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Rye
Shuuichi's ears are still ringing faintly by the time he has successfully taken out the last of their targets. Fucking hand grenades.
It's precisely this kind of mission that he least prefers: not because the targets are armed (although they often make for the messiest, most drawn-out kills as opposed to a politician who may be wary and hire bodyguards yet remains powerless to prevent his impending death), but because the entire operation was a rush job and it shows— it's in Shuuichi's ears, still grappling with tinnitus, in his aching shoulder (not dislocated, but it got way too close to that for comfort), in his broken comms and fucked up phone, and in the fact that at this point in time he's not sure where he is (this place is a goddamn maze and he wants out) nor where Scotch and Bourbon ended up, let alone if they're still in one piece.
(He shoves down the urge to wrinkle his nose at the strange train of thought. What the hell was that?)
Bottom line is, this is only happening because someone high up in the ranks— Rum, Shuuichi has heard operatives whisper with fear and reverence in equal measure; they sound like a right wanker if you ask him— got too impatient and ordered a last-minute operation against a no longer useful asset, which translated into whoever was closest being dispatched with little more than basic intel to work with.
Overall the mission was a success, because nobody in the Syndicate gets a codename if they're not deserving of it and because Bourbon managed to miracle them a little more information just in time (he had Scotch forward the details to Shuuichi, unwilling as always to even consider interacting with him unless there are no other options, which is as vexing as it is amusing), but nothing can change how utterly annoyed Shuuichi is. Figures that he'd be able to pinpoint this feeling over anything else.
Once he's fairly sure that walking around isn't going to unleash any more bouts of dizziness, he tackles the task of finding his way out of the building. If Scotch and Bourbon are alive and mobile, he figures they'll be doing the same; with no way of discreetly trying to contact them and more aware of how little time they all have before the police inevitably show up with every second that passes, their best bet is to vacate the premises as quickly as they can.
He gets down two flights of stairs, then up a separate staircase and through at least six corridors (why this place only has the one entrance is genuinely beyond him) before indistinct chatter reaches his ears. Instinctively, Shuuichi flattens himself against a wall— ignoring the twinge of pain radiating from his shoulder—, although he relaxes a tad when he recognizes one of the voices as Bourbon's. Shuuichi can't make out what he's saying, but he sounds calm enough: with a bit of luck, the other voice will turn out to be Scotch's.
He makes to check around the corner, then, and immediately regrets it.
Well, not regret, per se, but... hm.
Slowly, Shuuichi peeks around the corner a second time. Maybe his eyes were playing a trick on him the first time— he is a little banged up. Maybe he imagined it, or misread the situation, or—
No can do. They're still there.
Even so, they might as well be existing in a bubble of their own, Scotch and Bourbon. Scotch— from what Shuuichi can see of him— is sitting against a wall, one hand resting on his flank, right below the ribs; his fingers are red with what Shuuichi can only assume is Scotch's own blood. Bourbon has crouched in front of him, his usually impeccable attire stained by dirt and yet more blood (someone clearly got up and close to his targets), and he has leaned so far into Scotch's personal space that their noses are on the verge of touching.
Bourbon says something else, to which Scotch responds by chuckling— though his expression briefly crumbles into a pained grimace— and closing his eyes. The burst of laughter echoes in Shuuichi's ears, impossibly melodic, as Bourbon wordlessly leans even closer, presses his forehead against Scotch's and just... stays there.
Silence falls. For a while, Shuuichi doesn't dare breathe no matter how much his lungs burn. One of Bourbon's hands has moved up to cradle Scotch's cheek, and although minimal there is movement: the two are rocking in place as much as Scotch's position will allow, pushing into each other, back and forth and back and forth and there's a knot stuck in the back of Shuuichi's throat, now.
(He has seen this before, late at night when his body inexplicably demanded water, more tender than he could ever have imagined, and if it had been a kiss then Shuuichi would have gladly made a face and stomped through the living room just to make it stop, but that— that, he could only stare at, wide-eyed, before tiptoeing back to his room and under the covers, something nameless swirling inside his chest, beyond skin and bone and muscle. Deep inside, where he couldn't dig it out and study it, so very warm.
The faded memory springs to the forefront of his mind, haunting and ever so soft.)
Fully retreating beyond the corner, Shuuichi counts to ten before deliberately knocking the butt of his handgun against the wall. That prompts a little commotion in the other hallway, followed by a tentative, "Rye?" courtesy of Scotch.
"Do remind Bourbon not to shoot," he drawls, silent on his feet as he rounds the corner for real this time. His gaze flicks once more to Scotch's wounded side, a little less visible now that the man is standing and facing him but no less obviously troubling. His raised eyebrow earns him a dismissive wave, so he doesn't bother bringing it up.
(Shuuichi isn't sure what compelled him to give them enough time to get their bearings, just so that they could keep their little charade up. He doesn't know why he counted, doesn't know why looking away in the first place felt like tearing stitches, the same way he can't fathom why he never had the courage to take those moments from—
It doesn't matter. It's not as if they'd be talking about it anyway.)
Bourbon, who has already begun to head towards the exit, fishes the key to their getaway car out of his pocket and gives it a single shake, causing it to jangle noisily against its metal keychain. Shuuichi glances at Scotch, receiving nothing but a bland smile in return, and holds back a sigh.
Backseat it is.
⤘❅⬽
Bourbon
Rei would like it to be on record that he doesn't want to be here.
Not because of where they are: the practice room is tiny and nigh-unbearably loud, yes, but Hiro loves it, never fails to get that shine in his eyes when he's got a reservation to look forward to, and Rei... Rei didn't spend months, years of his life learning all he could about guitars and basses and drums and keyboards because of a strike of fancy.
Hiro loves making music. Rei loves making music. It's that simple.
(Everything he is, everything he has molded himself into belonged to others first. He takes what they love and makes it his until he, too, can safely say 'I like this as well'.
Keep looking at me.)
The reason why Rei would like to be anywhere but here is sitting perpendicular to him on a stool on the other side of the room, facing Hiro and using that as an excuse to stare at him like some kind of creep.
Rye is nothing special with the guitar. He's good, Rei is man enough to admit it, even if to himself and nobody else, but he's far from remarkable. Nothing like Hiro, who for some reason called dibs on the bass as soon as the idea of pretending to be an amateur band came up. Hiro could one-up Rye on the guitar while blackout drunk— Rei would bet his life on that any day.
"Why not?" Rye is asking when Rei tunes back in to reality. He tamps down the urge to bark at the insufferable bastard to shut up and listen to whatever Hiro said.
Hiro sighs. Rei doesn't like that it's one of his 'endeared and not even mad about it' sighs. Not one bit. "It's eight minutes long, Rye."
"And I'd be the only one having to play from start to finish."
"So you just want to show off?" Rei snaps, already regretting starting to pay attention to the conversation.
Rye doesn't even have the decency to feign contrition. "Don't look at me like that. Besides, the real star is the singer."
They both glance towards Hiro at that (Rei resents their apparent synchrony), who rolls his eyes but gestures for Rye to go ahead. The worst thing is that Rye actually looks somewhat happy about it, as if obtaining Hiro's approval first were a fundamental step: Rei can see the flawless logic in that, although it does little to warm him up to the sniper.
He then proceeds to almost make a fool of himself by realizing a bit too late that he never actually caught the title of the song Rye asked to play and therefore he has no clue what the drums are supposed to sound like, and five seconds after that he very nearly gives in to the urge to faceplant on the floor tom in sheer relief when he recognizes the chords Rye is gliding through.
No wonder Hiro caved so easily.
Rei shakes his head, settling in for his scheduled four minutes of doing absolutely nothing. It proves to be more difficult than anticipated when both Hiro and Rye are well within his line of sight; at least when he's playing he's too busy keeping a steady tempo to be able to watch them.
Hiro has started singing, a foot tapping rhythmically against the ground to stay on beat, his head bobbing delicately in time with Rye's, who in turn is silently mouthing along while he plays. Rei's heart skips a beat.
They're looking at each other, and they're smiling.
(Hiro smiles a lot. Not always for real— and as of late he's had to fake more and more— but when he does, it's blinding. Sometimes, Rei thinks Hiro could burn him up from the inside out with a smile if he really tried.
What Hiro is giving Rye is only a little genuine, but it's more than he has offered anyone apart from Rei in over a year.)
Hiro's voice breaks through the static in his head: it's already time for Rei to join in. He does so seamlessly, with thrice the confidence he's actually feeling.
"Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run," Hiro carries on, his own fingers dancing on the bass strings. His foot taps harder against the floor, deafening Rei even though there's no way he's actually hearing that over their instruments. "There's still time to change the road you're on..."
The beat intensifies. There's sweat accumulating on their hands, their necks, their faces. The beat intensifies. The room shrinks and heats up, pushes them close enough that Rei can feel sparks run across his skin and jump over to Hiro, to Rye, back to him. The beat intensifies. His head feels like a balloon about to pop.
Rye started singing as well at some point, strands of hair stuck to his cheeks, eyes wild and an expression Rei has never seen on him before etched on his face, exertion and elation and something soft that doesn't fit him, can't fit him (Rei doesn't want it to fit him)—
"When all are one and one is all, to be a rock and not to roll..." Rei's drumming peters off at the same time as Rye's guitar, slowly and then all at once.
The room expands. Rei breathes.
Hiro finishes singing the last line with a flourish, bows from where he's sitting for his grand audience of two, raises his head and turns to look at Rei with a smile.
(Bigger, brighter, truer than he's been all evening. As much joy as music brings him, it's still Rei whom he looks at like that.)
"That was good," Rei hears him tell Rye. He pays it little mind: their allotted two hours are over, so they need to pack their things and leave the practice room at once.
Rye snorts. "I fumbled four times and you know it."
"Hey, I wasn't going to say anything," Hiro lightly hits Rye's shoulder with the back of his hand. Rye barely even twitches. Interesting. Infuriating. Telling. Who knows what he would have done if it had been Rei doing that.
(For the record, Rei knows exactly what he'd do if Rye tried that with him.)
They split up painlessly as soon as they're outside, like oil and water. Rye walks off, back to whatever hole he crawls out of every morning, and at long last Rei is alone with Hiro.
"You really do like him," he says conversationally, although only once he's sure he can get the sentence out without grimacing.
Hiro's breath hitches the tiniest bit. Rei notices, of course. He always does. "He... has been growing on me." Rei's stomach sinks. He already knew, but hearing the confirmation— "Does... Is that okay? With you?"
Rei wants to laugh until his throat starts bleeding. With him? Is that okay with him? He's not the one slowly setting himself up for a broken heart here. He's not the one biting off more than he can chew.
"Are you okay with it?" Can you stick to the plan? Can you bear the failure, if it comes to that? Can you bear it if it works and then doesn't? Can you stay safe? Can you put yourself first?
(Will I be enough, if you can't?)
Hiro swallows, knocks their elbows together. The rest of the walk is quiet.
(Behind closed doors, they curl into each other.
I trust you.
I know.
Trust me?
Of course.)
⤘❅⬽
Scotch
Rye is asleep.
Now, that isn't entirely unheard of: their sniper has indeed been known to take the occasional cat nap and, on a few outstanding instances, sleep for more than four consecutive hours on a real bed with real pillows and a real blanket (because none of those three are ever a guarantee with Rye: Hiromitsu once found him napping in the shower fully clothed), so the sight of a conked out Rye occupying the whole couch isn't inherently novel.
What is one-hundred percent new is the fact that, by all means, Zero appears to be willingly sharing the living room space with him— has been for a while judging by how comfortable he has clearly made himself on the small armchair near the window— and is staring at Rye so intently that he didn't even acknowledge Hiromitsu's greeting beyond an absentminded hum.
Rye makes a weird little sound, something stuck between incoherent noise and recognizable words, and Zero's face goes through one of the most complex, effortlessly beautiful sequences of expressions Hiromitsu has ever witnessed. Gone is the waspish countenance he always dons around Rye, replaced by a look so soft it threatens to send Hiromitsu down memory lane, back to their late Academy days when things were simpler and better, and then back, back, back again to summer afternoons spent laughing and strumming an old guitar and glancing at each other before turning away, cheeks aflame and heart aflutter.
Ah, Hiromitsu thinks, fond and vindicated in equal measure, so it's your turn now.
It's only as he steps deeper inside their flat that Zero notices him properly. Hiromitsu could swear he sees the exact moment Zero's brain catches up with the situation: he starts fidgeting and pointedly tears his gaze away from the couch, as if that were enough to wipe Hiromitsu's memory clean of what he saw. When he manages to meet Zero's eyes, his partner glares at him and mouths 'not a word', probably trying to come off as menacing and only barely managing to remain a step above woefully endearing.
Hiromitsu, who can't say no to Zero but also really likes winning, gives him his patented 'I told you so' smile and heads for the kitchen. Not a word, indeed.
He counts the unbroken silence in the living room, as opposed to whatever catfight would ensue if Zero were to take out his frustration on Rye by instigating an argument the way he so often does, as an additional bonus and goes on to get started on making dinner. If he's patient enough, after all—
"Hey," he says lightly as Zero slides the kitchen door shut behind himself. A few seconds of complete silence is all the warning Hiromitsu gets, and then Zero is leaning his full body weight against him, unmoving, until he's forced to put the cooking on hold in favor of turning around and accepting his temporary pillow status— not that he minds, really. It's actually pretty nice, rare as it is for Zero to initiate anything of the like.
Hiromitsu ends up giving his partner a whole minute of peace before going for the kill, because he's nice like that. "So. Was I right or was I—"
"Don't even start," Zero groans into his shoulder, but he can't be too mad given how he holds Hiromitsu closer. A little upset, no doubt, but nothing catastrophic.
Still... "Is this a problem?"
Zero doesn't answer for longer than Hiromitsu anticipated. In the end, he lifts his head and looks straight at him, Bourbon's mask nowhere to be seen. Shattered into a million pieces in spite of the massive security risk in the next room, whom they can no longer be sure is still asleep— another first. Today is just full of surprises. "I don't... let me think about it?"
He can't stop himself from going in for a kiss. "Of course."
Zero's nose scrunches up. Adorable. "I just— how? I looked at him and just kept thinking, 'cute'. He's not cute! Nothing about— about that is cute, Scotch!" he whisper-shouts the codename the same way he'd say Hiro, something dangerously close to a pout on his face, something that is definitely a pout in his voice, and Hiromitsu can do nothing but snicker.
"He really grew on you too, after all," he says once he has composed himself enough.
"Sure. Like mold," comes the grouchy reply.
Hiromitsu just starts laughing again.