Work Text:
Bang!
Tachihara watched from below as the gun went off. The noise, the bullet, the pain—he hardly processed it.
One moment, his enemy was standing tall, a scowl on his face, and the next, he was gasping, a knife—so swift and so silver—lodged in his hand. The weapon, shot through the abandoned barn like a maglev train, didn’t simply leave blood in its wake—all thick and red—but a discarded gun, the device crashing loudly to the ground, mimicking the ginger’s position.
Angry, the older man cried out, looking up at the hayloft, but his soulless eyes met nothing. They must have, of course, considering the fact that Gin had appeared behind him, thrusting her hand and gripping his neck. Like a pig, the man squirmed, gazing at his gun with hasty determination and squealing, “You son of a bitch!”
In the end, he wasn’t able to reach the weapon.
The bloody knife was torn from his hand, held to his throat, and swiped.
There was a certain deftness to the act—an indisputable display of mercy. The cut was too precise and too deep to leave the man gasping on vital fluid. He was simply alive, one moment, and dead the next, his blood-soaked body slumping forward.
Tachihara breathed out, as the man’s body thumped to the ground. He found himself laughing, then—in shock; in relief. “Perfect timin’, huh?” he voiced, observing the gore.
Gin gazed down at him with attentive, gray eyes, but her focus did not dwell on his bandaged face. “You’re bleeding,” she remarked through her white-colored mask, her voice soft—nothing like what one would expect from a masterful assassin.
Slowly, the young man glanced downwards, staring at his covered thigh, where his dark-colored pants were beginning to soil. He had almost forgotten, really, that the gunshot wound was supposed to hurt. It was crazy what surgery and science could do—even to a lesser degree.
Feigning stress-induced analgesia, Tachihara breathed out again, heavier. “Sure am.” He shifted, steadying his palms in order to push himself upwards. “But it’s—”
“Don’t move,” the black-haired assassin cut in, stepping forward, and the spy froze.
“Huh?” he voiced, his amber-colored eyes flicking upwards, back in his co-worker’s direction. There was a pink near her eyes that hadn’t been there prior: delicate, endearing—and wasn’t that strange? She looked less like an unsettling ghoul, with blood at her cheeks.
“Pressure,” Gin mumbled, embarrassment etched in every sliver of her being—the fragility of her voice; the tilt of her head. Still, she crouched down with the nimbleness and confidence of a battalion leader, clutching her knife. Blood still seeped down its blade.
“Wait!” Tachihara yelled. Quickly, he moved his dirtied palms, holding them outwards. He wasn’t oblivious to the other’s intentions—regardless of their strange benignity. “I like these pants!”
Truthfully, he didn’t particularly care for them. They were a chosen prop, if anything—a liar’s disguise, but Michizou Tachihara of the Port Mafia liked the garment, and so he stressed its importance.
Deep down, he tried to ignore how much easier the role had become.
Gin stared at him, then, yet with her lips covered, her eyes were the only booklet—as dark as heavy rain clouds; as sharp as her knives—and they didn’t offer much information, when it came to her thoughts. Tachihara didn’t want her to think—didn’t want her to perceive. She would gain nothing, seeing his injury, and he didn’t need to make a big deal out of something so insignificant.
“I’ll be fine,” the ginger stated, not wanting to waste the other’s time, and he meant it. Unlike a logger, or a pilot, or a soldier, his words were layered with truth. He could handle much worse. If he didn’t think that he could, he would’ve risked his disguise, in order to move the bullet.
The assassin stayed silent. For a moment, Tachihara thought that she was going to listen—that she was going to tuck her knife away and focus on their mission, but then she suddenly jerked forward, slicing at his leg. “You can get new pants,” Gin murmured, as the dark fabric tore.
Peering downwards, Tachihara huffed at her stubbornness. “No way,” he said, breathy, although he didn’t find his co-worker’s actions all that surprising. They squabbled a lot—imperceptible gasoline meeting a blazing fire. They squabbled less, now. There was no reason for it. They just changed.
With swift, gloved hands, Gin tore at the rest of the fabric, Tachihara raising his thigh. Not wanting to drag the tight material down his leg, clearly, the dark-haired assassin cut vertically, grabbing at the curled, detached material and moving it to the side.
The wound hit the air: so heavy; so dusty. Together, the pair observed the damage, taking in the small hole. It really wasn’t that bad, when compared to other gunshot wounds. The mangled flesh wasn’t burnt, the shooter a few feet away. There was blood, but there wasn’t too much of it, and it was actually kind of cool, the way the red deepened at the center—like an abstract painting. The only issue was the depth of the bullet—and that was only an issue because of orchestrated lies. Tachihara could get it out easily, if he wanted to.
Gin exhaled, the sound, even quiet, audible through her mask. She was—what? Stressed? Why?
Something bubbled beneath the spy’s flesh. Maybe it was frustration. Maybe it was guilt. Whatever it was, it froze his lips, and before he could speak, telling her not to, the assassin gripped the end of her long, gray shirt, cutting at the fabric.
Unimpressed, Tachihara flicked his head back, short, dyed strands shifting with the movement. “Guess we’re going shoppin’ together,” the young man quipped with closed eyes, although he wasn’t all that opposed—and wasn’t that weird? Before, he had never thought that way. Gin was too creepy. Gin was too quiet.
“It’s”—Gin paused, seeming to pick her words carefully—“important to stop the bleeding.”
Slowly, Tachihara opened his eyes, warm amber meeting cool gray. Something twisted in his stomach: tight, prompt. She cared. He was a liar, and she cared.
What a waste of emotions.
“It doesn’t hurt as much as ya think it does,” Tachihara argued gently—dropping a key, when the gate had multiple padlocks.
In acknowledgement, the assassin hummed, the sound all silk and satin. It was nothing like Jouno’s, which carried an air of disdain and taunt. It was nothing like anyone’s, really, Gin a complicated puzzle. Engrossed, the black-haired battalion leader leaned in, beginning to wrap his thigh with the smooth fabric—not too tight, but not too loose.
Quiet, for a moment, the heavy air a pressing blanket, Tachihara glanced at a dead man. His eyes were wide, devoid of any light—and, maybe, it was childish to think such a thing, the very concept seemingly fictional, but they were different, somehow, with his life force drained. His neck was bloody, too, open and oozing. Blood pooled on the coarse ground, leaving the faint stench of iron, yet it wasn’t unfamiliar, and that left Tachihara indifferent.
That was probably the worst thing.
The corpse before him was once a living man, with friends, and family, and goals. Maybe he sneezed at a trace of pepper. Maybe he smiled at pleased seahorses. He had lived a life that Tachihara had never known: one that built him, year by year, and it had concluded in a second, at the end of an unremarkable blade.
Even so, Tachihara didn’t cry. He didn’t even squirm. The pit in his stomach, where pity should be, was replaced by a confusing, growing knot.
“Those were some final words, huh?” the ginger said, tilting his head once he had looked back at the other. It was its own sort of distraction. Then: “Does it not bother you that people think you’re a dude?”
“No,” Gin answered, a certain distance in her voice, fueled by focus. “I—”
She hesitated, then, her gloved fingers halting. Whatever thoughts were in her head—so chiseled; so striking—must have been heavy—an unseeable battle. Eventually, she gave in. Was that losing, or was it winning?
“I did it for my safety, at first,” the young assassin admitted quietly, her slender fingers working once more, “but, now, I do feel like a boy, sometimes.” Her voice trembled with honesty. Tachihara pretended not to hear it.
“And a girl. A-And neither,” she added, after a swift breath. “It”—Gin paused, seeming embarrassed—“fluctuates.”
Tachihara blinked. “Huh,” he voiced, his mind distracted. He tried to think about it: that continuous change. Maybe, in a way, it was like Teruko’s ability—each age fitting, regardless of what it was. Beneath chubby cheeks or thin wrinkles, it was still her. It was still Teruko.
So, no matter what she was, she was still Gin.
The more the man thought about it, the more the notion suited her—in the strangest, wildest way. Was it bad, thinking such a thing? Did that sound more judgmental than accepting?
Tachihara wasn’t sure, so he didn’t say it. All he asked, with curiosity nibbling at his pale fingertips, was: “Then, what are you, right now?”
“I’m a son of a bitch,” Gin answered, and while his smile wasn’t visible, it was audible, pulling at his hidden lips. With a squeeze of fabric, the assassin formed a firm, tight knot, finished with his work. The wound was thoroughly wrapped—even if Tachihara had never asked for it to be.
Surprised, the spy found himself laughing—ignoring the piece of himself that was startled by his own authenticity. “Okay,” he said in acknowledgement, flashing white teeth. “Can I stand now?”
“You shouldn’t,” Gin replied with a sigh, the sound like spring, while he looked like winter: icy, harsh. With the swiftness of a murderer—because that’s what Gin was; because that’s what they both were—he stood up, landing on quiet soles. “But I do need help with the safe.” Following the words, he reached his hand out—a dog helping a snake.
There was something confusing about the kindness. Gin and him were not kind. They mocked. They scowled. They threatened. Tachihara had never expected this shift in them, but he took the other’s hand regardless, realizing that it had been a bit, really, since he had felt the press of a palm against his—covered or not.
“Thanks, man,” he said, standing up, only to feel a bit ridiculous. He tried to fix his position, in order to seem a little pained, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that half of his pants were missing, and although he couldn’t see himself, he certainly didn’t think that he pulled it off.
Quickly, Gin pulled his own hand away, looking in a different direction. His black, spiky bun shifted as he did. “Y-You don’t need to do that,” the assassin squeaked. It would have been cute, maybe, if it was from anyone but him.
“Do what?” Tachihara questioned, finding himself confused. Even with his distracted mind, he couldn’t find a fault. He had grabbed Gin’s hand because he had offered it. He had thanked Gin because he had lifted him up—had wrapped his gunshot wound, even. Was it the latter that was the issue? It wasn’t anything Tachihara hadn’t said before, when an enemy had gotten too close, and Gin had swiftly taken care of them. He had said it to Hirotsu, too.
A beat passed. Then, another. It was almost scary, how Tachihara could hear his own breaths, but not his co-worker’s. If he hadn’t seen him bleed, before, he might’ve continued to question his humanity.
“Use”—Gin paused, after finally speaking—“those terms.”
“Oh,” the ginger voiced, realization striking him like lightning: fast, intense. It flooded his wicked brain. It filled his altered rib cage. It was almost—what? Embarrassing? He had never pretended to know about this subject. He wasn’t shattering a certain reputation, because there wasn’t a reputation to shatter. So, why did he care? Why had his heart—for just a moment—pulsed the way that it did? “I just thought they’d make you feel more comfortable.”
“They do,” Gin muttered, returning his honesty—what a strange thing. “But I don’t want to force you to—”
“Like you could force me to do anything,” Tachihara interrupted, seeking power. He was much more than a mafioso. Yet, even so, he found himself grinning: a weakness.
Gin looked at him, then, clearly surprised, only to return his grin with a smile. Again, Tachihara couldn’t see it, but he could tell by the crinkle of his gray-colored eyes that it was present—just as real as the blood on his thigh and the corpse at their feet. For a second, he imagined it. Maybe it was soft, and sweet, and pretty. Maybe it was sharp, and cruel, and ugly.
“Come on,” Tachihara asserted, ignoring the way that, on a rocking boat, he leaned towards the former picture’s side. “Maybe the safe will have somethin’ extra cool, and Gramps will be jealous he couldn’t show up.”