s cheeks full with childish baby fat and spin her around and around in the kitchen to sneak a look at Sakamoto from the corner of his eyes.
He’s had a long time to watch Hana grow from a round ball swaddled in blankets on the way from the hospital into a carefree girl. He’s had a long time to watch Sakamoto’s hardened face grow soft—that stony expression whittled away by Aoi’s love into serenity. It’s never been something Nagumo was able to do.
The sniper is the easiest one of the three to deceive. The girl with the braid a bit harder. But Nagumo’s certain that a drink or two or ten would easily assuage any doubts she has. The trickiest one is the esper. Nagumo has plenty of practice shielding his outermost thoughts. He could even stop his subconscious ones from being read, given enough time. But any further than that—the desires and dreams written into Nagumo’s very core, then he’ll have to—
“Is that all?” Shin asks, chewing on his cigarette as the scanner beeps..
Nagumo is about to open his mouth, witty reply on the tip of his tongue, when he catches the way Shin’s eyes light up but his gaze isn’t focus on him. The cigarette falls from Shin’s mouth as he begins to wave rigorously, slapping down a bill far too large to be Nagumo’s change.
“Seba!” Shin grins as he walks towards the door. His hand runs through his hair, and it’s not from agitation. Interest piqued, Nagumo turns towards the automatic doors of Sakamoto’s convenience store.
He watches as the curly-haired youth, Seba, approaches Shin slowly. He briefly locks eyes with Nagumo, body tense, but relaxes as soon as he observes Shin’s dismissive attitude.
The two begin to huddle over an object that Seba brought, heads tilted towards each other as Shin’s voice rises with enthusiasm. Nagumo takes this as his cue to leave. He slips out the front doors the same way he slipped in. Neither of the two turn towards the sound of the sliding automatic doors, too engrossed in their discussion.
Outside, Nagumo slips the motion sickness medicine into his pocket. It’s the same kind he took back during missions at the JCC and his first few years of the Order. They barely worked, but at the very least, they tasted good.
Sakamoto Taro is the most ruthless, straightlaced assassin Nagumo has ever known.
Stoic, he calculates the endless potentials of harming someone closest within his reach. Never goes a step beyond what’s necessary. Always quick, always efficient. Nagumo can’t read that impassive face.
So like any other teenage boy, he decides he wants to slam all of Sakamoto’s buttons and see which ones work. For all of Sakamoto’s apparent apathy, Nagumo quickly learns that he’s quite easy to goad into a challenge. Nagumo teases and taunts, laughing wildly as he twists his body to the right to avoid the projectiles Sakamoto hurls at him. It’s fun, exhilarating. It gets his heart racing, adrenaline running. Smiles have never come more easily to Nagumo.
“Guess you owe me lunch,” Nagumo wheezes as Sakamoto presses the torn out pipe into his throat. If Sakamoto presses any harder, Nagumo will actually need to visit the infirmary.
“What do you mean?” Sakamoto asks, bewildered. “You’re the one that’s cornered.”
Nagumo grins, lips stretched wider than he’s ever known, before he reaches for Sakamoto’s head and pulls him in. He grins as their mouths collide. It’s canines digging into skin, teeth clacking as they kiss just like any other high schooler. No blood on their hands, no classes ending with bruises and broken bones. For a brief second, the gentle lie blankets them.
Sakamoto is the first to pull back. There’s the distant clatter of metal against concrete as he wipes the spit off his face. It does nothing to hide the flush of his cheeks or the blood dripping down his nose.
“Told ya, I win.” Nagumo says. He presses another kiss to the apple of Sakamoto’s cheek, giddy, before he saunters back towards the school. He feels light, like he’s barely tethered to the ground. Nagumo doesn’t even care that he’s pulled in for an earful about the mess they made—technically, most of it by Sakamoto. His mind had already started wandering at the sight of flushed cheeks on that typically unperturbed face. Nagumo only remembers to start nodding at the appropriate pauses as the vice principal lectures them when his eyes catch the crinkle of Satoda’s wrinkled smile as she passes by in the hallway.
Still, the slight embarrassment doesn’t dampen Nagumo’s mood all throughout lunch. It’s the best meal he’s ever had at the JCC.
Nagumo accepts the joint from Akao. He ignores the way her eyes bore into the back of his head as he inhales, exhales, then inhales again. It’s difficult to relax when she’s looking at him like a target to be dissected.
“You’re kinda different from me and Sakamoto,” Akao says as she leans over the railings. The slouch of her shoulders contradicts the attentiveness in her gaze.
Nagumo waits for her to elaborate. Sakamoto’s been gone for three days for the Rural-based Assassinations, Stranded. The final examination for that class is a week of field work, typically at some rural farm in Japan, with limited weapons and cell service. Nagumo wonders why Sakamoto is close to taking up the full exam period. He thought Sakamoto would’ve been back by this weekend and the three of them could go to that new ramen place that just opened. Stores rarely open on the island.
Now, it’s just him and Akao. Akao tilts her head as she studies him, gentle breeze whipping her hair across her face.
“How so?” Nagumo finally asks.
“Well, your fashion sense is absolutely horrendous,” Akao starts.
“Like Sakamoto’s isn’t?”
Akao squints at him, like he’s just said something funny. She swipes the cigarette back. “Nah, he’s just boring. You think you’re actually wearing something nice that’ll impress others but it ends up—” she says before she gestures to his entire body, face twisting.
Nagumo huffs as he snatches the cigarette from her. He sneaks a look at his body, down to his legs—he had put a lot of effort into choosing today’s outfit. It’s not his problem that he and Akao have different definitions of ‘fashionable’.
“My niece dresses her dolls better than you dress yourself,” Akao snorts as if its the funniest thing in the world. Nagumo waits for her chortles and laughter to subside. It’s always like this with Akao.
“And your point, Akao?” Nagumo asks, pasting a familiar smile on his face.
“You’re different from us. You’re kind of just floating through life. It’s a bit sad and pathetic,” Akao says. There’s not a hint of malice behind them. Akao has never been the type to hold back.
Nagumo’s smile remains plastered to his face. He feels like he’s accidentally walked into one of his own elaborate setups, the punchline being the cold water that’s just been dunked on him.
“Like you aren’t?” Nagumo tries, “You’re here and always chasing the next high in a fight or a kill, but nothing ever satisfies you.”
Akao seems unperturbed. “I have my cute little niece,” she grins. Her smile is carefree but Nagumo can see the fierceness and protectiveness burning underneath.
“And Sakamoto? He doesn’t have anyone,” Nagumo presses. He wonders if his time in the Assassin Department has made him lose his edge. His words used to sting with razor-sharp precision. It’s always been easy for him to crawl underneath someone’s skin and pick them apart.
Akao laughs, full-bodied as the sound reverberates around them. The cigarette comes awfully close to her hair. Nagumo hopes she burns off a couple of strands.
Akao looks at him like he’s told the funniest joke in the world. She raises an eyebrow and Nagumo schools his face into neutrality to prevent a scowl from surfacing.
“He’s the scariest person out there. If someone can reign in that guy, it’ll be the end for us all.”
At some point after everything, or maybe it was before, the heavy tang of iron feels more familiar than the next lie rolling off his tongue. If not blood, then its the lingering taste of smoke—from the light gray tendrils drifting away after a successful hit or the cigarettes shared between him and Sakamoto. He can never seem to rid his mouth of the taste.
Kissing Sakamoto seems to do the trick, though. Nagumo swallows down the blood, the smoke, and the weight of something larger as their lips meet with an urgency only known to the two of them. Their kisses no longer feel like the ones stolen in between fights and through the hallways of school. There’s something hidden in the way Sakamoto sucks in a breath, allowing Nagumo to nip at his lower lip before he shoves Nagumo against the wall on their way back from their debrief with the other Order members.
Nagumo laughs as Sakamoto licks his way into his mouth. It’s moments like these where time halts. Sakamoto mapping out the nooks and crannies of his mouth, clearing away the taste of iron and smoke. Suspended from reality, enveloped by a benign lie that tells them they’ll have time to do this again and again just like the three of them were supposed to—
“What was that for?” Nagumo hisses as Sakamoto pulls back, blood smeared across his lips. Nagumo smears it across Sakamoto’s cheek and takes a moment to admire his handiwork. It’s a good look.
Sakamoto tilts his head to the side, an inquisitive look in his face. Nagumo smiles, lazy and wolfish, before he wets his thumb to clear the flecks of blood. He then licks his lips before pushing Sakamoto into the worn couch of JAA lounge. Sakamoto blinks. The only hint Sakamoto allows is the flush on his face. Nagumo sighs as his hands trail down Sakamoto’s chest, his sides, then back up again.
He plucks the glasses Sakamoto’s taken to wearing off his face. Sakamoto’s lips melt against his and Nagumo kisses him lazily, like they have all the time in the world. He likes these in-betweens the best. When the two of them can pretend to be teenagers, university students, young adults—nothing larger at stake and without the blood on their hands.
Sakamoto’s lips are always surprisingly soft. Pliant. Opening for Nagumo and probing into his own mouth in ways that send electric shocks up and down his spine.
“What’s this?” Nagumo asks as his hands come across a hard, rigid object in Sakamoto’s left pants pocket. He presses down. The flimsy cardboard folders underneath the pressure.
Nagumo sits up on Sakamoto’s thighs as he plucks the pack of cigarettes from Sakamoto’s pocket. It’s only missing a couple of cigarettes. The box looks old and worn. Creases run through the white cardboard and gaudy logo. He doesn’t ever remember Sakamoto smoking this brand.
“For later?” Nagumo asks as he plucks a cigarette from the box. He twirls it in between his fingers as he tries to identify the taste flooding his mouth.
Sakamoto doesn’t say anything as he tears the cigarette from Nagumo’s fingers. When does he ever? Nagumo watches as he shoves the cigarette back into the worn pack before it’s slipped back into Sakamoto’s pants pocket. His gaze is stone cold. Unreadable.
“I’ll buy a new pack after, if that’s what you want.”
Sakamoto grumbles. His mouth is stretched tight and his jaw is set square. It’s the most tense Nagumo has ever seen him outside of a fight.
Right now, there are three possibilities before him. Nagumo squeezes Sakamoto’s waist as he calculates the next ten steps for each of them. Decisions, decisions, decisions. There are only so many things you can take into account. The human heart is a fickle thing, after all.
Shishiba is a funny guy.
He looks absolutely out of place when Yotsumura brings him in. Lackluster eyes, slouched back, and gaudy Hawaiian shirt, yet his hair is strangely well-maintained, pulled back in a tight ponytail that makes Nagumo’s own head ache. He looks like he’d rather be one of the corpses left behind after a job than standing in front of Nagumo and Sakamoto.
“Our newest member,” Yotsumura tells them as he shoves Shishiba forward. “He’ll be your partner on the next mission.”
Shishiba doesn’t even stumble as he moves towards their side.
“Mine or Sakamoto’s?” Nagumo asks. The next assignment is supposed to be in Chiba. He and Sakamoto had already picked up their lottery cards that morning. Something with hammers, trains, and mice. Nagumo has already started planning which pair of headbands to buy at Disneyland post-mission.
“Doesn’t matter,” Yotsumura says gruffly before he leaves.
Shishiba is left standing between the two of them. Nagumo had heard of the new assassin from Kyoto. Unlike the rest of the Order members, he isn’t a JCC graduate. Blonde, long hair. Stuck out like a sore thumb. Someone that Yotsumura had found and taken under his wing. An inclination towards disrespecting authority. Sometimes wore suits out on jobs despite how stuffy they were.
“Rock paper scissors, loser goes with this guy?” Nagumo grins as he thrusts out his fist then opens his palm.
“Shouldn’t you guys—”
“One, two… three—ah fuck,” Nagumo says. He pouts as he stares at Sakamoto’s hand. Rock loses to paper loses to scissors loses to rock and Nagumo has been completely crushed.
“Guess it’s you and me, newbie,” Nagumo sighs as he swings an arm over Shishiba’s shoulder, staring at the empty spot that Sakamoto had occupied seconds ago. All he had gotten was a brief nod and half a wave before Sakamoto had vanished, like he had somewhere else to be.
The mission goes well. Disgustingly so. Shishiba makes an annoyingly competent partner. He’s quick and efficient in the way kills. A simple swing of his hammer to redirect a barrage of bullets. A well-aimed throw to take out their target. It’s not entirely unlike the way Sakamoto fights.
“Isn’t this fun?” Nagumo shouts over the roar of the wind whipping around them. Strands of long, blonde hair slap his face. Nagumo spits them back out. It would be great if Shishiba could take to putting his hair up in a bun, like Sakamoto’s.
“It was fine,” Shishiba tells him when they get off the rollercoaster.
Windswept hair and loose strands make the mop of blonde look more like a haystack than anything else. The unruly hair is at odds with the neat creases of his button-up. Akao always had unkempt hair. Her head was always more akin to a bird’s nest, especially after a fight. It was like she woke up every morning and ran a hand through her hair in a lazy effort to tame the untameable.
Shishiba unties his hair, combing his fingers through the tangles and Nagumo’s throat turns dry. Shishiba begins to tie his hair up.
Nagumo races to Shishiba’s side, smiling as he leans into the other man’s personal space. “It’s nice to enjoy the mundane things too,” he says as he tucks one of the loose locks of hair behind Shishiba’s ear. Nagumo allows his hand to linger.
Predictably, Shishiba swats his hand aside.
“Maybe it’s enjoyable for you, but it’s not how I want to spend my time off,” Shishiba tells him.
Nagumo remains undeterred. He pulls Shishiba towards his side with a firm grip. “I’m treating my cute, adorable junior on our first mission together. Who knows, you may find yourself in my shoes one day. Now which popcorn bucket do you want? They’re limited edition.”
Nagumo and Shishiba buy a bucket of regular popcorn, safely held in the Winnie the Pooh popcorn bucket slung around Nagumo’s waist. They ride a cruise through a jungle and watch as skeletons dance in the dark. Shishiba’s hair gets wet when they fall down the mountain as Nagumo’s laughter is drowned by the splash. As they stroll through the park, waiting for the sun to dry their shirts, Nagumo drags Shishiba into one of the many shops. He doesn’t convince as much as force Shishiba to don a headband, slipping it onto the other man’s head, before he snatches a matching one and pays the cashier before any protests can be voiced. Shishiba doesn’t remove the headband for the remainder of the day.
By the time night falls, the two of them are full with overpriced, subpar park food and itching for adrenaline.
“We’ll get a better view up here,” Nagumo says before he scales a lamppost to swing himself on top of the fake shooting range’s rooftop.
The two of them sit in silence as the sky lights up with color in front of a castle full of dreams. Theoretically, Nagumo knows bursts of fire and explosions can be beautiful. He’s seen the fireworks during Obon as a kid but its been a long time since he’s associated bright bursts of light with something peaceful. Nagumo sneaks a glance at Shishiba, noting the way his gaze remains transfixed on the show in front of them. Shishiba gives no indication that he’s noticed Nagumo has been staring at him.
Today, Nagumo decides, was not so bad.
Shishiba’s lips are soft as Nagumo swallows his quiet gasp. Kissing Shishiba can be just as fun, Nagumo decides.
“I’m quitting next Tuesday,” Sakamoto tells him, cigarette hanging between his index and middle finger. His hair is still matted to the back of his neck, Nagumo’s fresh scratches still angry and red.
Nagumo swipes the cigarette. He knows determination when he sees it.
“Smoking?” He asks, pressing the cigarette to his own lips.
Sakamoto stares at him. Nagumo takes a long inhale. The smoke fills his lungs and when he shuts his eyes, he can pretend.
“Just kidding,” Nagumo trills as he presses the blunt to Sakamoto’s lips. They’re chapped, with peeled skin. A dull, muted pink as they part in surprise.
Sakamoto shuts his eyes as he inhales. Nagumo takes the split second to memorize each and every bit of Sakamoto—the stray hair that’s escaped his messy bun, the freckle in the corner of his eyes, the number of eyelashes. Its easy to take time for granted, when you’re young and there’s no end in sight.
Nagumo waits.
“The Order,” Sakamoto says.
It’s still not what Nagumo wants to hear.
Nagumo puts the cigarette out before he presses his mouth to Sakamoto’s. He can taste the smoke on his tongue, swallowing the noises to prevent anyone unfortunate enough to be walking by from hearing him. This is something that’s only for Nagumo—was only for Nagumo—and he’ll drink up every lick he can get. Nagumo presses Sakamoto down into the old, lumpy couch. He was going to put in a request for them to replace it next week—it’s caused more than one stiff neck the morning after—but it seems like that won’t be necessary anymore.
Sakamoto’s fingers dig into Nagumo’s arms as his body arches into him. Nagumo allows himself one last kiss before he finally pulls back.
“Where’s your gun?” Nagumo asks, ignoring the burn in his chest.
Sakamoto’s cheeks are flushed, half his bun falling down. He licks his lips as the sound of their pants fills the room. Nagumo recognizes that look.
“Your gun?” Nagumo repeats.
He reaches for Sakamoto’s jacket; it’s fallen on the other side of the couch. He allows himself to dangle off the couch before pulling it up in a flourish. Nagumo rummages through Sakamoto’s pockets before he finds the two things he was looking for. Sakamoto’s eyes are still dark and his cheeks are still dusted with pink.
“Something to remember me by,” Nagumo grins as he presses the decorated steel back into Sakamoto’s hands.
The metal remains cold. Snowflakes drift through the sky. It’s going to be a long winter.
Nagumo finds Shishiba in the hallway trailing behind Yotsumura. The two have just come back from a mission, but that doesn’t stop Nagumo from pulling him into one of the empty rooms. Shishiba only presses his mouth into a thin line.
“Just borrowing my new partner for a bit,” Nagumo shouts before Shishiba can protest.
To most, Shishiba’s face remains impassive. To Nagumo, Shishiba looks pissed, just on the edge of annoyance. He can’t help but grin as that glare continues to bore its way through his head. Nagumo crowds Shishiba, trapping him in between his arms and the wall.
Shishiba stares back at him.
“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” Nagumo asks. He licks his lips. They’re chasing after the taste of something he can no longer have. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that. I saved you from whatever boring lecture Yotsumura wanted to impart on you like all the old geezers love to do.”
Shishiba rolls his eyes. “Haven’t gone back home since I dropped out,” he says, but the end of his left lip is raised slightly above his right. He’s right where Nagumo wants him.
“Great,” Nagumo grins as he swipes his thumb up Shishiba’s jaw, then across his lips. “Neither have I,” he breathes as he already rehearses the apologies in his head.
Families, especially those stuck in the shadows, cling tightly to tradition. It comes hand-in-hand with their former glory days. It’s part of the reason why Nagumo transferred. The other part, Nagumo muses as he threads his fingers through hair that doesn’t know the kinks of being stuck in a tight bun an entire day and isn’t the right shade of blonde, would’ve gotten him shamed to hell and back.
Life goes on. Winter ends and the snow turns to slush. The trees begin to bud. Nagumo goes to Hokkaido with Shishiba. They get tonkatsu without onions. The cherry blossoms are on the cusp of blooming. Sakamoto gets married. Nagumo can see the slight bump in Aoi’s belly during the wedding ceremony.
Nagumo requests Shishiba accompany him on his next mission. Shishiba looks unimpressed as they receive their debrief. Nagumo makes him drive to their destination, but he treats Shishiba to nabe and picks out all the onions in his bowl. Shishiba seems irritated the entire time they’re hunting down their target but he’s still the one who picks the lock to Nagumo’s hotel room and unbuttons his shirt before pushing him down in bed. Nagumo counts that as a small victory in the midst of everything.
It feels quieter than usual. Assassinations routine, assignments boring. Nagumo has never been great with silence or stagnation. Changing up the way he kills people leaves some fun in the game. He doesn’t like boring.
The days pass. Sakamoto has a daughter. Nagumo goes on a mission. Shishiba gets busy. A new girl joins the Order. Dark, gloomy, from some small farm. The superstitious kind.
Sakamoto gets fat. Nagumo fucks Shishiba. Sometimes it’s Shishiba’s skin he’s trailing kisses upon, clutching him as they both tip over the edge. Other times he pretends it’s someone else he’s clinging to as he locks eyes with Shishiba, gripping his waist as he thrusts in and out. He wonders if Shishiba ever notices.
Killing becomes dull. Nagumo decides to change things up. It curbs the boredom. Just a bit.
Nagumo visits Kindaka every week to bring him fresh flowers. The nurses coo every time they see him. He usually finds himself a few blocks away from Sakamoto’s store afterwards. Those are the days where Nagumo will spend the rest of the night smoking before he stumbles back home or into Shishiba’s bed.
“You reek,” Shishiba reprimands as the bed dips down beside Nagumo. The ends of Shishiba’s hair drip water onto the bed and Nagumo.
Nagumo rolls over so he can look up at Shishiba. Neither of them make the first move.
Long, light hair. Stoic face. The bright white lights Shishiba favors in his apartment wash out the yellow undertones. Nagumo watches Shishiba’s eyes flicker towards his desk, where his phone lies.
“Let me rest for another five minutes,” Nagumo whines. “You wouldn’t refuse a poor teammate in need?”
Shishiba scoffs before flicking Nagumo’s face with the end of his towel. Nagumo squeals, kicking his feet and throwing his fists into the bed like a petulant child. He only stops after Shishiba disappears and the sound of the hairdryer turns on in the bathroom.
Nagumo stays more than five minutes, but he’s out before the sun rises. He kicks the dumpster in the alleyway next to Shishiba’s apartment, just for good measure.
Later that day, when Shishiba arrives at the Order meeting in tow with Osagari, Nagumo puts on his best smile. Shishiba doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Did it hurt?” Sakamoto asks one day.
Nagumo would’ve jumped out of his seat if it weren’t for the way Sakamoto’s hand circles around his tricep. It’s a firm grip, skin warm on Nagumo’s arm as his thumb strokes the outline of ink. Nagumo does his best to suppress the goosebumps that threaten to jump out and the full body shiver.
“You’re an assassin, Sakamoto,” Nagumo says. His grin widens as Sakamoto’s frown deepens and grip tightens. “Isn’t it a bit silly to worry about some ink and needles hurt?”
Sakamoto’s eyebrows furrow as his thumb pauses the last letter of FRIEND. His grip on Nagumo’s arm has now grown painful. Nagumo’s skin burns underneath Sakamoto’s hand but he doesn’t dare pull back.
“Do you want one? I know a few guys. We can go next Thursday if you want.”
“I was just curious,” Sakamoto mutters, pulling his hand away like he’s the one who’s been burned. “You have so many of them.”
Nagumo hums as he tells himself to not chase after the lingering touch. He knows better than that. He was raised better than that.
“I should’ve forced you two to get matching ones with me,” Nagumo says somberly.
Akao would’ve agreed, but not before calling him lame and a loser in five million ways. “What are you being so sweet and sentimental for?”, she’d ask, but she would still show up to the tattoo parlor that Nagumo likes to frequent without a complaint. Nagumo still has his memories but he’s always liked something a bit more permanent to remember people by. Especially when he seems to be the only one ever carrying them.
Sakamoto says nothing as his eyes trace the contours of Nagumo’s inked skin. Nagumo is used to stares, wide-eyed gaping mouths from schoolgirls and judgemental looks from moms as he strolls down the street. What Nagumo isn’t used to is the careful scrutiny of Sakamoto’s indiscernible gaze. His knee bounces rapidly as Sakamoto’s eyes trail down to his wrist, his neck, his other arm.
“Did they all hurt?” Sakamoto asks. His hand feels heavy on Nagumo’s thigh, on the tattooed skin.
“Depends on where. Some of them hurt more than others,” Nagumo answers. This time, he allows himself to lean into Sakamoto’s touch. He has some free time tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he’ll go to the tattoo parlor.