Chapter Text
Kuroo
“If you like pina coladas...” Kuroo sings, rounding the corner of the kitchen. The table has been kicked onto its side, scattering newspaper onto the floor. “And getting caught in the rain…” There’s a boot-print of blood on the floor and a bullet shell next to it. Kuroo tsks, interrupting his tune. “He better not be dead, asshole,” he calls, then continues to hum.
“It’s just his arm,” a voice answers, and Kuroo steps over broken picture frames in the hallway as he makes his way to the backdoor.
“Yeah, well, you better fucking wrap his arm before he bleeds out in the kabu,” says Kuroo, holstering his gun. There's blood on the grip from the gash on his arm; he’ll have to clean it later.
“They need to be watered anyway,” says Bokuto, looking pleased with himself, pinning a man against the wall of a rickety shed with the threat of his gun alone. Kuroo has to pause a second to admire the figure he makes, shoulders pulled taut and legs braced with adrenaline. Kuroo hadn’t been there for the entire fight but he knows Kou’s blood is still singing from the thrill of it.
He eyes the man’s finger where it rests on the trigger. “Kou,” he says, and Bokuto spares him a glance before lowering the gun and taking a step back. It’s good that they’ve grown closer over the past year; Kou listens to him more now. He’s too wild to run free without a handler. They both are.
“He shot you because he cares,” says Kuroo, crouching down in front of the man leaning against the shed, panting like a cornered animal and clutching his arm. “Not about you, of course,” he continues, reaching out and ignoring the way the man startles in favour of tearing part of his shirt. “But he cares about something, I’m sure.”
“I care about money,” says Bokuto, and while that may be true, Kuroo recognizes the words for the part they’re playing.
“Something I’m sure you can relate to, Muraki,” Kuroo says to the man, instead of dwelling on the feeling of blood cooling between his fingers. “Daichi also cares about money,” he says.
“I didn’t take anything from Sawamura!” Muraki cries, frightened tears welling in his eyes.
“Don’t care,” says Kuroo, “get up and get in the fucking car.” He drags Muraki up and shoves him forward. Bokuto follows behind them, keeping his eyes on their surroundings. They weave through the broken house again. Bokuto picks a page of the newspaper off the floor and tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“Shit, we’re late,” Kuroo says, his breath puffing out in the night air. Bokuto shoves Muraki in the back seat and orders him to buckle up, gun in a loose grip by his thigh.
“There won’t be any traffic at this time of night,” says Bokuto, and Kuroo grunts, shooting a text to Daichi to tell him they were on their way. His fingers chill against the buttons.
They make the drive back to Sendai in record time with Kuroo behind the wheel, speeding down backroads and racing red lights. For a moment, Kuroo thinks he sees flashing lights in his rearview mirror but it’s just paranoia. It’s too late at night for cops to pretend to care. Bokuto turns the radio on and Kuroo drums his fingers on the wheel.
The casino looms in front of them at the end of the gated drive, pearly white and four stories high. Bokuto smiles and points out how well the flowers are growing in Yamaguchi’s new bed, but Kuroo’s too busy answering his phone to respond.
“Yeah, we’re here,” he says, pulling the car around the back of the building where the valets park guest cars. “We’ll make the drop off quick and then head straight over to Akaashi’s... No, but Bokuto’s got a nasty split lip and I took a plate to the arm… a bit of faith would be nice, Boss, but thanks for the concern.”
They let the car idle as they drag Muraki out of the backseat and pass him off to Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. Tsukishima tsks at them and the state of their prisoner. “A little less blood loss would be appreciated next time,” he says.
Kuroo leans in close, his eyes low-lidded and unmistakably filthy. “Next time you should come with us, make sure we don’t misbehave,” he says, grinning like a shark.
“Don’t be disgusting,” says Tsukishima, frog marching the man into the basement. Yamaguchi follows close behind him, tutting like a mother hen. Bokuto laughs at Kuroo’s rejection and climbs back into the front seat.
“Shut up,” says Kuroo, jerking the car into gear.
“It’s not like he ever says anything different,” says Bokuto, chuckling still, and Kuroo rolls his eyes.
Takeda
“Don’t let her bother you, sir.”
It’s a terrible day for a funeral. Far too bright out, too hot for the suit Takeda is wearing. Takeda’s grandfather had hung on for years and then, with complete disregard for family tradition, announced he had signed his fortune over to his grandson instead of his daughter-in-law and then passed away in his sleep the next night. Takeda’s stepmother is currently fighting the document but Takeda’s lawyers assure him she has no grounds for a judicial battle. Still, Takeda is a bit upset she’s causing such a fuss during their time of mourning.
“I know,” he says, eyes out the window on the scenery floating by. The natto and rice Ukai made him eat earlier that morning sits heavy in his stomach like a rock and Takeda wishes they could pull over so he could throw up in some random convenience store bathroom. But that would rot his teeth and make his mouth stink, and this day feels too sacred to tarnish any further. He will ignore the urge until the wake is over and he is alone; the same goes for his insistent tears.
All eyes are on him when the Ukai opens the car door. He is the youngest of all the relatives, given that his father hadn’t any siblings and his mother’s family is only here out of courtesy for him. Takeda receives condolences from all his grandfather’s and father’s associates and close friends, who bow in front of each and every one of his family before moving on. It’s like watching a train go, car by car, only it never ends and he doesn’t remember why he went to the train station in the first place. His manners take over and he bows politely over and over until his stomach feels sicker and heavier than before and he’s certain he’s turning green.
He can feel his stepmother’s eyes on his back when the procession finally ends and the ceremony starts. He sits next to her like a gentleman would and ignores the way she leans away from him. She’s hurting and she’s lashing out the only way she can, he understands this. The ceremony is solemn, and people bow and sprinkle incense onto the pile.
After the ceremony, when few linger and bags of rice and crackers have been handed to those on their way out the door, Takeda stands in front of the incense and bows deeply to pay his respects a second time. He knows Ukai hovers near the door, eyes on him for his own safety, and he knows his stepmother is just biding her times to corner him when he’s alone. Money makes people into monsters, Ukai had said four days ago, eying the burn of her palm still hot on his cheek.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” whispers Takeda, Ukai standing at his shoulder. They have a funeral ceremony to get through the next day, and then the cremation. He doesn’t know which he’s dreading more, and he wants to climb into the car and tell Ukai to drive them as far away as possible.
“You can,” says Ukai, and Takeda wishing he could believe the man, wishes he could take it as more than just hollow reassurances. At least there is no pity in the man’s voice.
“I don’t want to,” he says, and Ukai hums in agreement.
After a few minutes, Ukai places a hand on his shoulder and turns him away from the incense. “But you must,” says Ukai, and Takeda sighs.
It is only after the cremation ceremony that Takeda allows himself to cry. It is the worst kind of sadness, with snot running down his chin and a headache pounding at his temples. Ukai is in the kitchen a floor below preparing supper, but Takeda is so terrified of being overheard that he locks himself into the bathroom and lets the shower run down his body to cover the sound, hands muffling his mouth.
He misses the way it used to be, before his grandfather succumbed to the cancer in his lungs and before his family life fell apart. Before his father died, shot and robbed in some dark alley, and before his step-mother wanted him to exist as nothing more than the scum on the bottom of her shoe. He misses his grandfather’s steady hands and his grandmother, though he could barely remember her, and her kind, kind eyes. He misses the polite distance of his teacher’s and his headmaster, the obnoxious sounds of his roommates playing video games or drinking too much on the weekend instead of studying. He would take a thousand noisy weekends over this. But that isn’t how life works and Ukai will be climbing the stairs soon, his knuckles on the wooden door, his voice carrying through the crack underneath where the steam creeps out, taking with it the evidence of Takeda’s weakness, a misty river carrying with it debris of ruin from its banks.
A rap at the door. “Takeda-kun?”
“Yes?” says Takeda, amazed by how scratchy his voice sounds even with the sound of the water filling the gaps in his throat that have taken over his ability to lie convincingly. “What is it?”
“Dinner is ready, sir. I made soup… you should eat something,” says Ukai, and Takeda closes his eyes, a heavy weight resting on his shoulders. He knows Ukai is right, and propriety dictates he put on his best face and appreciate what the man has made for him. But Takeda is tired. He can barely think of doing anything beyond crawling into bed.
“Thank you, Ukai, but I’m too tired to eat tonight,” says Takeda, turning the shower knob until the only lingering sound is that of water dripping off his skin, a musical kaleidoscope against a backdrop of chrome and porcelain.
A moment passes, then he hears Ukai walk away from the door and down the stairs. Toweling off quickly, Takeda slips into his bedroom and sinks down on his futon, a sigh on his lips from the familiar comfort and the weight of the day finally leaving his shoulders. In the low light, he sees a tray on the floor next to him with a small bowl of soup, another of rice, and a cup of tea. He smiles faintly and puts forth his best effort to at least taste all of it. Ukai returns some time later to fetch the dishes.
“You don’t have to do that,” says Takeda, idle fingers fiddling with the edge of his comforter.
Ukai smiles, a little rough around the edges but otherwise genuine. “It’s not in my job description, but you needed it,” he says, taking the tray with him.
“You’re going?” asks Takeda, panic colouring his words. He doesn’t know if he can be alone.
“I’ll sleep on the guest futon tonight. No reason for either of us to be alone on a night like tonight,” says Ukai, and he closes the door behind him, leaving Takeda with on the light from a small lamp.
“Goodnight,” says Takeda, to an empty room. Then he rolls under the covers and falls asleep.
The morning greets him with overcast skies and recent rain on the window panes running races to the bottom, completely undisturbed by Takeda's gaze. Takeda watches them play, his head resting on his pillow, wondering if they mimic his sorrow or mock it. He thinks perhaps the rain is a sign but struggles to imagine a good interpretation.
The floor is cold under his feet when he rolls out of bed, and the smell of coffee curls up the stairs. Ukai sits at the komatsu, legs crossed loosely beneath, with a cup in one hand and a paper in the other. He doesn't speak when Takeda meanders around his small kitchen, not until Takeda joins him with his own cup. Takeda is sure he looks like he hasn't slept in days. His head already pounds with exhaustion, a solo dum in an otherwise silent and stoic procession, but Ukai thankfully doesn’t comment.
Takeda sips politely while Ukai slowly flips through the sports section. "It's decaf," says Ukai, glancing at him.
Takeda stares at his hands. "Shit," he says, after a long pause.
Ukai snorts and stubs out the cigarette hanging from his lips. "Sorry, I'm trying to cut back," he says. "We can grab you some later so you don't suffer."
"Oh no, it's alright, thank you for letting me use your house in the first place!" Says Takeda, ashamed by his own lack of manners. "And your shower, your futon..."
"Call it a returned kindness," says Ukai, looking a little uncomfortable from Takeda's fervor. “It’s the least I could do; no sense in you wasting money on a hotel when I live so close,” he adds, and Takeda is once again so thankful to have him as a friend but does no say it for fear the man would grow too uneasy and hide behind his job as the reason for his selflessness.
A moment passes with Takeda smiling into his mug and Ukai skimming the inner depths of his newsprint, his eyes catching on the weather for the day. More rain races down the window glass, spotted and streaked and completely ignorant of the scene inside where Takeda’s foot knocks into Ukai’s and both men smile, and then Ukai rises with a gruff “breakfast” hanging in the air as a clear invitation for Takeda to sink back into their familiar roles of friends. Takeda and Ukai last co-inhabited when Takeda’s father died four years ago, his last year of high school derailed by a phone call and a visit to the Headmaster’s office. Ukai had picked him up and brought him home, made him tea, and left him in silence, no pressure, no guilt. His step-mother had held him close and sobbed into his sweater while Ukai cleaned the teapot and the cups. Since then, they have maintained a comfortable and professional distance. Ukai had been Takeda’s driver since Takeda entered high school and, despite everything, or perhaps because of everything, Ukai remains one of his closest friends.
Ukai makes miso soup and eggs and even sneaks Takeda a packaged melon break as a treat. “What are the plans for the day?” asks Ukai, even though they both know today is the day Takeda has to return to his grandfather’s estate, now in his possession, and take stock of what the old patriarch had left behind.
“Another drive,” says Takeda, supping the last of his tea and nibbling at his melon bread.
“I’ll ready the car,” says Ukai, drying his hands before taking his keys. Takeda nods at him and then the man is out the door.
The quiet of the room drags, a note on a lonely violin that refuses to falter, the pinpricking sensation of calligraphy lessons after lunch in old study rooms that smelt of books and oak wood and the must that grows and permeates old homes. His grandfather had often dismissed him from his tutors early to walk him around the estate. If the weather permitted, they would often walk the perimeter of the garden and make their way down to the small koi pond that lay at the base of the hill. There they would feed the fish and the fowl that happened to the nest there that year. His grandfather would kneel at the water’s edge and dip his fingers into the water to test the temperature, as if he might go for a swim, then he’d hum to himself and never tell Takeda what he was thinking about, not until a few minutes had passed, and Takeda learned to wait, as his grandfather could sit and think for hours if you pressured him to do otherwise, just to spite you and make you squirm. Then, his grandfather might sigh and say “Spring came early this year” for his grandfather was a man of very few words, you see? And Takeda, who aspired to be quite like his grandfather in all ways, would say “it’s good for the birds” as if he knew such things and his grandfather did not. Then his grandfather would smile and say “such a smart boy, where do you learn things like that?” as if Takeda had not heard him say the same comment about the birds the week before.
And then Takeda’s father had died and his step-mother sent him away for college and his grandfather threw his back into the company Takeda’s father was no longer around to take care of.
Somewhere in the apartment a clock ticks. Takeda stands and wipes the tears away from his face and joins Ukai in the car once he’s wearing clothes appropriate for the visit to come. “Drive please,” says Takeda, eyes out the window.
“Yes, boss,” says Ukai, and the silence drags again, another lonely violin on a rainy morning. They like to act as if Ukai still has to take directions on where to go despite the fact Ukai knows perfectly well where his grandfather’s estate is and has driven the route a thousand times when Takeda came home from college to visit. Yet the formal commands of “turn here” and “next left” allow Takeda to keep his mind off the fact the house would be empty, completely void of the one comforting presence he needed most in his life right now.
A butler answers the door, the same man who has been serving his grandfather since Takeda could barely walk. “Young Master,” says Hayate, and Takeda feels like he’s thirteen again, simultaneously safe and unburdened, lacking all the harsh truths he has come to know about the adult world.
“Hayate,” says Takeda, placing a gentle hand on the elderly man’s arm. “A sight for sore eyes.”
“I could say the same for you, sir. Shall I make tea?”
“Yes, please. Have it brought up to… the study,” says Takeda, his voice trembling despite his best efforts. “Ukai will have parked the car by now, have him relax while I work, find him busy work if needed… I want to be alone for a while.”
“Understandable, sir,” says Hayate, bowing respectfully. “I’ll bring the tea up in but a moment.”
“Thank you,” says Takeda, before he crosses the foyer, impeccably clean as always and ever so bright despite the gray sky outside, and climbs the stairs. His grandfather’s study had always been on the second floor, even after his grandfather had developed hip problems and knee problems as well. The old man had insisted on making the climb every day, claiming it was one of the few small ways he had kept his health for so many years. “I had a rambunctious youth,” his grandfather would say, boney fingers rubbing aching joints, “it’s only fair I pay for it now.” Even then, Takeda had watched him drink his bitter imported tea, nodding to himself as the strong taste distracted him from the pains that accompanied old age.
If you knew where to look, you could see the distinctive worn spot where his grandfather set his teacup, everyday for the past forty years. The same cup, the same hand, on the same oak desk, a memory carved into a preserved landscape, water-eroded rock with its own story to tell whoever stopped long enough to listen, as if the very man still sat there himself, imprinted into the room as one of its unique features. Takeda ran his hand over that same scar in the wood’s grain, the dark lacquer rubbed raw and eager to spill secrets. The room still smelt faintly of lemongrass and tobacco, the odor as much a part of the room as staggering floor-to-ceiling bookcases his grandfather had been so fond of and the expansive view of the grounds and gardens. The rug that lay between the large desk and the heavy door as faded, older than Takeda as many things in the house were, and Takeda took care to walk around it, knowing that any mess on its muted red and brown threads would’ve upset his grandfather greatly. Once Takeda was old enough to know better, he took care to treat that rug – and his grandfather’s wishes—with respect. And if he was patient enough, his grandfather would join him on the floor, ask Takeda to “read to me, Ittetsu” and pull him close as he stumbled from page to page, encouraged by the pride on his grandfather’s face. He learnt a great many things on that rug, things that no one else thought he needed to know, things that a child didn’t always pick up in the classroom even with the best tutors in the country. It was those things, those lessons in patience and thoughtfulness, that kept Takeda going through the funeral, that gave him the strength not to cry like a child when he sank into the empty chair behind his grandfather’s ancient desk.
Memories threatened to overwhelm him but a knock at the door interrupted his rampaging thoughts. Had he really lingered so long, lost in sensory memories? That had to be Hayate with the tea, after all: other than the old butler, the estate was a relative ghost-town out of respect for the family. The rest of the staff and the grounds-keeping would return in two days to keep things from falling to disrepair and neglect.
“Come in,” says Takeda, eyes falling to that distinct wound on the desk’s otherwise pristine surface.
The old butler sends him a fond smile as he closes the door behind his back. “You look just like him, Young Master,” says Hayate, and Takeda smiles sadly in response. He’s heard the same thing before, many times, and yet he cannot help the pride that blossoms in his chest, a curling white rose nurtured by his grandfather’s careful, steady fingers, fed by countless, priceless encouraging words traditionally left unsaid. Behind it echoed “genius” and “gifted” and “talented”, words and claims that held no interest to Takeda, all attempts to flatter him or his parents, begging for signatures on checks and handshake photos in newsprint. Above all, Takeda valued the things his grandfather taught him, showed him, left him as an innocent legacy. Takeda would kill to be half the man his grandfather was, including a mirror image of the man at his simplest, at his most relaxed. Those moments came seated at this chair alone, and perhaps on the banks of the koi pond. Takeda would have to take a walk later to ground himself as his grandfather had taught him.
“Thank you Hayate,” says Takeda, grateful for the old butler’s familiar presence and his kind words. “I hope to make him proud, from this chair.”
“I’m sure you will, sir,” says Hayate, pouring him a small cup of sweet smelling tea.
Takeda places the cup at his lips and inhales, closing his eyes. “Still spoiling me, I see,” says Takeda, smiling at the memories behind the fragrance.
“I thought it might calm you,” says Hayate, face revealing nothing but his fondness.
“Thank you, Hayate, truly. I don’t know what I’d do without you at a time like this. You’re as much a part of this family as I am,” says Takeda, laying a light hand on Hayate’s forearm. The man had been at his grandfather’s side for over fifty years, with him for the tail-end of his reckless twenties, the entirety of his happy married years, a silent comfort and a pillar of support when Takeda’s grandmother succumbed to dementia only a few years after Takeda was old enough to walk (he remembers her clearer than his own mother, his father’s second wife), and practically a second grandfather to Takeda (easily filling the void of his mother’s side of the family, who rarely wanted anything to do with him). He owed Hayate so much, especially for the special care he gave Takeda’s grandfather in those final years of his life as his body fought the lung cancer, but Takeda was also too selfish to suggest Hayate retire and take it easy as his kind, old soul deserved on the off-chance the old man actually accepted the idea.
“You warm my heart, Ittetsu,” says Hayate, his given name rare off the man’s tongue. “I will leave you to your business, Young Master. Do no hesitate to call me if you need anything. Dinner will be served at seven, if that suits you, sir?”
Takeda says, “oh there’s really no reason to worry about me Hayate, I don’t want you doing all the work yourself.” Then he pauses, considering the dignified butler now standing at the door. Takeda huffs and smiles. A meal together is the least he can do for the man. “Thank you, Hayate, seven sounds perfect. I’d ask you and Ukai to join me, just this once, for company.”
“Just this once, sir,” says Hayate, smiling despite his stern professionalism.
“Thank you,” says Takeda, and dismisses the man by turning his attention back to the papers on his grandfather’s desk. The large door groans closed, cutting the study room off from the bright hallway. The large windows cast dull grey on the room, making the room feel longer than it really is with strange shadows. Takeda loses track of time underneath all the random papers and notes left untouched since Takeda’s grandfather was confined to his bed. Some of it is nonsense: scribbles that only the old man himself could make sense of now. He finds a diary he sets aside for later, a few grainy pictures in stark black and white dated to nearly forty years ago filled with men he doesn't recognize, a few dried and pressed flower petals he can't bear to disturb, and too many memos to count. Even in his old age and semi-retirement, Takeda’s grandfather had remained an important and busy man. Takeda has to pause and compose himself a few times, especially after spotting one of his own calligraphy lessons, little smudged fingerprints marrying the smooth, small inky letters and a few stray doodles sprawling over the blank spaces left between when the lesson was forgotten. Takeda can remember signing his masterpiece and handing it over proudly but based on the shakiness of the letters, he would have been too young to remember such a thing.
Finally, Takeda’s shaky fingers find an envelope addressed to him, his grandfather’s confident scrawl spelling out his full name on the front. This was written before his finer motor skills started slipping, his body weakened by infection and surgeries designed to help but doing anything but. Last year, then.
Takeda sighs; he hates the idea of his grandfather knowing his death was approaching and planning for it. This letter sits separate from the will that rests safely in a safe in a law firm, un-edited for seven years now after his father’s premature death. As such, this letter will no doubt be more personal, less business, and Takeda will treasure it forever. But can he open it so soon without reducing himself to tears?
Takeda huffs a bitter laugh. “You’ll cry no matter how much time has passes,” he says to himself. Still, he is careful with the letter opener, wishing to keep the envelope itself as well. Takeda sobs from the first line alone. The letter reads:
“My Dearest Itettsu,
It’s nearing winter again and the koi have stopped feeding out of my hand. You know what the colder temperatures do to their appetites. I think this year I’ll finally expand on the bridge system over the main pond. I might even add another pond to the east garden. Life has a funny way of guiding you where you need to go, no matter the endeavor.
Such is the way you blessed my life. I waited so many years to hold you in my arms at last, and even then, I was not ready for the small bundle handed to me. Only a few days old and already giggling and kicking. And you grew so quickly, such a strong boy you were. So full of joy and everything my son needed.
When your father died, I didn’t know how we would cope in his absence. You had already lost your mother some years before and I had lost my wife as well. I was lost, aimless and drowning in a sea of grief. My other sons had already passed, as you know, but that was many years ago, before you were born. Back then, the only thing that truly saved me was family. When your father died, what saved me, without your loving grandmother to ground me, was you.”
The hand over Takeda’s mouth trembles against his parted lips. The letter threatens to crinkle in his grip but he lets it drop to the desk instead, the fat tears in his eyes too persistent to read through. He lets them fall until his nose is clogged and his head pounds from the pressure behind his eyes.
“You were still so small in my arms then. I could still sit you in my lap and hold you as we both cried. You were too old for it, I know, but you were also so ashamed of your own sadness, and in comforting you, I allowed myself to grieve freely, hoping to show you there was nothing to be ashamed of.
I worry about how you will cope once I pass. My time will come soon. You can deny many things in your life but when you reach my age, your bones begin to tell you things that cannot be ignored. Without me, I fear you will fall to bad habits. You will overwork yourself, perhaps, or ignore your own health. This is the last thing I want and I hope you will respect my last wishes. For your own sake and for your peace of mind, focus your energy on your recovery and accept aide from those around you. There are many I trust with my business and many I beseech you to trust as well. Out of these people, I trust Sawamura Daichi the most. He was there when your father passed and he’s been there for the family since. Go to my hotel on the coast and find him there, he’s been running for me for many years. He’s been trained to handle my business until you are able but more importantly, he is my friend.
Take care of yourself, Itettsu. I know you’ll make me proud.
Remember to feed the fish.
Isamu.”
Takeda lets the letter fall to the desk as he considers his grandfather’s words. He does not know whether or not he is disappointed in the letter or if it is exactly as he expected of the elderly man. Above all, he is curious as to who this Daichi is, why he never met him in all his years at his grandfather’s side (or maybe he had, once, and had been too young to remember), and whether or not he can help in any way. The business world can be cut-throat and he himself woefully inexperienced. What is to stop his grandfather’s competitors from taking advantage of his weakness? Daichi, according to his grandfather.
He sets the letter and the envelope safely to the side to return to later, turning his attention instead to the rest of the desk. It will be his duty to vacate the study of the old master’s possessions to his own approval over time. Should he find the memory too painful, he can choose to leave the room untouched in honour of the deceased. But he doesn’t want that; he wants to work at the same desk his grandfather did, and his grandfather would have berated him for wasting a beautiful room anyways.
A knock at the door tell his dinner is ready, and he soon joins Hayate and Ukai for a modest meal broken at the small table in the kitchen. Idle chatter fills the room. At the end, as Ukai and Hayate take away his dishes, Takeda clears his throat. “Do either of you know who Sawamura Daichi is? My grandfather mentioned him, told me to seek him out for guidance,” he says.
Hayate steps forward. “I know him personally, sir. He’d can be found at the coast-side establishment your father was fond of in your youth. He runs it for your grandfather,” says Hayate.
“Ukai, do you know where this establishment is?” asks Takeda, watching the man dry his hands on a towel.
“Yes sir, I’ve been there many times,” says Ukai.
Takeda nods. “Then that is where we will go. Tomorrow.”
The morning brings more rain. Takeda sits in the backseat staring out the window. Last night had been another hard one, his eyes puffy when he woke up from all the crying. Hayate had suggested a shower and a fresh cup of tea to clear his sinuses. The combo worked wonders.
“How much further, Ukai?” asks Takeda, trying his best not to show his nervousness. Nevertheless, Ukai smiles fondly in the rearview mirror.
“Just another few miles, sir,” says Ukai, eyes back on the road. The countryside, lush and carefully cultivated, passes by quickly. This is one of his grandfather’s businesses that Takeda has never before visited. It makes sense given controversial nature of gambling, especially pachinko machines which many consider the gateway to worse habits. Takeda knows that gambling is illegal in many forms and that his grandfather was probably not the paradigm of strictly legal business, but surely his grandfather had entered the business for a reason and it is Takeda’s job to discover it and keep that morality strong. In any case, a casino-esque hotel was no place for a child, genius grandchild or no. But Takeda is a man now and he felt, by being sent specifically to such a place, his grandfather also believed he was ready for the responsibility. After all, there is a difference between naming a successor and actually expecting them to succeed. Takeda’s grandfather had been a great man and now he trusted Takeda to do him right and continue the legacy of their family name.
“We’re here, sir,” says Ukai, and Takeda pulls himself out of his thoughts to focus on the towering building just outside the car, creamy white and perfectly manicured. Takeda has no head for architecture but he can admire the artisanship that went into –from what he can see—combining stone from Western designs and a more traditional approach, even if he has developed a personal preference for more modern, urban options. Still, the building is intimidating and certainly does not inspire confidence in Takeda’s chest.
Ukai opens the car door yet Takeda doesn’t move, still staring at the looming building, white and bright in the sparse sunlight. “Do you need a moment, sir?” asks Ukai, his expression scrunching with concern.
Takeda shakes his head and steps out before Ukai can insists. It’s best not to show vulnerability, even when he’s grieving, even around people he trusts.
“Where is Sawamura’s office?” asks Takeda, the name still deceptively familiar.
“On the first floor, sir. Directly off the lobby, if memory serves correct,” says Ukai, following him up the steps and handing over his keys to a man who doesn’t look suited to the job given his monstrous height and the unfriendly scowl on his face. “But Hayate called ahead, so Daichi should meet you in the-”
Ukai trails off when he lays eyes on the three men bowing respectively before them. The sight overwhelms Takeda only for a moment before propriety takes hold and has him bowing politely in return.
“Master Takeda,” they say, perfectly in unison. Then the middle man steps forward. He is an honest looking man with dark features and tan skin, dressed sharply in a suit that rivals those Takeda sees in magazines. Takeda hopes this is Sawamura Daichi, hopes this is the man for him to trust.
“Hayate said you were coming. I am Sawamura Daichi and I run this establishment,” says Daichi, holding out a hand for a handshake. Takeda manages to smile, his hand not too clammy. Daichi’s grip is firm.
“My grandfather sent me to find you,” says Takeda. “It’s a pleasure to meet you personally, though I believe I saw you at the funeral service.”
“An unfortunate first encounter. Please, join me in my office,” says Daichi, and at Takeda’s words, leads them away. Once there, Ukai finds his place by the door. “Ah, forgive me. This is Oikawa, one of my clerks, or receptionist if you will, and this is Kuroo, one of my bodyguards,” says Daichi. Both men, so very unalike in appearance, bow deeply. Sensing some sort of hierarchy, Takeda bows his head in return.
“I confess,” says Takeda, “my grandfather didn’t mention any of you, or this.”
“Ah, that makes sense, I’ve always been his dirty secret. It’s a pity we were never introduced, however,” says Daichi, and Takeda has to agree. Daichi seems very friendly, his smiles and conversation easy and genuine. His grandfather had to have a good reason not introducing them before. Perhaps there had never been a good time; Daichi was undoubtedly a busy man and Takeda had always been focused on school.
“But you’re here now,” says Daichi, smiling softly. Takeda feels very special indeed. It’s a winner’s smile, sure to make women swoon and men loosen their pockets. “And we have much to discuss. Would you like a drink to get your started? Scotch? Whiskey? Sake maybe?”
“Oh no, just a water, please,” says Takeda. Daichi snaps his fingers once and one of the others, his bodyguard, moves to it. Daichi himself pours two fingers of an amber alcohol and sips it. Takeda accepts a tumbler of water with ice and watches Daichi watching him. It is the first time Daichi makes him feel uncomfortable. The scrutiny only lasts for a few sips and then Daichi must find what he’s looking for. The man leans forward.
“I just have one question for you, sir,” says Daichi, and it’s strange to hear such deference from a man who looks so in charge of everything in his life. “Do you want to take over your grandfather’s empire? Before you answer, you need to know that it’s a dangerous business at the best of times. You’ll be constantly making enemies and people will try to use you for and take your money. If you want my help, which I am fully ready to give, sir, I must know how dedicated to this path you are and that you’ll do your best to do what your grandfather did to stay at the top. You have his blood and I believe that means you have true potential, but this company needs a real leader and I refuse to follow a man who is anything less.”
Takeda stares, overwhelmed by Daichi’s honesty, as Daichi calmly sips his drink. His composure is remarkable especially in comparison to how raw Takeda feels. Of course, there’s nothing holding Daichi to him in the wake of his grandfather’s death, no bond or friendship, only a shared name and a strong resemblance given to him that even his mother’s kind eyes couldn’t dilute.
“I understand,” says Takeda, eyes sliding to the floor in an automatic response to Daichi’s own fearless gaze. A minute passes and Daichi leans back, a dismissal on the tip of his tongue. “I understand, but I won’t be giving up so easily. Forgive my impertinence but I’d rather die than disappoint my grandfather’s memory.” He stands, his water forgotten, and bows deeply at the waist. He barely catches Daichi’s shocked expression before his head dips too far and eye contact is lost. Daichi clears his throat, no doubt recomposing himself from the display.
“Good then, devotion… we can work with that,” says Daichi, and Takeda hears his glass clink on his desk and realizes the bow has gone on an unorthodoxically long amount of time. He sits back down. Daichi’s gaze has softened around the corner of his eyes. “I have so much to show you,” he says and Takeda risks a smile. Daichi, with his expertise in the business world, will make an invaluable ally.
“You’ll help me then?” asks Takeda, needing the clarification. Daichi smiles in return.
“Of course, Young Master. We’ll start today,” says Daichi, and he stands. “Come, there’s a situation to handle on the second floor that should be a perfect learning opportunity.” Takeda happily follows him.
The hotel clerk slips forward to whisper in Daichi’s ear and Daichi shakes his head, answering in a voice so soft Takeda assumes it’s something he wouldn’t understand and decides not to worry. Ukai and the other bodyguard hang back, walking a few steps behind them in a way Takeda is used to from his school days. Everyone in the lobby bows respectfully, seeming to understand who he is. The clerk continues on with them, apparently important to the upcoming situation. Everyone pauses outside at door at Daichi’s signal. He turns to Takeda.
“This might get ugly. The man on the other side of this door was siphoning money from our accounts and rather than calling the police, we chose to settle the affair privately. You may not like the outcome but sometimes compromise must be achieved to keep the family safe,” says Daichi, his head tipped forward so their eyes meet comfortably with the small distance between them.
Takeda nods. “The good of the whole vs. the good of the one, I understand,” he says, voice firm. Daichi smiles in obvious praise.
“You sound just like him,” says Daichi. Takeda flushes and Daichi touches his shoulder in a fatherly way. His hand is large and tanned, the callouses unknown to Takeda. The clerk opens the door before them and Daichi leads the way in. Just a few feet inside the room, a man sits tossing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth. Daichi tsks and the man flashes a grin before standing and adopting a far more professional demeanor.
“He stopped complaining an hour ago. Took a nap right there in his chair after I…” His eyes flick over to Takeda and his words trail off. “...Suggested it,” he finishes lamely. Takeda smiles nervously and the man hurriedly bows. “If you had said the new boss was coming, I woulda prepared.”
Daichi snorts at the very thought. “I didn’t think you’d care, Bokuto,” says Daichi, and then it's down to business. “Any trouble with him?”
“Not since I told him you’d be on your way soon. Got all quiet, I think he’s nervous,” says Bokuto, grinning like a shark in bloody waters.
“As he should be,” says Daichi and he gestures Takeda forward. “Come, you must meet our guest.” At those words, the clerk pulls a large sheet of plastic from under one of the beds as Bokuto and the bodyguard drag a man out from the bathroom. He is bruised and bloodied, his shirt soaked and caked in thick blotches, his right cheekbone swollen. Takeda stares, his mouth open.
“What?” says Takeda, because it is the only thing that will come out. His throat has seized tight, useless and parched. The room is far too hot, he thinks, frozen but wishing to loosen his collar. The man groans when they kneel him on the floor and then again when they slap him back to alertness. He panics before Takeda’s eyes, then is subdued by strong hands and exhaustion. He slumps, and finally Takeda finds the rest of his voice. “What's going on here? What have you done to him?” says Takeda. His voice cracks painfully, but no one finds it funny. He can feel Daichi’s stare on his back but no one else is looking at him, their stares dull and cast above his head so they can sign out of the ensuing conversation.
"This man stole money from your grandfather’s business, convinced the Master’s failing health would distract me long enough for him to flee the city. I am ashamed to say that my grief did distract me for too long. Now, we end this man’s life and send a message to all who would dare assume Takeda’s passing has weakened us beyond repair. You will be the one to pull the trigger and thus assert yourself as the new head of the Tohoku Syndicate,” says Daichi, revealing so much but not actually making any sense. Takeda can’t move but his thoughts hurricane through his head.
“What the fuck?” says Takeda, any eloquence lost as his eyes meet those of the broken man in front of him. “What are you talking about? No one is killing anyone,” says Takeda, and the kneeling man outright laughs, and then ends up coughing desperately into his heaving chest.
“You’re the new boss, huh? The old man’s boy?” he says, then spits on the ground in insult. A guard threatens with a hand but the man is not cowed. “You look just like him, Young Master. He must have been so disappointed in you, so young and without a clue. You’re in an illegal casino, you know that? And you know who runs casinos? Criminals, you bastard. Your precious family is full of them. Dear old Dad died on a run-in with the police, did they never tell you? Some trust. Bet you’ll be just like your old man though, quick to assume and even quicker to run for cover. Cowards, the lot of you! I’ll piss on your family grave by the time I’m done with-” he’s silenced by a quick punch to his cheekbone. The pain makes him dry heave and end up gagging on his own spit.
“Charming man, isn’t he?” says Daichi. “No one will blame you for wanting him to suffer.”
“I’m not killing him!” shouts Takeda because it’s the only part he can make sense of. His voice seems to echo in the crowded room. The man on the floor begins to chuckle again and that unnerves Takeda the most. One of them yanks his head back by his hair, there is fresh blood on his lips and he groans from the movement.
“Your grandfather ran a very strict business, Young Master. No insubordination or betrayal unanswered,” says Daichi.
“Are you trying to convince me that my grandfather was the leader of a yakuza family? I don’t even know you!” says Takeda. “I’m calling the police!” he says, mind made up after finally catching up the conversation. When he reaches for his phone, however, he finds his pockets empty. He flounders like a fish, then spots Ukai standing, guilty, with the phone in his hands.
“Ukai?” says Takeda, the hurt in his chest unimaginable.
“Ukai was assigned to you by your grandfather at my suggestion. He has proven himself loyal to the family like his grandfather before him, who served with your own. I found the match suitable,” says Daichi, calm as ever as if he’s speaking about a marital match and not one of the deepest betrayals Takeda has ever suffered. Takeda wobbles on his feet, his knees proving unsteady. Ukai moves to catch him, concern plain on his face, but it is Daichi who steadies him, firm fatherly hand once again resting on his shoulder, holding him in place, weighing him down. He can’t move, can’t see straight.
“You were never properly groomed for this station due to your father’s untimely death. It is time to ready you in record time. We must prove your authority is not to be questioned or doubted. Your reign begins now,” says Daichi. He raises a hand to the clerk. “Oikawa, your smallest handgun. I don’t want too much mess this time,” he says, and in his hand Oikawa places the pistol he apparently keeps tucked on his ankle. Takeda stares at the gun, something coiling in his chest, tight, that won’t let him breathe. Daichi keeps talking and Takeda begs him to stop, to realize how crazy this is, all of it, how Takeda can barely hear over the thundering of his own pulse beneath his ears, how his vision has narrowed down to the gun in Daichi’s grip, small and unassuming, belying the fact any fool could point it, move a finger, and ruin so many lives including their own. It shines, glossy and polished, in the room’s light, window panes dry and clear and completely contradictory to the sky outside and the struggle raging in Takeda’s mind.
Daichi has finally stopped talking and now looks at him expectantly. Takeda blinks owlishly, still fighting to keep his head. “I’m sorry, I-” says Takeda, but Daichi cuts him off.
“You will do this, Young Master. It’s what your grandfather always intended for you,” says Daichi. Takeda can’t, won’t, believe such an obvious lie, a ploy for his aching heart.
“My grandfather loved me, and he never killed anyone, least of all like this. You think this is what he dreamed for me? You were supposed to help me, not make me a killer!”
Daichi’s face has been stone-cold since they entered the room but his eyes shift over Takeda’s face in a way Takeda might have considered concerned if not for the ominous weapon still in his hand. “This man is going to die either way. I am merely offering you an opportunity,” says Daichi.
“You’re insane and I’ll make sure they send you straight to prison,” says Takeda, his frantic brain supplying a second later that perhaps this is not the smartest thing to say to a criminal with a handgun in a room filled with other criminals with more guns. He’s not thinking straight at this point; he even considers running for the door. But at his nervous and obvious glance, Ukai moves to block the exit. He could make a dive out the window but undoubtedly that would injure him greatly and end with him in their grasps and in a great deal of pain.
“Prison, huh? Alright, Young Master, if you want us behind bars so badly,” says Daichi, looking away from Takeda just long enough to place his other hand on the gun and fire twice, two shots to the man’s chest. They barely make a sound apart from the man’s curses. Bokuto steps forward to hold him in place and make sure he doesn’t get blood on the floor. There are now two small holes in the man’s torso and Takeda stares in ugly fascination as red sluggishly seeps, soaking his shirt and spreading south.
“Congratulations, you’re now involved in the murder of one Shinobu Muraki, a known affiliate of the Tohoku crime syndicate. If you’re so keen on going to prison, turn yourself in. But know it will be difficult to prove who was standing next to you, and who pulled the trigger,” says Daichi, confidence unwavering and unwaning. Takeda watches a man die slowly on the floor, knees on stained plastic.
“You can’t do this,” says Takeda, but he isn’t even sure anymore. Oikawa outright snorts, shooting him a look of condescending amusement, but all Daichi does is hand the recently fired handgun back to him.
“We have been for years, flourishing under your grandfather’s guidance. We are strong, with or without your approval, and we will not stop if you refuse us. But remember your grandfather’s legacy and what is now means. You carry his name, it’s yet to be seen whether you carry his courage," says Daichi, then he claps Takeda on the shoulder. “Take him home, Ukai, put him to bed,” he says, and Takeda feels week in the knees once again. His stomach has dropped down to meet his bladder. He can barely breathe his chest is so tight. “Sleep well, Young Master, I eagerly await your answer.” Ukai takes hold of his arm and guides him out of the room.
Suga
Every morning starts at 5:30. He’s up and out the door by 6:15, preferably by 6:00 (but that never happens) for his first job – terrible work and dreadfully boring, but graciously part time and decent pay. He naps in the break room of his second job then spends the rest of the day cleaning bedspreads and toilets and trying to ignore how much his feet hurt. At nine, Suga clocks out and stumbles home to bed. He gets a precious day off every Monday, when neither job needs him, then it's back at it on Tuesday. In short, he’s broke, tired, and never made it through college. His mother calls him when she remembers and he hasn’t done laundry in two weeks (his two pairs of pants are starting to stink of cleaning agents and Oikawa has been side-eying him for days). Time passes too slowly when he’s working and too fast when he’s not. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting on to change his life from this paycheck-to-paycheck, leaky faucets and moldy dry-wall existence but it’s been a long time coming and he’s getting sick of each new day before it starts.
“Someone’s looking dashingly well rested,” a voice rings, “Get a full six hours, did you? You sly dog.”
Suga sighs and pulls the magazine from over his eyes. The light of the room blinds him, as does the sudden wake up. Oikawa pours a cup of coffee for himself and then offers Suga the rest of the pot. Suga grunts as he sits up and accepts a small cup. His alarm had gone off a few minutes ago but he’d been reluctant to move. Oikawa, however annoying at times, could always be counted on to make sure Suga gets to work on time.
“Have you clocked in yet, Sleeping Beauty?” asks Oikawa, smiling knowingly when Suga glances up from his cup and abruptly yawns. Oikawa reaches for Suga’s card, and Suga lets him take it. He crosses the room, and the machine dings when he swipes it. “There’s no harm in taking a few paid minutes for yourself. Besides, now you’re early!” says Oikawa, and Suga snorts softly into the brim of his mug.
“How have you not been fired?” says Suga, returning his keycard to his belt and placing his mug in the break room sink. He stretches his arms above his head and ignores Oikawa’s insinuating wink.
“I’m charming,” says Oikawa, “and I’m too pretty to fire, they’d lose half their clientele.”
“And half their workplace sexual harassment lawsuits.” Suga grins at the noise the man makes when his honour is wounded. He checks the employee schedule. “Is Yaku out today?”
Oikawa recovers in no time at all, voice as smooth and disinterested as ever. “Yeah, but Daichi said not to worry about his rooms. Someone else is coming in later. No reason for you to overwork yourself,” says Oikawa, his scolding so obvious that Suga gives him a look for it. Oikawa has been not so subtly pestering him since day one, like a cat that pretends to hate you but brings you dead mice regardless.
“Alright,” he says, because it’s easier than arguing over something so trivial. Oikawa still gives him a side-glance.
“I know this is a longshot because you haven’t taken a night off in four years, but it's Friday so would you be interested in going out tonight? Iwaizumi and I are meeting up for drink.” Suga doesn’t even need to take a minute to consider the offer.
“I’d love to but I work tomorrow morning.” Suga pulls on the tie he keeps in his locker. “Besides, are you sure you want me 3rd wheeling on your little date?”
“Oh please, Iwaizumi loves your company,” says Oikawa, clapping Suga on the shoulder. “Just think about it, okay? We’d love to have you.”
“I’ll think about it,” he promises, but they both know he won’t change his mind even if he wars with himself all day. Suga is too responsible (or as Oikawa says, “boring”) to call out of work the next morning and after so long his tolerance for alcohol will be next to nothing and suffering through a hangover isn’t his idea of fun by any means.
Oikawa makes him promise to meet up for dinner on break before he goes, then Suga is alone and making his way up to the second floor, maintenance cart in tow. Each room is the same and takes about an hour to finish depending on the severity of the mess. One upside of the job is he’s allowed to listen to music, which passes the time quickly. He moves on autopilot for four hours, then breaks with Oikawa for dinner (“you have to try this, Iwaizumi made it for me!”) then returns to his usual shift.
He finishes his assigned rooms early and shrugs, heading for Yaku’s wing. It’s an area Suga rarely works in, only when Daichi needs him especially (“you can turn him down, you know. Accepting more work from him doesn’t exactly scream fuck me”) but the hallway looks the same and the rooms do too, so Suga buckles down to it. He’s not even getting paid extra for this; the only reward he’ll receive is Daichi’s smile and maybe a soft touch to his shoulder. Maybe Oikawa is right, there are better ways of getting the man’s attention and maybe even his affection, but Suga doesn’t feel comfortable blatantly sizing up his boss and lacing innuendo into his every word (as Oikawa would recommend he do). So he hopes Daichi will appreciate his extra effort, ask him to grab dinner as a thank you, and stay up all night talking with him again at a diner that has no business staying open until 2 a.m. but does because that’s just what people do for Daichi, they do him favours and laugh at his jokes. Suga’s just like the rest of them, no matter how special he feels. And yet, Oikawa has been friends with Daichi long enough to know him well and, as distracted as he’s been recently by Iwaizumi, the man has never shown anything less than total support for Suga’s silly crush. There had to be an attraction on both their parts or else Oikawa wouldn’t pester Suga so fervently. Oikawa might even pester Daichi as well. Wasn’t that a cute thought.
Suga smiles, absentmindedly hanging the “House Keeping” sign on the door handle before letting himself in the room.
He stares, completely still. He stares because there’s blood on the floor. Not just a small spot either, but a spray covering part of the rug and spreading up the wall opposite the door. Even the glass door to the patio has some splatter dripping down in filthy streaks. Then the smell hits him and he stumbles backward, overwhelmed by the linger stench of shit and piss and so much blood. He stares, now on his knees in the hallway, at the evidence of some horrific accident. No, he thinks, knowing something is not quite right with that idea. Suga grew up in a bad place. He knows what a crime scene looks like, from walks through bad neighborhoods and police reports on TV. Suga knows and his heart thunders with the need to run. Right now. He needs to get the fuck out right now because the blood is still pooling on the floor and seeping into the white rug and there are footprints, heavy and slightly pink from the mess, tracked all around the room. Someone isn’t finished here and Suga cannot be here when they return.
Not thinking and not giving a damn about moral responsibility or justice, Suga reaches up and slams the door, ripping the housekeeping sign away and throwing it on his cart. His hands shake when he keys himself in the staff elevator. The staff room is empty when the door dings open. Stomach revolting, he throws himself in the men’s bathroom, locks the stall behind him, and throws up in the toilet. He’s sweating, he can feel it all over his body. He can’t do this, he needs to calm down before someone sees him and asks questions. He needs to call the police. Did anyone see him? Would they come for him? All the doors between him and that room are locked, employees only. But he cannot seem to force himself to his feet. The bathroom tile is cool and hard on his knees, just what he needs.
He finally stumbles out and heads straight for the lockers. Oikawa keeps whiskey in his but he also keeps his locked like the rest of them. Suga knows the combination and yet it won’t open for him. Why won’t it open for him? Why won’t his fingers stop shaking? (Who was the person murdered in 223?)
The lock pops off and Suga dives for the half-bottle sitting on the metal shelf right next to Oikawa’s car keys and wallet. The green alien chibi on the keychain stares at him as he kicks his head back and swallows as many times as he can before the burn is too much. It’s judging him, and he’s breathing too fast to do anything more than scowl at it. He sees himself in the mirror hanging on the locker door framed by pictures of Oikawa’s personal life. Oikawa is smiling, Suga is not. He’s sweaty and hyped up and his throat burns.
Suga walks home, bottle in hand. His hand is spinning as he tries to unlock his own front door. It can’t be any later than 7 at night and his next door neighbor gives him a look as he passes. He throws up two more times and then passes out in his tub, which makes sense at the time.
(But who was murdered in room 223?)