Filled for the durarara kink meme on lj. And sorry guys, no smut this time.
They are ice blue, Mikado's eyes, and they seem to glow in the darkness that wraps around them like tendrils of black shadow. A darkness impenetrable in the warehouse grips the last vestiges of Awakusu-Kai in thick rope and sharp metal, their cries and begs unheeded as Mikado slowly makes his way towards them with his shorter stature and steady gait.
The putrid stench of piss and sweat emanates from the bound men, but it has no effect on Mikado. In fact, the whole scene looks routine to him, like he was taking out the trash after letting it rot for a few days, like he couldn't handle all the problems it was causing in his household, all the garbage littering places that should be clean.
Masaomi stands back, arms crossed and back stiff and straight. The black suit he's wearing is brand new; silky on his skin, and he wonders what Mikado is thinking as he stalks to the bound men like a predator. Blue eyes are trained on their shimmering faces and lowly forms; their frantic movements and pleas for mercy are incomprehensible due to the gags piercing into their mouths and skin, drawing blood.
Mikado's suit jacket hangs innocently on a metal chair located a few feet away from Masaomi's self. His white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, a silver watch dons his left wrist, glistening. Masaomi can tell the captives are confused but fearful, if the quivering is any indication. After all, this man, this shorter weak man cannot possibly be the leader of the Dollars. And after all these years, after seven years of this charade that grew so much in so little time, many still underestimate Mikado.
It would be their downfall.
Masaomi turns his head to the right where Aoba stands slumped against a gray wall. A burning cigarette is held loosely in hand as he stares blankly at the scene unfolding in front of him with one remaining eye. The younger man mutters something under his breath, pushes off the wall and stalks over to Mikado, who inspects the yakuza members with contempt hidden well behind a faux wide-eyed innocence that only Mikado can pull off successfully in this line of work.
Aoba halts a few feet behind Mikado, continues inhaling and exhaling, puffs of smoke released every once in a while. Masaomi decides that the red embers are a nice color distraction from all the blue and black, and so he stares at that, transfixed. Aoba taps the ashes off the cancer stick, rhythmically and barely blinking as the silence punctuated by the sounds of dripping water in the distance stretches on.
Both blue-eyed men stare down at the traitors, the captives and garbage, one with a burning cigarette in hand, the other with wide eyes and a tilted head. Although the two men appear innocent enough, the bound men seem to cower in their presence, more frightened by the unusual display of unscarred youth - who don't look very intimidating in their suits (like they were playing dress-up or something, especially since the shorter of the two was wearing an eye patch) standing unguarded in front of them.
After a while, Masaomi sees Aoba sidle up next to their boss. He whispers something to Mikado's left ear, and Masaomi cannot hear it but he knows exactly what is being said. Meanwhile, he watches from the shadows in the dark and dank warehouse with no light save for a small sliver trailing from a small window above.
Masaomi glances up when Aoba steps away, the cigarette bright red from the most recent inhale against the black shadows and white smoke flittering upwards like ghostly apparitions. He keeps looking when Mikado shoots each and every bound man between the eyes with no hesitation, no fear. The only difference from before and after the shots rang out is Mikado's eyes; they are narrowed now and hold a dangerous glint to them.
Other than that, he's the same.
Nothing passes Mikado's blank mask as he wipes the blood splatter on his cheek with his forearm and passes the gun to Aoba, who drops his cigarette to the ground to clean the procured weapon with a blue cloth.
There is blood everywhere, spreading inch by inch, covering the dark floor, and spatters of it dot Mikado's white shirt like confetti.
Masaomi uncrosses his arms and stretches a bit, sighing momentarily before ice blue eyes find his own brown ones. Mikado nods curtly, and Masaomi gathers his suit jacket before passing it to him.
After they leave the warehouse, an explosion sounds from behind their moving car. None of them looks back, but as Masaomi glances to his left, he notices Aoba's slight smirk, and Mikado's closed eyes.
"What's on your mind?" Mikado asks one night when they're in bed. His voice is quiet, guarded, and Masaomi cannot see his friend's eyes through the inky darkness.
"I don't know."
Mikado turns to face him. He repeats, "You don't know."
Masaomi says nothing.
He's now in Kyoto, seated in front of a plasma screen that mumbles nothing but flowers and weather, the latest pop sensation and a bad economy. A small crystal glass holds nothing but ice cubes and alcoholic perspiration; it rests atop a smooth marble counter and reminds the man of his tumultuous thoughts.
Sighing, Masaomi turns off the TV with a click, watches as the last traces of light vanish until only a faded line of white eases its way off the black screen.
He marches to his room, dons his black suit, grabs his two handguns and loads them. A sharp metallic snap signifies he is ready, and so he proceeds to the designated rendezvous point to meet up with one Kuronuma Aoba. The younger brunet smirks upon his arrival, hands deep within his pockets, body leaning casually against the sleek vehicle, black hair billowing softly in the warm night air.
"What?" Masaomi asks, voice blank but suspicion shown clearly in his eyes.
Aoba raises his eyebrows before leaning farther back against the car. "Nothing."
Masaomi openly inspects the black eye patch that covers Aoba's left eye like a permanent tattoo. He doesn't care that he's being rude and conjuring up unpleasant memories, but he makes sure to keep his mouth shut.
Aoba catches his gaze with one eye and then quickly looks straight ahead; he avoids Masaomi and instead watches the view of city lights and pollution as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
Although it's been four years since the incident that stole half the younger's eyesight, Masaomi cannot get the violent image out of his mind; the image of blazing blue eyes and a warning so strong, Aoba's blood drips to the carpeted floor with ease and Aoba makes no sound, just nods to Mikado with a hand over the remainder of his eye, blood gushing out between pale tremulous fingers and Masaomi staring, shocked, from the door. Aoba's right eye was frantic, his body was composed as possible, standing straight and tense like a springboard.
Masaomi remembers calming Mikado down that night, when the Dollar's founder cried in his arms at what he'd done to Aoba. He remembers all the apologies he wrote and said to Aoba, when Mikado literally got down on his knees and begged for forgiveness, which Aoba freely gave.
Now at this very moment, Aoba, doesn't say a word, probably immersed in the unpleasant flashback. Instead, he offers Masaomi a stick and a light while gazing out into the distance. Masaomi accepts it and lights up without a sound.
They get into the limo that smells of musk and alcohol, and make their way to the underlings in charge of prostitution. Both Aoba and Masaomi hope they won't be needing to use their guns this time around.
Mikado takes care of that well by himself.
A few days pass.
Masaomi is wearing normal clothing, and he sits in Ikebukuro like those times all those years ago. He watches a group of friends - two boys and one girl - laughing innocently as they pass by with ice cream in their hands, school bags at their hips.
Masaomi cannot help but look away, and when he does, he catches sight of the place where Russia Sushi once stood. Instead of a large black man with mangled Japanese spouting words of encouragement to try Russian sushi, there are two young girls dressed in ridiculous, cute outfits, beckoning to possible customers with high pitched voices and overly wide smiles. A foreigner, intrigued by the women, stops in front of the girls and listens to their heavily accented English. Something ugly passes through his face - a flash of the demon - but a smile is there along with the jiggling of his three chins.
The fat tourist enters the establishment.
He comes back out five hours later.
Masaomi enters as soon as the obese man exits, and he sees someone he knows from the past. A girl, he realizes, and then he blinks, perturbed.
And the girl is gone.
He snaps out of it and proceeds to the back of the 'cafe,' not pausing or asking for directions (even when the cashier up front eyes him suspiciously), but walking around like he owned the place; not with staggering arrogance, but with the familiarity that owners get when too accustomed, and thus tired of frequenting the same place over and over and over again.
Quickly, he walks through the long hallway, not looking into the rooms that line each side in succession. He ignores the loud moans and pants that emit from each room, all the vulgar words spouting from customers both young and old, and the keening wails of young women as pounding sounds across the hallway. The air stinks of sex; of sweat, tears and other bodily fluids, and the intense heat of it all makes Masaomi's eyes smart and dart back and forth, aware but cautious, disgusted and sad.
Masaomi closes his eyes when he makes it to the end of the hallway, where a dark mahogany door sits like a light at the end of a tunnel, guarded by a burly and heavily tattooed man. To Masaomi's left, the animalistic sounds of pounding against the wall, growls and pleads to stop can be heard, but the attacker doesn't listen and from what he can hear, has muffled the poor girls mouth with something. He hears crying, moans and then a loud slap, and then the distinct sound of a body being flipped over violently, the springs of a mattress straining against the weight. There is a thud, then silence.
A high-pitched scream.
Masaomi should be used to this, but he just can't. He is actually scared of the moment when he is, of the time that he will be. Used to all this, of course.
He looks up, eyes meeting the muscular door guard and he nods. The man nods back and sidesteps to grant him entrance. At that angle, he can see the glint of a firearm peeking out from behind the other's black jacket. Masaomi has the same in his less imposing white hoodie.
When the large door closes shut, he stands in front of the lone desk and doesn't take a seat in one of the two fine leather armchairs.
The man he was seeking looks up from his paper, a fountain pen in hand as he says, "Good evening, Kida-san. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Masaomi eyes him through dark brown bangs - he's long given up on dying his hair. He says the first thing that comes to mind.
"I thought you wanted to be a composer."
Papers rustle. A heavy exhalation.
The man at the desk puts down his work and leans far back, arms draped over the chair like they always belonged there. He slumps slightly in his seat, rolls his neck until he hears a snap, and then turns his attention to the once-blonde with a hint of a smile.
"I did."
The air turns tense, and Masaomi can see the photo on his desk of when they were all younger, when the man in front of him had his hair down, dressed casually and always had a paper and pencil in hand to record the music that sang gracefully through his head.
"I do."
Masaomi looks up at that.
Takiguchi shifts his weight in his seat before apparently deciding on something. In no time, his hands are in his drawers and something silver glistens from it. Masaomi instinctively has a hand on his gun and Takiguchi notices this.
He laughs. "Hold on, man." Suddenly, an old harmonica is in the other's grasp, along with a few white music sheets. "See?" he says with a smile.
Masaomi remembers that harmonica in use on the rooftop of Raira Academy. He smiles back, and the line that binds the image between the old and new blurs in that moment. Gone is the scar on the other brunette's neck. Gone is the all-black tuxedo and low ponytail.
Masaomi likes the old image better.
Words are exchanged of the Dollars, of Blue Square and the Yellow Scarves, but the meeting must be cut short. Masaomi has to report back to Mikado later on that night.
A manila folder is handed to him, as well as a USB driver. Masaomi says his thanks, shakes hands and then bows before heading out the room and out of Takiguchi's establishment.
As soon as he closes the door, the bodyguard steps back in front of it like a moving statue of flesh and bone. Masaomi turns around and is about the leave the 'Fashion Cafe' when the door to his right opens and a man barges through. He eyes Masaomi like the dirt on his shoe and staggers his way to the entrance.
He doesn't know what prompts him, but the cries from earlier, the sickening sounds pushes him to peek through the sliding door.
On the floor, body tangled in ripped white bed sheets, hair messy, and makeup badly smudged is a girl he would have never expected to work in this type of place.
Kamichika Rio lies amongst white feathers and wrinkled, sullied bedsheets. She is crying, her shoulders trembling and naked body covered in dried semen and some that has yet to dry, some dribbling down the side of her face, white and thick. There are bruises on her lips, face and neck, red marks on her exposed torso, bites at the swell of her breasts, and the specks of blood on the bedsheets leave little to the imagination.
Masaomi looks away and walks out the prostitution house.
That night, Masaomi takes Mikado slowly. He doesn't understand why, but the leader of the Dollars had asked him to with such desperation it confused him.
Having little choice, not to mention that he loved his best friend, he acquiesced, and made sure to be quiet. They were both quiet, and Masaomi can't help but compare this lovemaking, this trust between the two of them in a world so full of corruption, to the savage fucking that he witnessed earlier that day. It made him feel guilty, and this little observation makes him feel like the worst man alive.
How is it that he can kill, murder, tear whole families and organizations apart and not feel as guilty as when he is safe and with Mikado? Sure, his life is dangerous - probably not as bad as Aoba's - but it was solely his choice.
Beggars can't be choosers, but what if you choose to beg?
Masaomi realizes that sometimes, that might be his saving grace.
Mikado comes quietly, and when they are done, they are panting and wrapped in each other's arms.
Mikado's arms are around him, and sweat coats their bodies like a second skin, but neither of them pay it any mind. Mikado's breath fans out against his neck and he shivers, goosebumps rise atop his flesh. Masaomi hums and stares at the dark wall, thinking.
"What's on your mind?" Mikado whispers. His eyes are a medium blue, warm and more youthful than the days before at the warehouse.
Masaomi looks down at Mikado and lowers his body so they're eye level. He tangles their legs together and Mikado pulls him closer in the little time they are separated.
"A lot." he answers.
There is about a minute or so of silence in the dark room with nothing but the sounds of their breathing. Mikado turns away, faces the other direction so that their bodies are flush against each other on their sides, Masaomi's front to his back. He snuggles into the comforter.
"Me too."
Mikado finds his hand, calloused by years of work both on and off the streets, scarred by moments of violent bliss of his teenaged years and the more recent ruthlessness of organized crime. The blue eyed man closes his own palm around his, then kisses his knuckles. Masaomi notices the other's lips only touch his own hands as if kissing Mikado's own was an act of sin, but they are warm, and soft, like a parody of their first kiss. The leader of the yellow scarves doesn't want to think too long on the seemingly simple act and decides that now is a good time to sleep.
And so he does.
The Yellow Scarves, once a middle school gang, were now among the most feared subgroups of the Dollars. Whereas Blue Square preyed more upon Dollars victims from behind the scenes, the Yellow Scarves continued to don the color on their ties, or more popular recently, on the tattoo design many members are deciding to imprint upon their skin. A lifetime membership, a lifetime commitment, a lifetime of violence.
Strange how Kida Masaomi didn't wear one, but that didn't deter his members old and new from following his lead and directions.
Today, they were in charge of overseeing the underground racing scene in Tokyo. It wasn't that hard of a job. It shouldn't be, but Masaomi decided to come in the flesh and in one of his disguises.
He walks leisurely by a foreigner who hopes to make it big here. Masaomi almost has the urge to warn him and say, "Go home. You don't belong here. This isn't really racing, but politics and alliances between various street gangs and crime organizations." but he doesn't, naturally.
Masaomi would be surprised if the young guy made it out of here alive.
Now, he stands by the car representing the Dollars. It has tinted windows, it's grey and sleek, and its beautiful. He knows it won't win because Mikado doesn't want it to. He wants the Dollars to stay under the radar, although that is becoming harder and harder as time passes by and the various yakuza sub units and families get in the way of things. Pretty soon people are going to know who the leader of the Dollars is.
He and Aoba won't be able to pose as the leaders for long. Three faces. One Dollars leader. Masaomi knows the anonymity makes them frightening.
That is why, when a man rushes towards him and tries to stab him with a knife, Masaomi is surprised. How did he see through the disguise? The ex-blonde doesn't give it much thought though, and disarms the man before catching the knife in mid air, grabbing hold of his arm and twisting it, and with the other hand, pointing it squarely at the back of his neck so the point stabs into the skin and a dot of blood seeps out.
"Who sent you?" he asks through gritted teeth as soon as the attacker is apprehended.
A distinctive crack is what Masaomi hears, and it comes from the man's mouth. Quickly, he pushes the man's face downwards, hits the man's back so the poison capsule could fall out and when the body turns slack and heavy, he angrily shoves the corpse onto the ground and curses.
This was not planned at all.
"Sempai-"Aoba tries to interrupt but he is ignored. The shorter man gives Mikado a look with one exposed blue eye and then settles down in an empty lounge seat.
Meanwhile, Mikado is pacing back and forth in front of his two trusted subordinates. He seems to be panicking and although his gait, his posture, his everything does not betray that, Masaomi and Aoba can see it plainly.
The 22 year old stops suddenly and then leaves the apartment with nothing but a hand gun and a few rounds of bullets.
Masaomi and Aoba look at each other, worried. Aoba touches the scar on his hand from 6 years ago. It's round and pink and gnarled, but for some reason, the leader of Blue Square can't get enough of it.
"You're crazy you know that?"
Aoba hums. "So I've been told." he says as he procures his lighter in the childish form of a shark and starts tinkering with it, opening and closing.
Masaomi stares at the manipulation of steel and chemicals, the flame that appears and disappears. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair before getting up and putting on his suit jacket.
"How could you stay with him?" he asks with his back turned to blue eyed male. He waits for an answer by putting his silver watch onto his left wrist and trying to snap it close.
Aoba stops tinkering with the lighter and says with no hesitation, "How can you stay with him, Kida-san?"
Masaomi stops his movements. He remains frozen, and then turns around. He smiles, "All of this," he explains as he opens his arms to gesture to the grand furnishings of the hotel, the guns and laptops laid out on the table, the manila folders with pictures and illegal information linked to enemies and allies alike. "-all of this, is my doing. No, I didn't mastermind all of this, of course not."
Masaomi turns brown eyes to Aoba's blank blue, "I made him like this, and I'm here so that my best friend doesn't throw himself in front of incoming trains, so that he doesn't lose himself to all this, so that he can live, Aoba."
Aoba gets up from his perch upon the seat and pockets the lighter.
"Believe what you want to believe, Sempai," is all that he says. The shorter male leaves the apartment with a click and he is no doubt greeted by his followers since middle school.
Masaomi finds himself sitting on the couch, his head tucked in his hands as he sits hunched over. Breathing in and out evenly, he hopes to calm his nerves, praying Mikado is alright wherever he is.
Kida Masaomi remains sitting like that, even when Mikado returns from wherever he went, drops his gun onto the glass counter so the sound is loud and piercing in the room, and throws a stained black jacket onto the floor.
He smells of blood, and when the black haired male exits the steaming shower ten minutes later, Masaomi notices there are bruises on Mikado's pale skin - on his neck and torso - and violent scars trailing down his back. From where he can see, the towel slips down and there are violent bruises on his hips, the slight shape of fingers discernable amongst the dark coloring and a sharp contrast to how those hips normally look.
It's been years since Mikado was beat up this badly, and never has he looked quite like that. He stares, wide-eyed, at the spot where Mikado stands, drying his hair.
Meanwhile, the leader of the Dollars pays Masaomi no attention and instead heads straight to his room, shutting it quietly like a phantom.
There was a strange, faraway look in his eyes; dead almost, and for the first time in years, Masaomi felt fear.
Masaomi ignores the pink water specked with globs of white swirling down the drain of the tub, the violent rips on the dark pants; the blood where there shouldn't be blood; and white that mixes with red, forming a sickly pinkish stain on the inside of Mikado's trousers.
Masaomi retches into the toilet and the taste of bile doesn't escape his palate for days.
The next time they are in bed together, Mikado is above him and he doesn't hold on to Masaomi even though their bodies are connected. He kisses him passionately, lovingly, but instead of touching Masaomi, his hands are on the bed sheets, curled tight so his knuckles turn white and his hand trembles.
They moan and pant and it's usually in moments like these when Mikado looks more normal. His face would flush, and his eyes would sparkle and he'd regain that youthful air that seemed to leave him every time he sinned. Mikado would smile and whisper and remind Masaomi of when they were first together, like this, and when they first became friends and acted like brothers all those years ago.
But now its different.
There's something dark there, unmanageable, something terrifying and heartbreaking at the same time, and Masaomi wonders if Mikado could feel it as sharply as he can.
Mikado climaxes, his seed filling Masaomi, and Masaomi shudders at the warmth trickling down his buttocks and his thighs. Masaomi comes soon after, and they are a mess, but like always, they choose to stay in bed and clean up in the morning.
It's been months since Mikado came to the apartment that one night. Months since he started acting strangely, as in, it was like he didn't care as much for Dollars' anonymity. Not like before. And there was this faraway look that always entered his expression, even in the middle of meetings with the other subheads of the Dollars. Masaomi saw the reactions of the older, dangerous men working under Mikado when he finally revealed himself, which was fairly recently. They accepted him, surprisingly, but when Mikado started to freeze up during discussions and updates on the industry, Masaomi and Aoba were there to see the raised eyebrows, the whispers to his back as the young gang leader excused himself to leave.
It was becoming more dangerous, for them, Mikado and for Dollars in general.
A few loyal Yellow Scarves and members of Blue Square have been relaying him and Aoba the information on the streets. The rumors are unsettling, and from what he can see the meeting room, they might come to fruition within the next year if things don't head another direction.
A coup d'etat. On Dollars.
Masaomi had a feeling it would come to this one day, but he would never have guessed so soon.
"Mikado."
Mikado hums in response but doesn't move from his position.
"What's on your mind?"
"Too many things right now, Masaomi."
"Tell me."
Mikado's body tenses. He remains silent.
Masaomi traces a finger lightly down Mikado's back, where the scratches have failed to heal completely. He follows the line of his spine, caresses the rib bones on Mikado's side and then he scoots closer so they're actually touching and sharing body heat. Mikado sighs.
"I don't know what to do anymore." Mikado curls in on himself, as if ashamed of the confession, but Masaomi can only see the short black hair, and the back of his neck.
Masaomi sucks in a breath. He wonders how long Mikado has felt that way. Masaomi himself, knows that he's been feeling the doubt, the fatigue of joining with the Dollars for years now. He's tired of it all, but if Mikado wishes to stay, then he will stay too.
"It'll be okay." he assures his best friend and lover. "It'll be okay."
Mikado shifts in the bed and the blanket slides down his body revealing more scars that map his skin like a sign and reminder.
Neither of them sleep the entire night.
It is Mikado's 23rd birthday, and he, Aoba and Mikado spend it with the Dollars members he deems trustworthy. There's a good number of old and young alike in the bar, as well as bodyguards stuffed into the small rectangular room.
It's dangerous now, and it's a risk to have so many important people in one area.
Aoba and Masaomi tried to reason with Mikado and tell him this exactly, but the blue eyed male would not listen. Seeing that it was his birthday and he was the boss after all, the prior color gang leaders had to acquiesce to his farfetched demands, albeit reluctantly and with frustration.
Masaomi was more than worried now. And Aoba was standing straight and polite for once, no smirking or fiddling or scar admiring. His sharp blue eye inspected the faces of all the guests at the sushi restaurant, seated in two rows, circular almost, but with Mikado at the head, looking for anyone that may betray their young leader.
Masaomi eyes Mikado, who sits at the head of the long room. He is wearing a kimono; they all are. With dark, silk cloth and a tradition laid upon their skin, Masaomi thinks it's straight out of yakuza tradition. Mikado didn't want to wear the outfit, seeing as they are not based on a samurai clan and that he wants to stay away from a social hierarchy within Dollars, but a wise, older member, whom Masaom noticed acted eerily like Mikado's father (now dead and because of Dollars, and a fire and burning and the corpse of a mother that cared-) convinced him, saying that he needs to celebrate the successes at such a young, lively age.
Masaomi remembers when it was just them two, Mikado and Masaomi sitting at a restaurant together, a few body guards enjoying their meals and watching for suspicious behavior scattered about the restaurant. Mikado looked so tired, but flushed and he looked so young it hurt, and when Masaomi tried to convince him to call off the yakuza-esque party, not when the state of Dollars was uneasy, he felt guilty at making Mikado's smile waver ever so slightly.
"Okay, Masaomi." Mikado said, and blue eyes looked down into his plate of food.
And then Masaomi needed to keep that spark in his best friend's eyes and relented and Mikado brightened up and kissed him and -
Masaomi was more than confused at the change of Mikado's character. He was happier for some reason, and Masaomi was happy whenever he was happy. But a party? At a time like this?
Masaomi and Aoba actually met one day and discussed this out of Mikado's earshot, and made sure they were alone. Mikado's right and left hand men agreed on something for once:
Something was off, but they couldn't quite pinpoint it. There was indeed one more option to find out, but neither Aoba nor Masaomi would ever want to use it.
Orihara Izaya can rot in hell for all they care, and at that moment, Masaomi sees Izayas face on all the men in the room. They are all laughing, all covered in dark kimonos, but Izaya's pointy face, his blood red eyes seem to stare at him, laughing and laughing and laughing and Masaomi closes his eyes because, because -
Izaya is gone and Shizuo is paralyzed and Anri is missing and Simon was assassinated and Shinra was arrested and Celty was taken, and, and, and…
A woman calls his name.
Masaomi opens his eyes, sound flooding back to his ears, and Mikado is next to him, his presence warm at his side and they are the only ones standing. Masaomi realizes this and sits down, fingers massaging his temples of the pounding headache and trying to force Izaya's face out of his mind.
Mikado is the only one standing and he bows and smiles before taking his own seat. The birthday boy-no, man now is saying a speech, thanking everyone for their loyalty (lies), and then they are toasting and birthday wishes are passed along his way.
They eat for a moment, the sky is dark and there is discussion of lighter subjects than weapons, and insufferable street gangs (to which Masaomi cringes), and drugs and the need to expand their influence or else.
Alcohol passes through the men, but no one drinks too much. They are too careful for that.
As for the topics, Mikado genuinely listens to the men, nodding at their suggestions but not quite meeting their eyes, although Masaomi doesn't understand why not. Aoba is eating too, and keeping a close eye on everyone, a hand on his own gun just in case things turn ugly.
And then a woman calls him again from behind his ear and Masaomi quickly turns to the source.
But no one is there.
He thinks he recognizes the voice; he's heard it before no doubt, but can't quite pinpoint it and then blames it on his imagination. Masaomi hasn't been sleeping lately, and neither has Mikado.
The waitresses - pretty little things, actually - come out to bring them more food. He hears the voice again and swivels his head, shakes it to get his head straight and Mikado looks concerned at him. It's when Masaomi looks up and across the long room that he sees her.
Parading around in a pink kimono, her hair longer than he's ever seen it, that Japanese doll face and blank eyes - Mikajima Saki smiles.
And then all hell breaks loose.
There are gunshots, holes ripping through the thin walls of the restaurant. The waitresses are screaming, glass shatters, a barrage of metal crashes through and land in the chests of the men. Blood pounds in his ears, Masaomi's vision blinded in red and Aoba is at his left, growling behind the table, and he uses a dead comrade as a human shield. Luckily, Masaomi pushed Mikado down so he was safe, and now Masaomi has his own gun out. Shooting. He's shooting back, through the haze and the smoke, and Mikado is like a dead weight against his leg, and he's bleeding, and there's screaming, so much screaming.
Sirens, mutilated dead bodies, and Masaomi and Aoba make the effort to pull Mikado to his senses. Aoba bites into his lip, draws blood, and his eye patch falls a little, barely obscuring the ugly reminder of Mikado's past rage. It is Masaomi that slaps Mikado, so he can wakeup, and it seems like he does, for he sits frozen, eyes wide and horrified, and the man that was like Mikado's father is dead, his face unrecognizable at his seat.
Blood stains the ground, but more than half the leaders and the bodyguards are fighting back. The other half is dead.
They crawl through the smoke - yes, there is smoke, and its really hot and he can barely breathe - until they make it to the entrance.
What do they do now? What do the do now? Aoba appears to be lost as well, and a tiny bit frightened, and Masaomi for once, feels guilty that he's part of it because Aoba is still like a kid and no kid deserves to live like this, to be amongst ruthless men old enough to be your grandfather take life so effortlessly it was like breathing.
Masaomi has a hand around Mikado's waist, and Mikado twists to get out of it, grabs a hold of Masaomi's gun, loads it with no hesitation, like an expert, and Masaomi stares amazed at the utter transformation of his best friend. He doesn't have to dwell on it, for when he looks up, Saki is standing there, Izaya at her side, and the flames eating away. Izaya smirks; he looks older, more mature and ten times more dangerous than when he first met the guy almost 10 years ago. And then they escape, the tails of their clothes barely catching the flames, orange. Orange everywhere.
Masaomi is struggling, he's running out of bullets. Aoba shares the same fate and his eye patch has fallen lower so it hangs off one ear, causing him to snarl and rip the damned thing off, reloading his gun and shooting like a mad man behind the overturned table.
Masaomi sees the closed up hole where Aoba's other brilliant eye should be, and quickly looks away to see another shade of blue, which stands stark against the abundance of orange and red.
Mikado's blue eyes are steely ice-cold and murderous. Before Masaomi can say anything, the leader of Dollars grabs a fallen gun and his own, gets up, not minding the fire and unleashes the bullets of his rage, eyes narrowed, mind shut down, almost distanced however, and he clears the way for them both - Masoami and Aoba - and the remaining trusted members. He shoots and shoots and when he runs out of bullets, demands more from Aoba and Masaomi who can do nothing but comply.
They make their way out of their private room, and notice the fire eating away at the once beautiful establishment. Mikado's aim isn't perfect, but it was good enough to get them out of the burning room.
They make their way out the restaurant and see men along the way, cursing and limping and nursing their injuries, all tattoos and faces scarred from the fire, some still burning and screaming, some still shooting.
Aoba and Masaomi noticed it when they were escaping.
They couldn't tell who was friend or foe, everyone looked the same, and Mikado.
Mikado plowed right through them, killing not only enemies, but allies as well.
The fire burned brightly against the night sky, and Mikado didn't look back.
"What's happening to me?" Mikado asks when they're in bed, although they are sitting on opposite sides, back to back and both staring up at the empty ceiling.
Masaomi doesn't know what to say. What can he say? He doesn't even know what's happening to himself and he kills himself over and over and over because, because…
How can he help someone when he can't even help himself?
Mikado takes his silence as that. Silence. And continues shakily,
"Sometimes, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. Dollars this Dollars that. I can't even sleep at night, knowing that I am the cause of so many deaths.-" He pauses, exhales slowly as if bracing himself for his next words. "-Masaomi, I can't stop thinking you know. About Anri. I wonder where she is, if she's even alive. If she's happy where she is or if she wished she'd never met us. How different things would be if I never ran for Class Representative at Raira." Mikado laughs bitterly. "I doubt she's even alive, knowing who our enemies are."
Masaomi wrings his hands in front of him, is about to respond, but Mikado continues,
"If only I had listened to you, Masaomi. If only I had ignored Orihara-san and accepted things as they were, because now, I can't even accept myself. I don't feel alive, only sometimes, Masaomi. And I only have you and Aoba to trust and it scares me so much." At this point, Mikado has regained himself and his voice doesn't shake. He just sounds…tired.
"You are free to leave, if you want, Masaomi."
Masaomi turns at that, looks at the back of Mikado's head over his shoulder.
"You can get out of Ikebukuro, get out of Tokyo altogether, or even Japan. Go somewhere new like America and start over with a new name, a new life. I don't want to hold you back from your happiness. You go on ahead and live your life, and I'll be fine with mine…"
"…I think things will be better this way."
Masaomi's heart is beating erratically. That would sound nice, just running away from everything, forget the past and start over.
But he knows it's not that easy, and somewhere, some ugly place in the back of his mind, Masaomi is resentful that Mikado would even suggest such a thing.
He's run away too many times in his life to count. He doesn't want to start again, especially not now, that Mikado's life is on the line. It feels like Mikado is ungrateful for him being there. Almost. Ungrateful for sacrificing so much for him, because there wasn't anything else for him but this.
What's Mikado thinking, anyways? It's a subject that's been nagging at him way too many times to count, and so, he asks again, like so many times when they are together in bed, like when they are both vulnerable but wear a mask of indifference, and when Mikado reveals that slim shimmer of his past when things were less complicated and more about trust and just living life rather than taking it away.
"What's on your mind, Mikado?" he asks, voice quiet but strong as the question leaves his mouth and travels to Mikado.
Mikado says nothing, and Masaomi can see that he's leaning forward, back curved as he sits on the edge of the immaculately-made bed.
The silence stretches on between them, and Masaomi wants an answer. He's been quiet for too long, and hopes Mikado will open up to him more. They are supposed to be partners, ever since they pinky promised when they were both seven. Seven years old and oh-so-innocent, with him grinning and Mikado smiling so brightly his blue eyes disappeared because he finally made a friend.
When Masaomi remembers the day he moved from Saitama, the image of Mikado trying not to cry in his uniform before school invades his thoughts. And that is when the line between past and present blurs again because two voices from the same person utter the same exact words that had once filled him with so much guilt.
"Don't leave me, Masaomi!"
Childish. Young. Pleading with large eyes and a sticky hand gripping onto his own, urging him to stay and to not go to Tokyo, because Mikado had a feeling that people change, and that change isn't good. Mikado would be alone again, and Masaomi knew from the very beginning that Mikado hated being alone.
Masaomi remembers smiling sadly and promising to contact Mikado whenever he could.
"Don't leave me, Masaomi."
Older. Adult. Vulnerable. The voice is deeper, and Mikado's voice sounds like he's eternally sighing. The tears are dried up by now. Mikado doesn't have anymore, the feelings remain in the statement. Desperation.
Masaomi's breath catches in his throat. He closes his eyes as he sits on his side of the bed, listening and listening to their mismatched breathing patterns. It's completely dark, and the hotel room's windows are open slightly so city nightlife filters through and color patters swarm there way onto the coffee table close to the window.
Masaomi makes up his mind.
"I'll never leave you." He pauses before continuing with conviction. His voice is quiet but resonates loudly in the room. "Never again."
Mikado sighs, but then laughs lightly. He gets up to Masaomi's side and sits next to him, finding his fingers and clasping his right hand in Masaomi's left. A whisper, "Thank you."
And then Masaomi closes his eyes before his lips touch Mikado's hand, scarred red from the fire a few months ago.
Mikado flinches.
He pulls his hand away and kisses Masaomi softly on the lips.
Ikebukuro's lights shine brightly from the corner of their eyes.
The End
A/N: …or is it? I actually have a multi-chaptered thing going on following this one shot. If there's demand for it, I'll push myself to write it. As you can probably tell, I get distracted pretty easily when it comes to writing fic...
Reviews are greatly appreciated. ^^