Chapter Text
Nagumo has been called a psychopath more times than he can count, both seriously and as an exasperated exaggeration (although he lies—the latter only ever applied to one gold-eyed girl who left him alone down here a long time ago). Either way, he doesn’t really bother taking it to heart most of the time. Because of just that: contrary to popular belief, Nagumo possesses an (in his opinion) adequate range of that repulsive thing people call human emotion. His field of work simply doesn’t allow him to display it as often or as naturally as most creatures demand for trust or connection to be created.
He can identify details and microexpressions in others—targets begging for their lives, ex-girlfriends crying and slapping him across the face, mourners at graveyards, couples tangled together in pleasure, victims after being rescued, people at the best and worst moments of their lives—he knows what some feel like. And for the remaining pieces, he knows what they look like, just not what the emotion would feel like in himself to elicit that same reaction.
Now, as established, Nagumo knows that he has emotions. He can compartmentalize them and pretend they aren't there (he’s great at that one). But whether he can properly identify exactly what he’s feeling like a regular person perhaps could—well, that’s where he gets lost sometimes.
Anyway, to that end, Nagumo can’t really pinpoint a single moment or decisive event of when he became, well, strangely fixated on Asakura Shin; it seemed to have just—happened.
Nagumo feels like he must’ve been asleep for a major plot point in this horrible fucking movie, because he’s certain that when he first walked into Sakamoto’s shop to meet his old friend after all these years, the blonde esper and former assassin at the counter was just Sakamoto’s protégé. But maybe something was quietly decided— decoded and recoded in that moment without him noticing. Or really consenting, for that matter. Because why does the mention of his name now create a burning itch at the end of Nagumo’s nerves that makes him want to tear his skin clean off? And the buzzing in his ears, not tinnitus, but the familiar noisy cadence of a tattoo gun, like it’s telling him this sensation won’t just go away; the needle is digging too deep, ink pouring into his bleeding, raw, torn flesh; like a warning, maybe—that he better figure it out before the uncontrolled momentum knicks an artery and bleeds him dry.
He’ll be honest—it’s pissing him off a bit. That part is fine—anger is an emotion he knows and feels well. He understands irritation. He’s met rage, and he’s mapped the body of it all the way around the edges; he knows where it rises into something stronger and where it tapers into grief. Anger isn’t the problem-sensation here. That other part is. The part that has uniquely to do with one specific young blonde; like a mass, an inoperable tumor in his chest that’s been growing larger without him realizing, he suspects probably since the very day he met Asakura Shin. Like a damn curse from above.
Nagumo supposes he’ll have to reverse-profile it back to the source—from Shin to himself.
“Nagumo? What’re you doing here again?”
The bell rings behind him as he enters, the explanation already prepared on his tongue: “I was chasing a lead of a target who fell off the grid and ended up in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by!” Nagumo smiles the way he always does, wondering if, even if Shin can’t read his mind, if he can still tell something is off.
It’s annoying—Nagumo’s had to lie, had to make up the most bullshit excuses to drop by Sakamoto’s because not seeing Shin for too long has begun to make him antsy. Him. Antsy. He must be sick; that's what this is. Truly fucking sick with some illness that he can’t go to a doctor for because there’s already too much wrong with him to discern one disease of the mind from another.
Could it be bloodlust? Does he—does he want to kill Shin?
Hah. Imagine. Not that Shin wouldn’t put up a good fight, but the result would still be the same: both of them dead, Shin by his hands, and him by Sakamoto’s. But anyway, that doesn’t really matter, considering it’s clearly not, seeing as Shin doesn’t react or get disturbed from his task of checking bulk orders on the store’s handheld tablet.
Yeah, not a variation of bloodlust at all—if it was, not even Sakamoto would be able to avoid instinctively reacting to Nagumo exuding that kind of hostility. Especially since it’s something Nagumo is clearly incapable of controlling.
Oh, well, time to turn attention back to glaring at his problem. Shin’s hair has grown longer. It suits him. The front pieces are probably long enough to tuck behind his ears. The back is probably long enough to tie up, keep the hair off his nape when it’s hot and he’s sweaty. Pretty and tempting. Warm. It’s funny—everything about Shin is warm-toned. His hair, the glow of his skin, even his eyes look and sparkle like two blue pools of an azure oasis in the desert, reflecting the light of the unyielding midday sun.
Blue overlaps with a long-faded gold in the depths of Nagumo’s conscience, at the edge of a crumbling cliffside, and he can feel himself about to fall into the burning sunset’s reflection in the cool, shimmering water, but he doesn’t know how deep it is, he doesn’t know if his limbs remember how to swim; he doesn’t know, he can’t move, and if he doesn’t move, he’s going to fall, he’s—
Shin yawns before finally catching Nagumo staring. He raises one brow at him in confusion, those feline eyes narrowing slightly, and Nagumo hears the addicting, sarcastic drawl of Shin’s voice in his head, something you need, creep?
Maybe it’s the way he blinks slowly, deliberately, like a sleepy cat. Maybe it’s the way a glowing ring forms in his eyes when he fights. Or the way he wears his jackets halfway, slid down his shoulders and caught by his elbows, like a butterfly with a broken wing. It’s the way he looks when he turns his head to the sky, the way he clicks his tongue, the way he holds a cigarette between his teeth. It’s haunting and familiar but new and terrifying. Haunting because Shin shouldn’t feel so much like her but he also shouldn’t feel so much like something Nagumo wants for no other reason other than wanting. It’s a lose-lose, and, fuck, Nagumo’s lost. It sucks. It makes him feel like he’s gone insane. And it makes him even more angry to know that Sakamoto doesn’t see it, doesn’t hear the way Shin laughs and get shot with a million volts of electricity, feel like his subconscious is being torn, doesn’t drown in that tear where Shin is both some kind of salvation and a mirror to the past of a golden-eyed girl who used to used to put out her cigarettes on his shoulder when she got mad.
(Sidebar: Nagumo will only ever admit to himself that he’s a bit jealous of Shin; telepathic communication sounds so ideal on days where routine feels like poison and being forced to speak is exhausting and consonants feel like acid on his tongue.)
Shin ducks his head slightly, probably checking his phone with his wrist resting on his thigh, out of Nagumo’s view, cut off by the counter. His long lashes cast a shadow on his cheekbones. In this specific light, his eyes pause in shimmering like a lake surface and instead glow like stained glass. (His tears would probably look like small diamonds.)
Vaguely, Nagumo wonders if he’s ever met another assassin as unconsciously expressive as Shin. If he’s so easy to rile up, Nagumo can only imagine how easy it would be to make him cry. He’d be the prettiest crier; Nagumo is already sure of it. Fat tears rolling down those pink cheeks, pathetic sniffles escaping him as he tries to hide himself away; Nagumo could tease him to tears—
“You seem like you cry easy,” Nagumo murmurs offhandedly.
The room freezes for a second. Oh.
Nagumo didn’t think that through all the way—didn’t realize that isn’t something he could play off with ease the way he usually would. Because the normal Nagumo doesn’t say shit like that. Fuck. Holy fuck. What the fuck. He puts a hand loosely over his nose and mouth, like he’s holding back a giggle or trying to not throw up.
Shin makes a noise of pure bewilderment, eyes widening comically and stiffening like a cat standing on end, limbs locked and hissing. “And you seem like you really want to die today, bastard.”
”Aw, how mean,” Nagumo begins scanning the shelves for a snack to occupy his hands. It’s fine. It didn’t mean anything. “I meant it as a compliment.”
”You’re deranged. Like, seriously fucked in the head, I hope you know.”
Oh trust him, Nagumo knows. He laughs brightly, hoping Shin doesn’t clock how it’s forced almost painfully from his throat. “Do you know any good back-alley psychiatrists, Shin?”
Shin snorts at that, finally setting the tablet down next to the register. He slides his phone in his pocket and stands up, making his way to the back door; Nagumo assumes he’s taking one of his shift breaks. “I mean, sure, but, uh—I hate to say it but I think it might be too late to save you. Late, like, by a lot.”
Nagumo opens his mouth to reply, but Shin cuts him off by swearing under his breath, “It’s fucking hot,” he turns to Nagumo, “I’m going out for a smoke. Come with me. I don’t trust you enough to leave you here alone.”
Huh? Nagumo blinks. How unexpected. But he has no reason to turn down such a kind offer (he’s choosing to ignore the insult), “Lead the way.”
He quietly (how uncharacteristic of him, right?) follows Shin through the storage room and out the back door, into the small lot behind the store. By the time Nagumo manages to recalibrate his seriously malfunctioning brain into a semi-natural state, mentally prepared (hopefully) to proceed with a continued interaction, Shin’s already holding a cigarette between his plush lips, fumbling around in his back pocket for a lighter.
Nagumo never understood the appeal of cigarettes beyond the aesthetic of it. Which is valid on its own if you’re a teenager desperate for rebellion. Which Shin is not. Nagumo could never get past the taste of it, frankly. The warmth and the buzz isn’t worth the rancid aftertaste and the ashy backwash that made him cough. Menthols weren’t as bad, but still not something Nagumo would smoke by choice. It makes his teeth ache thinking about it.
“That’s gonna kill you, y’know.”
Shin just lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I was never gonna live that long, anyway.”
“Says who?”
Says Nagumo, hilariously enough. The universe loves its cruel jokes. The irony of arguing with Shin with one hand and sentencing him with the other. The defense attorney and the judge, the adjudicator, the sentence. Nagumo’s played hundreds of roles in his life, and he might like these the least.
Good people only last so long, huh? Something bitter and acidic makes itself known on the base of his tongue.
“Statistics.”
Nagumo snorts. “Those hardly mean anything.”
“To you,” Shin gives him a sidelong glance. “You’re an outlier.”
So are you, Nagumo wants to argue back, but he already knows Shin won’t believe him.
But Shin’s more than an outlier. Nagumo will make him the antithesis, no matter what.
You won’t die, Nagumo thinks, knowing and thankful that he can’t hear him. I won’t let you. You don’t get that luxury. You don’t get to leave me here. Not again, not like her. I’m not kind enough for that anymore.
“You look sad,” Shin comments as he produces a cheap plastic lighter, light blue and almost out of fluid. He sounds like he’s genuinely surprised Nagumo would care.
That hurts, too. Why is it always so hard for people to believe he’s just as human?
When you’re an assassin, a lot of life (and continuing to remain alive) is based on following instinct. Intrinsic sensation followed by unhesitating movement. The mastery of the art of momentum. If your body tells you to do something before your mind does, there’s probably a reason for that, and you should do it. For an assassin, and for an assassin like Nagumo, that assuredness is the crux of everything—succeeding a mission, deflecting a bullet from an unseen sniper, the hair-raising tell that there is someone approaching, the adrenaline rush of get out of the way before a bomb goes off. Intelligence, strength, battle IQ- sure, they’re all important. But they only mean anything if your instinct does. If your ability to unconsciously see, hear, smell, feel in all ways does.
So Nagumo steps forward and wraps his hand around Shin’s pretty little throat and plucks the unlit cigarette from his mouth with his other hand, he’s just blindly following his instincts.
Shin gasps and nearly goes limp in surprise at the sudden pressure, perhaps also at Nagumo’s sudden presence in front of him, forcing him to look up, involuntarily bearing more of his neck. The lighter falls from his hand and hits the dirt with a quiet noise. Fuck. Nagumo drops the cigarette on the ground next to it and steps over it carelessly, eyes never leaving Shin’s adorably bewildered expression as he uses the leverage to push him up against the wall.
“Seriously, what is up with you today?” Shin’s slim, smaller fingers curl around Nagumo’s wrist, and he tugs, digs his nails in, and tries to pull him off. But when Nagumo doesn’t budge, he just—Nagumo can’t fucking believe it—he just gives up, leaving his hand resting there, on Nagumo’s wrist, like he doesn’t mind the threat to his life just because Nagumo isn’t squeezing nearly hard enough to hurt. Even though he could. He could, at any moment, snap his neck in an instant if he wanted to, but Shin is the type of fox to stare down the barrel of a hunter’s gun with nothing but blind faith.
You’re so weak. You’re so painfully fragile that it hurts.
And I have the strength to hurt you, so easily, but not the ability. Maybe, once upon a time, at the beginning, I could’ve, I could’ve hurt you, easily, without any guilt. But I’ve been utterly helpless against you for much, much longer.
“Don’t talk about dying so easily, Shin,” Nagumo murmurs, not unkindly, but he’s unable to drag his usual cheerful disposition back onto his face. “Even as a joke.”
There’s a melancholy in his tone that he’s sure Shin hears, because those blue eyes soften just slightly, and the hand on his wrist squeezes comfortingly. Nagumo wants to cry a bit. You’re too soft, Shin. You should be trying to claw my eyes out right now. Swear at me. Hit me. Kick me. Scream for Sakamoto.
“I’m not gonna do that when it’s obvious you’re not okay.”
Nagumo stiffens. How did Shin—? Nagumo must’ve slipped up, somehow. But he’s too well trained for that, no? Or have the years started to mellow him from the inside out? Or maybe, deep down, he actually wanted Shin to hear that—the truth.
“Letting people use you as a punching bag for their own issues is a very bad habit, Shin,” he chastises, but his voice comes out strained, which is also ironic, considering he’s not the one being actively choked.
“Wanting people to use you as one for your own issues is worse, arguably,” Shin counters, staring him down, two pools of blue pouring into blackness. “You’re not hurting me. You’re trying to bait me into hurting you. I’m not going to do that. Because I hate being used.”
Nagumo inhales sharply, his hand flexing involuntarily and causing him to clench harder on Shin’s throat. Nagumo watches Shin bite back a whimper with effort, and Nagumo can hear the thrum of his pulse under his thumb. Is that what I was doing? When I try to provoke targets, when I try to annoy people around me, when I push the line. When I rile Shin up.
Nagumo thinks about the euphoria of Shin’s fingers pulling roughly at his hair when he sneaks into the shop in another disguise to spook him, the ecstasy of Shin’s fists hitting him hard enough to draw blood. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just the only way Nagumo has ever known how to get people to look at him. Pay attention to him in a setting that’s not filled with blood or weapons.
Nagumo lets him go.
He steps back as Shin collapses back against the wall with a gasp for air, fingers hooking into the gaps between the brickwork for balance as he waits for the strength to return to his limbs.
Nagumo wants to reach out, brush his hair back, hold him until he’s steady—but he doesn’t know if Shin would appreciate any of it, so he stands there, awkward, one arm extended halfway between them, hovering. “Shin—I, I’m sorry—”
He’s cut off by Shin scoffing, “Gross, don’t apologize like that,” he looks up at Nagumo pointedly, rubbing at his sore neck, “especially with such a pitiful look on your face. It doesn’t suit you at all.”
Nagumo can’t help it—he laughs at that. Because this entire situation is so fucking stupid, and he’s also fucking stupid, and Shin has more wisdom at twenty-one than Nagumo has pushing thirty because he gave up on personal growth after he lost everything at nineteen.
At least, he thought he did. He’d be okay with being wrong as long as it's Shin. Shin, who’s alive, who’s right here, within reach, who’s squinting at him, vaguely suspicious. Nagumo tamps down his laughter, swallowing over a stutter—since when was there that much saliva in his mouth? “Sorry, sorry, I’m—I just, I thought you hated me.”
“What?” Shin tilts his head, expression morphing from confused to offended to something like understanding. His timbre is too soft when he speaks again, and Nagumo wishes he could mean it when he tells himself it disgusts him, “I—I’ve never hated you?”
Yeah, because Shin is too good of a person. He doesn’t have it in him to truly loathe anyone. Maybe Nagumo wishes Shin hated him. At the very least, that would make him special. Maybe it’s why he provokes Shin the way he does—he wanted to give Shin a reason to hate him, to remember him, to let him occupy even the smallest cubic measurement of Shin’s mind.
(There's a word for that. Athazagoraphobia.)
“If you want to actually apologize, then stay here for a while and help me restock,” Shin interrupts his train of thought. “Lu’s been dumping her workload on me to go slack off with Heisuke. So, help me.”
Empathy-based mind-reading. Even if Shin can’t read Nagumo’s mind, he can intrinsically understand him more than anyone in Nagumo’s life, even if Shin himself doesn’t realize it. And in a world like theirs, what is Shin if not the salvation of all those entirely undeserving? The strongest psychedelic, two shots of LSD, three tabs of pure ecstasy in the hands of an addict.
“Okay,” Nagumo breathes. “Okay, yeah. I can do that.”