Chapter Warnings: cussing (which will occur all throughout story because Chuuya is a potty-mouth), non-descriptive sex

o^o^o^o^o

It's not business. Not business anymore. It's just… a vacation. A good time.

A bad idea, Chuuya amends.

He raises two fingers deftly, and the bartender quickly steps over to refill his glass. It's rosé. Some name he can't pronounce, and it's the perfect balance of sweet and dry.

A balance, he reminds himself. He can manipulate gravity; he can surely balance between these two worlds easily. Business and pleasure. Normally he works as hard as he can to keep them completely separate. But he's tired and horny; ever since that stupid fucking tiger showed up months ago there's barely been time enough to breathe, let alone slink off to his normal haunts looking for a halfway decent fuck. Instead, it's been nothing but new organizations and defending their turf, and oh yeah, killing a fucking dragon.

(Dark eyes studying him. A soft smirk. You used Corruption, believing in me?)

And now he's in Russia. Fucking Russia, with the snow and the cold and the tacky bathtub that fits five people easily. He normally hates it here, and that bastard in the ushanka hasn't exactly endeared him any more to this place either. But if he can't find his relaxation here, he'll have to wait half a year before he's next sent to England to negotiate. So. Fuck the rules.

Plus, there's no Dazai here to fuck everything up.

He finishes his glass quickly and turns to his companion, mulling quietly over his own scotch. A new face at the negotiations; this is the first year Chuuya can remember seeing him, and he's been mostly quiet during their talks. It's clear that he's being groomed to higher power but hasn't quite lost the training wheels yet. Still, it's a welcome relief from the rooms of countless older men with their pressed suits and glasses; Chuuya isn't looking for a sugar daddy to fuck (earlier one had slid his hand over Chuuya's thigh, had leaned in to whisper a compliment in his ear with his aged lips brushing skin. Chuuya wondered if this was how Kouyou felt, when she'd been sent here in the years before him. He wondered if she too had to control her urge to cut off the hand at the wrist, to snap the man's neck).

As he studies the man, he turns and grins lazily over the rim of his glass. One of his hands lands on Chuuya's knee under the bar. He barely contains a jump as it climbs higher. "Where were we?" the man murmurs. "Regarding the negotiations—"

Chuuya's own grip stops its ascent. "No more negotiations," he says. He wants to flat out tell the man to shut up, but it's clear that one of the higher ups figured something like this might happen and prepared their little puppet for the occasion. Like I'm going to spill all the Port's secrets from one measly fuck, he thinks. Followed by an amused, I don't kiss and tell.

(He feels the phantom swirl of fog at his legs, the terrible ache of corruption covering his body like one big bruise. A body laying warm and solid and thankfully alive alive alive under him. Murmured words. You punched me. I knew you still loved me—don't sound so happy about it, fucking bastard— a mouth warm and coppery and so, so sweet on his tongue, hands threading through his hair…)

"Listen," he says. "I'm here to fuck. It's been a stressful year and I could use a break. So, if you want to talk then find some waiter." He tilts forwards so he can study the other man intensely; the dark hair, the light eyes. The same crew cut that every mafioso above this side of the equator seems to favor. Biceps that could crush a watermelon. "Pick."

For a long moment the man is silent, and Chuuya turns away with a sigh and not a small bit of disappointment. He lifts his hand to signal another glass. And then a hand catches his wrist, pulls him spinning back.

That mouth crushes against his own—too hard, too messy, and just searing enough to make him forget the phantom breath on his tongue, apples and mint. When he pulls away, there are those blue, blue—not brown—eyes looking into his own. "Sounds fun," he murmurs.

They don't make it to either of their hotel rooms. Chuuya isn't some tumbled waitress; he doesn't have the luxury of kissing in hallways, of showing his weakness and desperation to all of the vipers whose nest he crawled in to. But he won't wait. Can't.

He drags them past the elevator, to the first conference room where they sat across from each other this morning. Using just a touch of his power—nothing to make it so obvious—he flips the lock and stumbles into the dark, shutting the door behind them.

Instantly there are hands on his waist, his neck, his hair. A tongue warm and wet at his mouth. His back touches the table and he grabs those broad shoulders, turns and shoves the man onto it.

Climbing astride the narrow hips, he takes a moment to tip his hat back, to grin wickedly and press his weight fully onto the man's lap. The man lets out a loud groan, one of his large hands coming up to grip Chuuya's waist. "Fuck yeah," he hisses.

And Chuuya tilts down for a messy kiss, tastes his way greedily into the other's mouth. He supports his weight with one hand and with the other he trails down a muscled chest and grips the cool metal of a belt buckle. "Take off your pants."

For a while, he doesn't have to remember. Not Yokohama, with the endless bloody wars. Not Akutagawa who has been even more out of control recently. Not Kouyou and not Mori and certainly not his own empty apartment that feels more like a museum than a home.

But he can't forget that. Dazai's voice as he held him, half gone with pain. His own embarrassment, hot and ugly in the pit of his stomach.

This is nice, isn't it. Mori sending you in. Like old time's sake, yeah?

No, Chuuya had said. Hollow. Quiet. Aching and tired and delirious a bit with pain and the feel of Dazai's arms around him, body still warm and whole except for the blood where the stupid idiot was stabbed in the fucking back and—Chuuya would never do that. Could never. Not where Dazai couldn't see him coming, couldn't figure out a way to weasel out, to stop him—

Mori didn't…I—he continued, helpless to stop himself. I didn't want to lose you again.

And Dazai didn't smile, but his face softened a bit, terribly. Get some sleep, chibi.

Chuuya closes his eyes now and grinds down harder, hearing the panted words under him, the frantic squeeze of the fingers on his thighs and ass. Get out of my head, get out of my fucking head, he thinks angrily.

"You're so beautiful, fuck—so hot—" and Chuuya can't listen to this idiot ramble on like a broken record when everything he's saying sounds so dumb and normal and half-witted. Like a bad porno. He reaches up and slaps a hand over his companion's mouth, hisses, "Stop talking," and quickens his pace brutally.

It's enough, he tells himself. More than enough. It's better than his hand. Better than months of nothing but cold showers or exhaustion so bone-deep he can barely jerk off before he falls asleep.

But when he comes it's with a muffled groan, with his companion moaning and cursing and writhing beneath him until he too is spent.

He doesn't feel even half satisfied.

o-o-o-o-o

Three weeks. Three weeks he's been in Russia, negotiating, keeping the peace. Trying his damnedest not to start any more turf wars because, for the love of god, if they get into one more pissing contest with another organization, Chuuya is quitting.

Still, it's hard when people older than Hirotsu are either trying to treat him like a kid or talk him into their bedrooms. Really, he's been coming here for years and seeing the same prehistoric assholes, and yet every time they still take one look at his height and his face and ask where the executive is, all with shit-eating grins.

Really. He hasn't had a supervisor with him since the very first time he came here; Hirotsu walking sternly behind them as Chuuya, Q, and a newly made executive Dazai argued in the lobby. It had been… enlightening, was the word Hirotsu used, because he couldn't truthfully say a bloody fucking mistake without getting tattled on by Q. They spent the initial two days in which none of their adversaries took them seriously, so much as glanced in their directions even when discussing business. And Dazai had hissed under his breath that if they were being treated like children, they might as well act like fucking children. So, it was a mad jumble of meetings followed by hot tubs and pools and getting so drunk in the bars that Hirotsu carried both he and Dazai back to the room they shared while Q trailed along singing something chipper and disturbing.

All in all, an infuriating situation that they planned to pettily take full advantage of.

And then one of the Russian bodyguards had grabbed Q's wrist. Even now, Chuuya doesn't hate Q, but he hates his gift. Can't stop the revulsion that comes from watching the little psycho rip away people's control—his control, if Mori commands it. But watching their faces as the man cackled and cackled until his jaw dislocated, as Dazai pretended not to know Russian so he couldn't nullify the gift—it was one of the few times he was glad to see Dazai make an ass of himself, and had enjoyed it immensely.

As he lays in bed now, his partner already shown out after a night of little sleep, he wonders why he's been thinking about it so much. The past. His first years in the mafia. Maybe because, despite his anger and resentment at the time over being forced into joining, they truthfully were easier days. Better.

Until they weren't.

He's interrupted from his reminiscing by a quiet knock on the door.

Chuuya glances at the clock on the nightstand (and why is it so fucking early in the morning?) before he sighs, levering himself upright. As he makes his way to the door, he passes a robe and wraps it around his shoulders. Under his feet he feels socks and a pair of boxers that that moron Sergey forgot. He doesn't bother kicking them under the bed or hiding them, just reaches out a hand and opens the door.

When it swings wide to reveal a young man, Chuuya relaxes just a bit into the doorframe. A boy really. With dark chestnut hair and soft puppy eyes. He looks like his mom dropped him off from his boy-scouts meeting, in his oversized suit with his tie slightly skewed. "Good morning, Chuuya-san," he says with a small, respectful bow.

For a moment, there's a blankness in Chuuya's mind, a gaping hole of something important. He yawns and rubs one eye groggily, until he sees little spots dancing over his vision. Wake up, you're not even that old, fucker, he berates himself. He blinks at the intruder. "I didn't order room service."

The kid straightens, his face falling into something like a kicked-puppy expression. "Sir, I've—"

"I'm kidding," Chuuya interrupts. "Jesus, take the stick out of your ass, Hitomu." He steps back and gestures, and the kid enters hesitantly. Chuuya sees his eyes dart around the room, and his face turn a bright pink when the land on the boxers (and next to them a condom wrapper Chuuya didn't notice).

"Report," Chuuya demands, using his powers to pull out the drawers on the vanity and rifling through his many pants and vests. "Has there been news?"

For a moment the room is silent, save his ministrations. He glances back over his shoulder to see a look of near constipation on the boy's face. "Well," the kid begins. "It appears the organization is still dealing with the new street gang that appeared recently."

"As expected." If he were there, it would've been dealt with in a matter of days. Still, they'll survive without him, have for years and will for years if he can help it. Plus, Chuuya's not really in the mood to wipe out any teen factions when he himself used to lead one.

Chuuya crosses behind Hitomu into the bathroom and closes the door except for a sliver. Normally he isn't shy about nudity; it's hard to be when he walked out of Cone Street stark naked fifteen years ago, and when his first interactions with mafia leadership were helping Kouyou run her teahouses. But, given Hitomu's reaction to the boxers, Chuuya thinks his new subordinate just might explode if he sees Chuuya's ass.

"There have been no sightings of Dostoevsky." Through the crack in the door, Chuuya can see Hitomu's back, the stiff line of his shoulders. Ever since the boy was assigned as his assistant however many weeks ago, he's been nothing but a nervous wreck, always following Chuuya like a little shadow. Even before he knew the kid's name, he was constantly catching him in his peripheral vision or hearing the rustle of those oversized clothes. Here, twice now, Chuuya has caught him lurking in the bars when Chuuya is drinking with Sergey. Once, he even made sure to look directly into the boy's eyes as he stuck his tongue in the Russian's mouth, just to watch the kid squirm a bit. He doesn't need a babysitter after all, least of all some infantile barely-gifted child.

But this isn't like the boy's normal fussy caring. Sweat has made the back of his dress shirt dark, is beading along his temples. His hands, clasped behind his back, open and clench sporadically like he's kneading an invisible stress ball. "And—"

"And?" Chuuya opens the door, steps out in full dress, twisting his hair into a knot.

"The Boss has requested your immediate return."

Chuuya stops. He can feel his own surprise, tries to mask it before Hitomu can turn and see it. His job here is to be calm. To be the leader—he can't very well let his stuffy little secretary work himself into a heart attack. Still, he's… surprised. Angry. He was supposed to have longer. If not for negotiations, then for himself.

For the first time since he's been welcomed into the mafia's ranks, Chuuya thinks bitterly, I don't want to go. I don't—surely if I return, something else terrible will happen. For a long moment he stands, tense and silent, trying to cool the swell of rage in his stomach.

"Well," he says finally, when he's laid the folded robe on the bed and given himself a chance to breathe. To swallow the ache in his throat. "We shouldn't keep them waiting."

They attend their last meeting that morning and board a plane an hour later. Four weeks was the initial time given for the negotiations, but Chuuya isn't in the habit of waiting until the last minute. For about a week and a half now, they've had the bones of the negotiations hammered out, and have been meeting merely to finetune small details or sometimes just to drink and pretend they enjoy each other's company and thinly veiled niceties—Chuuya loves wine, but he can barely sit through some of those slow, asinine meetings without wanting to bang his head—or someone else's—on the wall.

Dazai always said that was one of the things that would get him killed. Had practically salivated at the prospect of getting to tease Chuuya mercilessly the first time he was sent to negotiate alone. A little dog like you? One whiff of a cat and you'll be growling like a rabid mutt.

He'd said it to rile Chuuya up, to make it apparent that Chuuya would never be half the diplomat that Dazai is, not when he can't keep his temper in check. And Chuuya had proven him right by leaping over the desk and trying to—what? Choke him? Hit him? He can't even remember anymore, besides the crushing thought of fuck him, fuck him, make him be quiet.

Chuuya slumps into his seat on the plane, sighing loudly. He begins making a mental list in his mind of the trades he negotiated. Once the stock is gathered, it will be boarded on a ship and sent to Yokohama with the promised drugs and weapons. We will have free range to evaluate… If satisfactory, will proceed with the res… Fyodor Dostoevsky will be apprehended and imprisoned if found… The Rats will not be aided by any mafia members…

On and on he goes. He has this all written out in paper, signed by all present executive members and sealed with a bloody fingerprint, the twin to that which was left in the morning's meeting. His thumb still aches a bit. It speaks to how much both mafias need each other's assistance right now—giving blood to another organization when they may have some gifted with an unusual power isn't the most advisable idea. But with all the gifted members still active in the Port Mafia, they could easily crush any threats the Magadan Mafia might make, especially with their old and outdated ways.

And yet the Port… for months it's been non-stop chaos, with the Detective Agency, with the Guild. With other forces wreaking havoc and forcing them to abandon their sales. They need the support. And despite its small size, Magadan has always been a powerful manufacturer of drugs and weapons. Keeping the peace now is more important than ever.

After several hours of reviewing, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks, Chuuya falls asleep, hat drawn low over his eyes.

He dreams first of a deep, breathing blackness swallowing him whole, floating through the nothingness without thought or fear or care. And then suddenly, little bare feet. Pounding through the grass and down a grassy slope. A little boy crying, Charlie, Charlie! Attrapez-moi! as he launched himself through the air. Caught under his armpits and swung around, wheezing with laughter and joy.

He opens his eyes blearily when a hand brushes his shoulder. For a moment, he can still taste the fresh-cut grass, the hot breeze on his tongue. Can smell the sunlight in the air. He blinks, lifting forwards towards the touch and murmurs, "I wasn't sleeping, Charlie—"

And then Hitomu gives him a soft, puzzled look and says, "Chuuya-san. We've landed."

o-o-o-o-o

A black SUV has been left outside the airport for them. Hitomu lifts the trunk to place his and Chuuya's luggage inside before snapping it closed. Chuuya feels a little bad, watching the boy straighten up and shake out his arms. After their flight, he's even more irritable than he was before. His weird nap combined with the new crick in his neck, and the fact the he's barely been getting sleep with Sergey visiting him… Chuuya feels like if someone looks at him the wrong way he just might send them into the core of the Earth. Still, he's a mafioso; he doesn't have to be nice.

So. He'd let Hitomu carry the luggage without using his ability to help in the slightest (except when it came to opening doors) and now watches him huff and puff. The kid didn't even complain. Still doesn't as he leans up on his tiptoes to climb into the drivers seat.

Jesus, who thought it would be a good idea to let this kid in the mafia? he thinks with a snort before sliding into the backseat.

"Are you sure you're old enough to drive?" he asks, as Hitomu cranks the keys in the ignition. The boy turns a small frown into the rearview mirror, catching Chuuya's eye.

"I'm nineteen," he says, sullenly. Chuuya holds back a snort; he reaches for a cigarette instead, cracks the window as he lights up so he can exhale a thin stream of smoke into the crisp January air.

When they still don't move, Chuuya gestures with one hand dismissively. "By all means, lead on." With a final glance, Hitomu does, putting the car into drive and rolling slowly out of the parking lot.

It's maybe a thirty-minute drive back to the headquarters. As they wind their way through the streets, Chuuya lets the familiar lull of the car pull him into his thoughts. He wonders about his dream, about why he's been called back here when he's almost never pulled off assignment early. Thinks about the new street gang and what they might be after, and about how Hitomu might have found his way out of some prep school and into the arms of the mafia. And most of all, he doesn't think about how he's once again home, in Yokohama, where a certain detective is probably blowing off his work right now.

(definitely doesn't think about that at all, thank you very much)

He makes it through his cigarette, then another before they're finally pulling up to headquarters, Hitomu bringing the car up against the curb. As Chuuya reaches for his buckle and frees himself, the kid clears his throat awkwardly. "Um, Chuuya-san…"

Chuuya pauses, glancing up at him. "Yeah?"

The boy can barely hold his gaze for a second before he's darting his eyes away, cheeks going pink. "You, uh," he says, and then pauses to swallow. "I don't need to go with you to your meeting… do I?"

Chuuya stares at him. And then he lets out a sigh. A glorified secretary, attending a meeting with the Port Mafia Executives? No wonder the poor guy looks like he might piss himself. "No, Hitomu," he says. "You really don't."

Instantly, the kid lets out a breath of relief, and then he glances back at Chuuya like he's embarrassed he did it. "Sorry."

Chuuya just reaches for the door and pops it open, throwing one of his legs out. "It's fine. Just… I don't know, find some other job to do for a while. I'll text you when I'm done."

And then he slams the door before the kid is even done nodding.

The lobby is as clean as ever when Chuuya strides inside. The guards at the door nod quickly and he returns the gesture before stuffing his hands into his pockets. He feels a little awkward almost, which is ridiculous when he practically lives in this building. But it's weird, walking by himself when he's had a little shadow tailing him for the better part of a month. Hitomu had been up his ass ever since he left for Russia, and he'd even had to tell the kid to fuck off when he tried to stand guard outside Chuuya's door while Sergey was there. Now it's an odd sensation to have his back completely open as he makes his way into the building.

The elevator ride feels far too long, and not even the soft jazz Chuuya normally likes can soothe his mood. The closer he gets to his destination, the more that anger from the morning comes back, reminding him that he shouldn't even be here right now. By the time he makes it to the top floor, he can practically feel his eyebrow twitching. But, before he throws open that last door, he takes a moment to reign in some of his outward hostility. Mori puts up with a lot of shit from him, but he's still Chuuya's boss.

With a final deep breath, he reaches for the knob.

The room inside is filled with the low murmur of voices. Kouyou and Mori are sat at a small table, laying go pieces delicately and smirking at each other. There're a few bills slipped under the edge of the board, and Chuuya has to fight a sigh: Mori, like Chuuya, really should've learned his lesson by now. Kouyou's taken far too much of their money to keep betting on games with her.

At Mori's knee, Elise is scribbling on some paper with a marker instead of her usual crayons. The sound puts Chuuya's teeth on edge almost as bad as the rattle of the air vents (why is every noise so fucking loud?). He lifts one hand and raps two knuckles on the door frame.

Elise is the first to look. "Chuuya!" she cries, jumping to her feet in a flounce of frills and lace, and comes bounding over. She throws her little arms around Chuuya's waist and grins up at him.

Chuuya can barely plaster on his usual smile, but he ruffles her hair, careful of the clips there. "Hey, kiddo."

"Did you see any bears? Were the mafia dumb? Did you make any friends?" She rattles off her questions almost quick enough it makes her seem like a real, genuine kid. And even if Chuuya knows what she really is, he still can't help a soft sliver of fondness in his chest when he looks at her.

"Unfortunately, no bears," he says, walking further into the room with the little girl hanging off him like a leech. "No friends, either."

(Sergey sure as fuck doesn't count)

"Chuuya-kun," Mori says, when Chuuya bows his head. He's smiling at the sight of his executive with Elise, but there's something a bit curious behind his gaze. "You're home early."

Chuuya's jaw clenches. You asked for me, you shit—"I heard there were some difficulties with the new gang."

Mori nods, turning back to his game with Kouyou. She still has her eyes on Chuuya, even as she lays her next piece, and she raises an eyebrow skeptically at him. He shrugs with the tiniest movement he can make.

"Nothing we couldn't have handled," Mori says. And that makes Chuuya's stomach grow hot with anger. "But, now that you're here, I'm sure it will run much smoother. Black Lizard could use the assistance."

Black Lizard? They're a hard-hitting force capable of mass destruction in small amounts of time, but they're not exactly subtle or the best at parceling out delicate operations. No wonder this small organization has been giving them hell. It's like trying to pick a lock-safe with a battering ram. It doesn't really help that Tachihara can't go two minutes without acting like a jackass and getting himself into some kind of shoot-out.

Chuuya sits down next to Kouyou on the couch so he can leaf through some of the folders there. There are the usual: service reports, damage costs, debt collections from the time he's been gone. And then at the bottom is a list of notes on the new group. It's tiny, far less information than he'd been expecting.

Scratchy handwriting claims, Vagrants and youths. Unknown leader. First confirmed appearance December 20th, likely existing prior. No known motivations, but likely monetary gain or some sort of turf war…

He looks at Mori with a raised eyebrow, and the boss shrugs as if to say, I don't know either. And then, before Chuuya can look away, he grins. "How was your trip?" he asks, in a sly voice that puts Chuuya's teeth on edge. "I heard you were… rather busy."

Chuuya's face burns. He turns to glare at Kouyou but she skillfully places a piece to avoid his gaze. He really shouldn't have told her. In fact, he probably shouldn't have touched Sergey with a ten-foot pole, but what's done is done. Chuuya should've known the woman who runs the teahouses of Yokohama wouldn't be able to resist gossip.

"It won't happen again, boss," Chuuya says, but Mori starts laughing.

"Oh, not to worry!" He waves a hand. "It's nothing I wouldn't encourage; you've been so stressed lately, Chuuya-kun."

You kill a fucking dragon then tell me I'm stressed, he wants to snap. He bites his tongue instead, letting out a sigh. He removes the section of the folder on the new gang and rises.

"If that's all for now, I'm going to read this at home." And take bath. And drink a bottle of wine. And hopefully, just sleep for the next thousand years.

He makes it a few feet before Mori is calling his name. "Oh, Chuuya-kun?"

Chuuya sucks in a breath through his nose and then forces it out slowly, counting to ten in his head before he turns. "Yes?"

"Keep your phone on you. I'll give you the week to finish organizing the trade deals, and then I have a special project I want you to work on."

More projects? Like Chuuya hasn't just spent weeks salvaging their relationship with their northern buddies? Like he doesn't already lose ninety percent of his sleep trying to keep track of every single fucking appointment he has? Chuuya's hands clench on the papers, crumpling them slightly. But Mori turns back to his game, still grinning. It's as much of a dismissal Chuuya is going to get. He sends one last glare Kouyou's way before he departs, taking the papers with him.