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Nestled in a back alley of Gokurakugai is the Saragi Anti-Maga Organization, where something is always happening somewhere. Endless reports need to be filed, injured members need to be tended to, inventions need constant tinkering. You ate, lived, and breathed the Organization to the point where you've become desensitized to the smell of sweat and blood and metal which permeate the air too frequently. Very rarely is there ever a slow day, and yet you find yourself utterly devoid of things to do.
Your legs are thrown over the couch’s arm, your shirt riding up. The lobby is filled only with the faint sound of you half-heartedly humming some improvised tune you’ll soon forget. Numbness and exhaustion commingle to the point where the two are indistinguishable from one another. You watch the occasional organization member scurry to and fro with unfocused eyes stubbornly refusing to surrender to slumber.
This space smells like books, and so unlike the rest of the other rooms, somber and sterile as they are. In this moment’s silence, the scent of old paper from the bookshelves behind you cradles your senses. It’s hard but you try to savor these moments of quiet. New information can arrive at any moment, unflinching as it upends the world.
The lanterns mounted on the wall emit a golden glow, shadows dancing in the dark underground. The warm ambiance does little in the fight against your drowsiness. Fleetingly, you think that perhaps you could go to the medical wing and beg Miss Kisabe to let you take a quick nap in an unused bed. Or better yet, give you a job to do. It’s better than wallowing here.
But the sight of Ryu Seno lumbering towards you jerks you back to reality. One hand carries his sheathed katana, the other, a bottle of Junmai Ginjo sake. Nonetheless, his gait is steady. With nearly dizzying speed, you swing your legs back into propriety and sit up straight, hands quickly patting your mussed shirt back into place.
Should you stand up entirely?
Ryu’s personality may be one of perpetual indifference, and his appearance might not be one that conveys the utmost formality, but he is still your superior.
“S-Seno sir!” you greet.
“‘S no need for all that. It’s just me,” he says, cocking a brow and placing the bottle on the coffee table. “Ryu’s fine.”
Your lashes flutter as he takes his place beside you and kicks his feet up to rest beside the sake, a light, fruity smell caressing your nose. Apple? It’s hard to place, but whatever it is, it beats the pungent smell that usually accompanies Ryu Seno.
Not that you’re one to judge. A life fighting Maga is demanding and draining. He’s nearly twelve years your elder and in the decades he’s spent working for the Organization, you can’t begin to imagine the gore and bone he’s had to brush off to prioritize a mission. The comrades he’d been forced to watch be torn apart, helpless in thwarting death.
Shit, give it a few more years and you’ll probably be a full-blown alcoholic too.
“Ryu, then,” you acquiesce. With the casual way he sat beside you, head tipped to rest on the back of the couch, you’re not sure what to say beyond that. Your hands rest awkwardly on your knees.
“You’re lookin’ a little stiff…” Ryu notes. “Do you want some?” he asks, already grabbing his bottle.
“No, I couldn’t possibly. Besides, I didn’t think you were the type to share alcohol,” you spout. Immediately, you slap your hands to cover your mouth. Red blooms on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry Seno sir—”
“Ryu.”
“—I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that this bottle looks expensive. I heard you received some as payment for training that red-haired kid. I just don’t want you wasting it on me, that’s all.”
“Yeesh, you really do seem tense.” Ryu scratches his untrimmed beard. It looks rough and scratchy, unlike the silky ebony of his hair. The cool glass of the bottle is pressed to your hand before you can argue further, light condensation dripping to your fingers. “It’s not a waste. I finished those bottles ages ago anyway,” he says, motioning for you to take a sip directly from the spout.
Tentatively, you uncork the bottle. Pop! The faint smell of something sweet hits your senses once more. It’s not apple, you’re sure. Maybe melon? That doesn’t seem quite right either.
Ryu’s eyes drag their way up, following the curve of the bottle to the curve of your lips as they open and take a swig. He licks his lips, perhaps imagining himself swallowing some of the sake. You choke and cough, underestimating the acute sting of alcohol on your tongue that singes your esophagus as you swallow.
Ryu’s calloused hand is slapping your back seconds later. “Easy now!”
Your body gives an involuntary shudder but you’re not sure whether it’s from the sake or from Ryu’s touch. His palm, still lingering between your shoulder blades, feels like it’s burning a hole right through your collared shirt. As if choking in front of Ryu wasn’t embarrassing enough, the fiery sensation in your throat leaves you watery-eyed.
Before you could dab at your eyes with your sleeve, you feel Ryu’s hand leave your back and extend towards your face. Rough, calloused fingers wipe the tear that had escaped your lashes. The pads of his thumb linger longer than necessary, caressing your cheek.
Has he always been so…gentle?
As if just now becoming aware of your close proximity, Ryu clears his throat. His palm, hot against your face, makes for the bottle of sake in your hand.
“I guess you don’t drink often then?” At your nod, he adds, “Probably for the best.”
He takes a gulp so smooth he could’ve convinced you he was drinking water. You have to drag your transfixed eyes away from his bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Mm, that’s the stuff,” he murmurs.
You sit that way for a while, with him taking the occasional gulp between casual conversation. Eventually, you take the sake from him and try another sip. This time, you’re prepared for the burning sensation. You relish the way his index grazes your pinkie every time the two of you pass the bottle around.
He’s not much of a talker, really, but he makes a surprisingly good listener. You talk of trivial things: what you had for breakfast, who you bumped into today, what sorts of things Yoki has been working on.
“I miss the sun,” you say suddenly. Ryu simply hums, indicating for you to elaborate.
“I don’t know, I guess I just feel like I spend too much time here underground. It’s not like I never leave, but even when I go to town I can’t really”–You pass the half-empty sake bottle to Ryu–“enjoy it. It’s always, ‘Hey, can you kill this Maga? It killed five of your coworkers by the way,’ or ‘Hey, we received a report in some shady alley and we need you to check it out.’ I feel like a mole puppet following orders.
“I want a day off. I want the sun. I want to feel the tingle of heat on my face. I don’t care if my skin starts peeling or if I have embarrassing tan lines.” You take a breath, and Ryu takes the opportunity to quaff the sake before passing it to you. “I want a break. I want the beach. I want warm sand under my feet. I want air that doesn’t smell like iron and rot.”
You find the rant spilling from your mouth feels like it’s taking a heavy weight off your chest with every word. Your brain is buzzed despite the fact that your sips are small and borderline ascetic. Ryu, having a higher tolerance, is mainly the one drinking. But it feels good to pass something around; it’s rhythmic. Maybe that’s why you’re finding it so easy to talk.
Ryu’s expression is tinctured with some level of disbelief. He’s never seen you like this before. Actually, this might be the first time he’s ever seen you sit down. Usually you’re as stiff as a board. Your bows to your superiors are deeper than they need to be, your language is overly formal to the point where his own superiors are learning new words. Every time he sees you you’re following orders, always doing something.
You’re coping, he realizes. You’re coping by overworking and your body will soon break. If not your body, then your mind. It’s not healthy.
But he’s not one to talk. He drinks and he naps and he complains. He buys alcohol, he gets gifted alcohol, his preferred method of payment is alcohol. He guzzles and quaffs sake and beer and shochu alike just to keep the thoughts away. He sleeps excessively, sure. But he drinks before bed, and when he wakes up his hand reaches for the bottle sometimes before he even reaches for his sword.
He’s not some divine, perfect being.
He’s no saint.
And maybe that’s why, instead of saying something and making himself a hypocrite, his hand only reaches out to take the bottle from your hand. You don’t resist. You only look him in the eye as he does so, and it nearly steals his breath away. Your gaze is captivating and comforting. It’s real and raw and true and you.
Your pupils are blown wide open and black, your eyes half-lidden and on him as if he is the only person in the whole world. Your cheeks are flushed red from the sake and the warmth of the ambiance. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the front pieces too short to be slicked back falling back into place.
Have you always looked this way?
“I–” he starts.
“Can I braid your hair?” you blurt.
Ryu’s eyes widen, his mouth opening and closing as if he was having trouble processing the words that came out of your mouth. He runs a hand through his long hair again, the lanterns on the wall making the silver streaks glisten like quartz caught in light. He clears his throat, pivoting entirely. “Sure, what the hell. Sounds nice.”
He sits on the floor between your knees, his broad back forcing them to open a little wider than you normally would. You’re glad he can’t see you because your hands tremble as you gather up his hair. His neck flinches when your fingers brush over it, and you fight a shudder of your own, suddenly all too aware of the preposterously intimate situation you’ve landed yourself in.
Had a demon possessed you, or were you really that desperate for things to do? This is no proper task. Your superior is sitting between your legs with your hands combing through his hair. This is improper. You’re way out of line. This feels like a violation, a breach of order, torture of the highest degree.
So why did it feel so good?
And your head is so clear, so quiet. You can hear your heart thump in your chest and Ryu’s steady breathing, bodily rhythms holding you in place.
You separate his hair agonizingly slowly, mindful that the three sections should be even. You start to braid, the strands rippling like a black satin ribbon whose ends pool through your fingers. It’s not overly oily or greasy, you’re surprised to find. It’s actually very healthy, minus a few dead ends. You’re a little jealous.
A hiccup escapes you. Ryu answers with a chuckle. His deep voice resonates in your stomach, and you unconsciously tighten your knees around his shoulders.
You take it back. You wish you could see his face right now, discomfiture be damned.
“Shut up,” you hush instead.
“I didn’t even say anything,” he quips. He likes how you touch his hair. You’re a little out of practice he can tell, but your rustiness makes you even gentler.
“You can pull harder y’know?” he says, voice low. “I can take it, I promise.”
You can practically hear the smile plastered on his lips. You tug his braid harshly, forcing his head to tilt back.
“Ow! Ow ow ow. Ow. Okay, okay, I get it!” he surrenders. “‘M never offering you alcohol again.”
Fighting the smile tugging on your own lips, you focus your attention back on the nearly-finished braid in your hands. Ryu holds up his hand, hair tie on his wrist, before you even say anything. Lest his braid and your hard work be undone, you pry it off with one hand and finish the braid.
Placing a hand on your knee, Ryu turns around. The most sincere thank you leaves him, and you’re sure you’ve died somewhere between accepting that drink and now.
Your face flares. The shorter parts of his hair frame his face, silver streaks partially covering his eye. He’s looking up at you just slightly, and you realize you’ve never seen him this close before. His prominent cheekbones, his downturned eyes, the curve of his lips. Your noses are nearly touching. You almost stop breathing.
Then it hits you.
“Pear,” you whisper, breaking the spell. Not apple or melon.
You giggle.
With a groan, Ryu stands up. “You’re getting delirious. You need to rest.”
Heaviness suddenly drags your eyes downward. It feels good to close them.
Ryu fights the urge to stroke your cheek with his thumb, instead taking his seat back down beside you on the couch. Eyes still closed, you feel him shift so that his shoulder is beside you.
Wordlessly, you give in, your chin resting on his shoulder. It’s comfortable and perfect, like it was always meant to be there. He strokes your hair, promising to return the favor sometime.
You dream you’re on a beach. You’re laying on warm sand, courtesy of the sun. The temperature is sublime.
Only Ryu sits beside you. He’s wearing his usual black samue for some reason, but his katana is nowhere to be seen. You try to joke about his outfit choice.
This is the beach, you say. We don’t have to work anymore.
He laughs and says something you don’t hear. It makes you want to laugh too though.
A breeze blows by, carrying the scent of salt and ocean. If you turn your head a little, you can smell the slightest hint of pear too.