He's crouched before a motorcycle, reaching to adjust a rusted light clamped to the edge of the table beside him before his fingers go back to moving a screwdriver against the delicate parts of the bike. He reaches into the guts of the vehicle, carefully disconnecting the battery and throttle body. The fuel injectors come next laid neatly beside him. He takes a small bristled brush and scrubs congealed fuel from the fragile pieces, frowning in concentration as he does. The aerosol cleaner hisses and bubbles, turning white to yellow as old fuel and debris are flushed out. All of it is filthy, just as he expected when it was dropped off earlier that day.
The man who brought it to the shop told him it belonged to his son.
"I don't understand how it even got broken in the first place, he never rides the thing! Which his mother and I are grateful for," he'd added pointedly.
Mugen said nothing as he circled the bike, admiring the glossy black exterior, running a finger along the soft, supple leather seat. He was already imagining himself gripping her handles, wind whipping at his face as she purred beneath him. This wasn't the type of bike meant to sit idle as a decoration. She was meant to be taken out to stretch her legs under the neon glow of street lights; passing by in a blur of color and sound.
Apparently noticing the gleam in his eyes, the man spoke up, paternal disapproval infusing his words.
"I work in an emergency room. Do you know what we call motorcycle riders?"
"Lemme guess, organ donors?"
He bristled at Mugen's unimpressed response.
He's heard it before. Maybe that sort of thing strikes fear in the dumbasses who let their bikes rot in their parent's garage with fuel lying stagnant in the tank, but he's known guys who have skinned themselves to the bone while riding only to turn around and hop back on.
He takes a clean microfiber cloth, carefully wiping down the body until it's gleaming in perfect condition. He'll get a chance to take her out later when he drops it off at the client's house and receives the rest of his payment. It'll be tough—he can already tell once he gets a taste of her, he won't be able to get enough, but he soothes himself with the knowledge that it won't be for long. Once he gets a feel for the place, he'll break in later and take her back.
He'd never put so much care into something that wasn't going to eventually belong to him.
He cranks the engine, allowing it to roar to life, half-smirking in satisfaction.
Already purring for me .
"Cut that shit off."
The garage door shuts, clanking loudly. Mukuro enters, followed closely by Koza, his younger step-sister. She gives Mugen a shy wave that he ignores, turning back to his bike. He cuts the engine, holding back a resigned sigh. He was hoping for a few more hours of peace before they interrupted him.
To make things worse, Shiren enters behind them, his greedy eyes lighting up when he sees the motorcycle.
"How much can we make selling that ?"
He feels a ripple of annoyance at the "we" remark. He'll claim Mukuro as a friend and begrudgingly his little sister, but Shiren is a new addition to the group that he's not a fan of. He's got a sneaky rat look to him that Mugen distrusted at first sight.
"I'm not selling it."
"Bullshit you're not," Mukuro barks, throwing himself down on a creaky old couch between Shiren and Koza. "How much is that repair gonna make you? Enough for rent? Enough to pay me back?"
He hates that he holds that over his head. How many times over the years has he saved Mukuro's stupid ass? How many times has he made sure he and his sister had food? A place to stay? He's hidden his stash, covered up for him, lied to police, the whole nine yards. Mugen uses Mukuro's shitty garage a few times a month and suddenly the guy starts keeping a running tally of debts.
"Doesn't matter." he mutters, standing and wiping his hands with a greasy, oil-soaked rag, tossing it aside in irritation, "Why're you here anyway? Thought you were gonna be out all night perfecting your 'big plan'?"
Mukuro's face spreads into a grin, draping his arms around Koza and Shiren.
"Our days of scraping by are nearly at an end my friend. It's time I let you in on the big one I've been planning."
This doesn't impress him. Mukuro always has big plans for them. Always ready with a new scheme to get them to claw their way out of poverty. It never works for long; eventually, they backslide for one reason or another. Owed money. Late rent. Stupid decisions. He's watched Mukuro and Shiren clean enough neat white lines with their faces to know they're going to end up in the same position they were before this conversation for the same old reasons.
"Not interested?"
"No," he responds flatly. "I'm not."
Continuing as if he never responded, Mukuro leans forward, arms resting on his knees.
"So, we learned a little while back that Kasumi is looking for new protection for his kid."
" Who ?"
"The city Governor, Mugen." Koza's quiet voice interjects. "Kasumi Seizou."
He doesn't know much about the guy. Or any politicians for that matter. He's got other shit going on to be worried about that kind of stuff. Shiren got Mukuro a custodial job at one of the government offices a few months back. Ever since then, the two keep having conversations about taking it all down from the inside . As if either one has the brains to really do anything about their problems. They're both all talk. Mugen drank himself numb trying to ignore their late-night rants about being the forgotten members of Tokyo's society.
"I don't see what that's got to do with us."
"Of course, you wouldn't" Shiren snickers.
"Fuck off."
Mukuro holds his hands up like a referee, shooting Shiren with a warning glare.
"I'll explain, relax. Shiren said we should insert one of us in Kasumi's life, get that job protecting his kid and gather information to feed to his opponents. Trust me, I know a few guys who are hungry for it. They'll pay big for dirt on the guy."
He waits for the punchline to land, but the three of them just stare at him expectantly.
"What, me? He's not gonna fall for that shit. What makes you think he'd hire me ?"
"You used to be a bouncer." Koza points out quietly.
Mukuro nods as if that proves his point.
" Exactly ."
They've lost their minds. All three of them. He has a funny feeling that kicking drunk assholes out of bars isn't exactly the litmus test the fucking Tokyo Governor is using to find someone to watch over his kid. As it is the job sounds vague. A bodyguard for a politician's kid? What makes any of them think he'll learn anything worth paying for? At best they might make money, at worst he'll get thrown in jail for espionage.
"No. I ain't doin' it."
Mukuro is on his feet so fast it almost takes him off guard. He kicks aside a dirty pan of oil, spattering against his tools and workbench, leaving it to ooze down the wall. From the couch, he catches sight of Koza going stiff and Shiren sliding closer to watch.
There's been a new intensity to him these days that isn't just from his coke-fueled binges. He's not the kid who liked fighting too much in high school; he now has the haunted eyes of a man tired of being pushed to desperate measures. Maybe it's the looming eviction or money owed to one too many loan sharks. Mugen has stuck around this long but each day has felt like he's been inched closer and closer to the precipice of something. Almost like he can feel the empty drop emerging behind him. One day soon, Mukuro may snap. He doesn't back down; he waits for his next move like always. Instead of throwing a punch, he smiles, slapping him on the back like it was all a joke.
"That's too bad cause' I already sent in your application. Had Koza type it up all nice and pretty a couple of weeks ago."
Mugen shoots her with a furious glare and she shifts uncomfortably, sinking deeper into the filthy couch.
"Weeks ago? Well looks like you're shit out of luck then. I never got the fuckin' job."
"I'm already one step ahead of you. Got it all figured out: all you've got to do is be in the right place at the right time— prove you're a big hero that can handle the job." he places his hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "Mugen, we play this right and we're all free."
He wishes he could argue that he doesn't need them or that he doesn't care. He's stayed around him out of necessity; Mukuro provides a place for him to work on bikes until he can find funds for a place of his own. A place where he can eventually afford to not have to steal in order to make a profit. In return, Mugen throws money his way when he can.
It isn't often enough.
He spots Koza's bony knees, her skin sickly pale beneath the hem of her frayed skirt. She's skinnier than she should be, and while that's not necessarily his problem, even he's not that much of a bastard to cast her off. It's not her fault her brother is an idiot with money. If he thinks too much about it, he feels like it's becoming less of a reality that he'll ever get his own garage without a miracle anyway. He's self-taught so no one wants to hire him. If he doesn't make a move now he'll be stuck here forever.
And then drink himself to death like his old man.
It's probably because he's always been a gambling man that he closes his eyes in resignation.
"How much money?"
She's invisible.
She's a ghost and the flowers in her lap, wrapped in green cellophane, are ones she gathered from her own grave. That's what she imagines anyway. When you're invisible it's best to have an active imagination for the hours you spend waiting around in places like this. Not that she would ever choose to haunt a place like this. Sterile walls. Stern austerity. Blank-faced men in suits whose shiny black shoes clack on the tile, receding down the long hall in echoing clicks . No, if she could choose, she would rather haunt a temple at midnight on new year's eve. Somewhere she could watch people gather together in the dark, frozen puffs of air rising with their shared laughter. Hands clapped together with hope for the coming year. Warm sake. Easy smiles. Someplace alive . It's better to become invisible in a place where warmth and happiness are made and shared.
No one smiles in these halls unless it's for a photo op.
She's waited here so long, sitting on a hard wooden bench, that she's been able to track the slow progress of a jewel-toned beetle, a tiny stowaway from her flowers, crawling from one side of the shiny marble hall to the other. Even when the doors beside her are thrown open, she doesn't blink, only watches its journey become more perilous as pairs of scuffed oxfords step over it. For a second she loses track of it, holding her breath when she spots it again. She doesn't let it out until she hears her name.
"Fuu?
Her father's face is stricken briefly before sinking into a confused frown.
"What are you doing here?"
She doesn't answer; doesn't need to. His eyes fall to the wilting flowers held in her lap. When she lifts them, a petal flutters to the ground.
"You forgot."
"I could never forget."
"But you did this time."
He turns back to his office. She knows a quiet command when she sees one. She stands, holding her head high like she isn't the least bit nervous to be confronting him. She walks past the heavy doors bearing his name in stern gold lettering.
Her mom used to take her to visit him at work all the time when she was little. Back then she'd throw those doors open gleefully, without fear. She'd run her dirty fingers along his glossy desk and admire the view from the windows, claiming she could see , even when she really couldn't. His office used to be papered with all of her grade-school drawings. Sunflowers and Sanrio characters. Crayon sketches of the three of them on a beach vacation they never took. Slowly, over time, they've disappeared entirely. She tells herself this is a good thing because she'd be embarrassed to see them, but it did infuse a little life into the room.
Right now it smells like old men and stale cologne.
Her father leans against the front of the desk, rubbing his weary face.
"How did you get here?"
She lowers her eyes.
"I-I took the bus."
Her father has never been the type of man to show strong emotions. He never yells, never lashes out. She's only seen him cry once. Eight years to the day in fact.
Her mother was on her way to pick Fuu up from school. She had just stepped off the bus when one of her father's outspoken detractors rushed at her, stabbing her in the heart. She bled out on the pavement while horrified spectators apprehended the man. During the trial, he tearfully told the court he hadn't meant to kill her. He only wanted to distract her father from his campaign so that one of his opponents could win.
His wish to slow her father's campaign down backfired; the collective sympathy of witnessing him lose his wife and subsequent vow to crack down on the rising violent crime in the city allowed him to win re-election by a landslide. Twice .
But each win comes with a cost.
"Today," he says, his voice dangerously quiet, "of all days.
She winces.
"You didn't answer my call." she mumbles, "I thought we wouldn't make it there in time to lay the flowers–"
"She would be disappointed in you."
She wishes he were a violent man. She'd rather him slap her across the face for all the harm his words do, sinking down into a desolate place inside of herself. It's not just grief there, but rage at having suppressed it for so long. Anytime she disappoints him, she inevitably disappoints her mother too.
But he's not the only one who can prop her mother up as a shield.
"You think she wouldn't be disappointed in you too?" she says, only allowing the slightest bit of defiance in her voice, "This is the one tradition we have left. I don't even get to visit her alone."
He places a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"I am working on that."
She shakes it off.
I know what that means. Hiring more people to follow her every step. Another spectator to report back to him every move she makes. As it is she's carted to and from home to cram school and back again. She can't remember the last time she got to go shopping alone or have lunch with friends. No sleep-overs. No dates. All possibilities for her life seemed to die right along with her mother.
He reaches out, but thinks better of it, sighing. She looks up at him. When did he turn into an old man? The lines around his face get deeper each time he's up for re-election. He's never home these days. When he is, they don't talk much. She doesn't remember the last time they had a conversation that didn't turn into an argument. She never wins. Sometimes he ends up leaving and says he's going to go pray like it'll make her feel guilty. That's his way of telling on her to her mother.
His lips press into a thin line and he nods to himself.
"Come. There's still time."
The ride over to the graveyard is silent, she allows herself to be shuffled into another black government vehicle with black tinted windows. The AC rustles the crinkly paper around the flowers. Her father reaches a hand over to lift one of the drooping heads.
"They're a little wilted now. We should have stopped to get new ones."
"She always liked out the wilted ones," she says softly, "remember? She said they deserved to get picked too and they'd get sad watching the fresh flowers get picked first."
A rare smile touches his lips.
"That's why she picked me. I was the most wilted."
That almost brings a smile to her face. She leans against the window, thinking back to the last time her mother told her the story.
Her parents met when her mother was working at a stall selling flowers. He stopped there to buy some for another woman but spent so long talking to her that he ended up standing the other woman up. At the end of the night, he offered to buy her mother some flowers instead and she decided on the pitiful-looking bouquet meant for the other woman. And because her mother apparently possessed the kindness of a saint, she made him promise to send an apology bouquet to the woman he stood up before she'd agree to go on a date with him. It's a romantic story, but Fuu used to chide her father for his behavior. When her mother was alive she'd grab his chin and say: Maybe I'm the sneaky one! Who wouldn't want to steal him from another woman?
Her father always seemed so much older and more serious than her mother. Maybe her dad is right; she chose wilted flowers and wilted men on purpose. She always assured Fuu that someday she'd find someone worth stealing. Now she's not so sure she'll be allowed to move out for college, let alone date .
The car comes to a halt across the street from the graveyard. Already news vans are waiting outside, reporters preparing to shove microphones in their faces. The worst part of being the daughter of a politician is the constant monetization of her grief year after year. He's taught her well though. When the door opens, her face becomes a mask.
They walk arm in arm as the cameras snap around them. He holds a hand up to stop them from following her, pausing across the street with her.
"I won't be long," she says.
His hand squeezes hers once before letting go.
"Take all the time you need."
Appearances matter more than anything. She's the proper grieving daughter at this moment, but she can't show too much emotion. She can't show how tired she is of doing this. The people reporting on her today aren't getting a new story; it's the same one they tell every year: The spitting image of Governor Kasumi's beloved late wife , Kasumi Fuu, is as devoted to her family as ever, taking her annual walk to visit her mother's grave on the anniversary of her death.
The constant attention is completely unwanted because everyone assumes she's a quiet genius or something. Already she's received offers to attend schools she couldn't possibly get into without being the daughter of the Governor. It's a well guarded-secret that her grades are barely passable. Her father even had to hire a tutor. She has no extraordinary talents to speak of. Being a quiet, obedient daughter is all she has going for her.
It's more than a little depressing that her whole life has turned into waiting for this walk to the graveyard and hoping that someday the desire to stay there will leave her.
She glances left in the crosswalk, just by chance, and becomes frozen in place. It's strange how much clarity she's afforded in those few precious seconds. She notices everything. The colors, the smells, the sounds. The world comes alive, just as she's about to leave it.
She thinks about the beetle from earlier, its tiny body reduced to a smear on the tile, and wonders if her body will look the same.
Mugen waits outside a gated entrance to the graveyard doing little else besides smoking and flicking cigarettes into the gutter. He must look like a junkie the way he keeps taking his phone out to check the time, pacing around.
"It's a little tradition for him to send his kid to the grave. Just wait there, you'll understand when you see it."
He's restless and can't shake the feeling that something will go wrong. It's Mukuro after all. Plus, he failed to mention the amount of press that would be waiting there with him. Several vans are parked along the street with news crews outside idling around, fiddling with cords and cameras. No one spares him a glance. Maybe they think he's here to catch a glimpse too.
Mukuro also didn't say what exactly he'll need to do in order to make himself look like a hero worth hiring as a damn bodyguard.
"Can't tell you beforehand, it's got to look real and organic."
Organic .
Fuck him and his pretentious bullshit. It's probably Shiren that gave him that stupid idea. Sure, send me in with as little preparation as possible.
He paces a while more until a few of the news crews began to straighten up, holding their mics ready. Finally, he spots them too. Governor Kasumi walking with a girl on his arm. Mugen frowns, letting a spent cigarette butt fall from his mouth. Governor Kasumi's daughter isn't exactly a kid , she's a teenager, around Koza's age or a little older judging by her prim school uniform.
He grits his teeth, watching the Governor nod at a few people clamoring to speak to him. Too many people . He doesn't know what Mukuro's big plan is to make him look like a fucking hero, but he's becoming less and less interested in it. Is he supposed to follow them until some danger does arise? Or maybe waltz over to the two and offer his services? The serious-looking suits tailing them would have a field day with that one.
The governor stops, sending her off with a nod across the street, right toward Mugen.
When her downcast eyes flit up to meet his briefly, her steps falter in the crosswalk, footing altering slightly so that she won't end up passing too near to him. It's probably subconscious on her part, but that doesn't stop him from resenting her for it. Mukuro's rants about spoiled, rich brats echo in his head. They're all the same. They deserve this.
Just as he's trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to be doing, he tenses. He knows it's coming, but the hair still stands on the back of his neck when he hears the screech of tires approaching, an engine revved to the max as it accelerates towards her. No one but him has noticed. The news crews are too busy trying to talk to the Governor, clamoring around him as a few agents try to hold them back.
Bizarrely, she seems to notice and freezes in her steps, staring it down like she's been waiting for it too.
Goddamn it.
Too late to back out now.
Without another thought, he launches himself at her.
For a startling moment, she thinks she's been hit.
She registers the force of being knocked down along with the sharp crack of her skull against the curb that sends a shower of sparks across her tumbling vision. She can only pick out parts of what's happening around her. The screech of tires, a crash, the smell of smoke, the sound of sirens, panicked voices crying out for help, screaming. Among them is one she doesn't recognize.
"Goddammit, wake up."
The urgent voice is caustic in her ringing ears. Her first instinct is to ignore it and let herself sink back into the comforting blackness that holds its arms out to her, but another rough shake causes her to crack her lids open. A man is staring down at her, his furious face eclipsing the sun, haloed in light.
She gazes up at him in wonder. His eyes are dark, jagged cliffs of slate–just as sharp and piercing. He's handsome in a roughened sort of way with tan skin, his jawline unshaven, his hair a mess from tackling her. Maybe it's from being around so many fresh-faced guys her own age, but there's a potent vitality to him that's missing from anyone else she's ever known. But his expression…He's just saved her life—out of all the bedlam surrounding her, his expression is one her brain works hardest on figuring out. It's filled with shards of ice, and even with the sun-soaked asphalt beneath her, she shivers. Why does he look so angry at her? What could she have done to him to earn a look like that?
Because I haven't said thank you yet .
The thought is so ludicrous that a slip of nervous laughter escapes her lips along with an apology:
"I'm sorry?"
Her attention is drawn away as her father appears at her side. It's hard to get his face into focus and she blinks up at him, trying to piece together what just happened.
"Fuu, are you hurt?"
She tries to sit up, feeling the world spin once more.
"No, no, don't move yet—"
"I'm okay." she hears herself say. It's a disembodied sensation; like there's a lag between her mind and mouth. Between the bracketed legs of bystanders surrounding her, she follows the trail of crushed flowers and black skid marks with her eyes until someone steps in front of her.
"The ambulance is here."
"Sir, can she walk?"
"Should we get someone to–"
"I got er'."
The man from before bends down and lifts her from the ground easily. She gasps, and the world spins once more at the sensation. He bounces her once in his arms, trying to get a better hold of her. Despite the kindness of this gesture, his grip on her hurts, fingers digging too roughly into her raw skin. She lets out a soft whimper of pain and his grip loosens slightly. He's looking straight ahead, his jaw rigid.
They pass the wreckage of the vehicle that nearly hit her. It crashed into one of the news vans parked along the road. Both have been reduced to an unrecognizable smoking mass of broken metal. A crew is already there, working diligently, using the jaws of life to pry into the twisted heap. She can't tear her eyes away from it.
There should be questions firing off in her head. She knows there should be, but all she can think of is the stranger carrying her.
The paramedics fret over her until he deposits her onto a waiting stretcher. She doesn't think she needs it. Her head hurts, but she'll survive, but when she tries to sit up again, they tell her to stay still.
She catches a glimpse of the driver being pulled from the car that almost hit her. The unnatural way his body slides out, more liquid than solid, makes the situation feel more unreal than it already is. It's familiar in a horrible way. It's not her first time seeing a dead body. Just her first time seeing it in person. Pictures of her mother's body circulated on the internet and in newspapers splashed with sensationalized headlines for months after her death. She'll never forget the way her plum-colored pea coat looked with a bright jewel of red blossoming from the center of her chest: her purse laying nearby, coins scattered around it. Someone put a plastic bag over her face, probably out of decency, which made the sight infinitely worse. There's nothing blocking this though.
The only way she can get herself to stop staring at the mangled body is to look back at the man who saved her. He's not looking at her though. He's watching the crew move the body, placing it inside a body bag, and calling for him to step back. He ignores them, his hands curling into tight fists at his side. Just as the ambulance doors are about to slam shut, their eyes meet once more and she feels herself go pale.
One thought strikes her heart with unexpected clarity: he hates her.
AN: What can I say? Sometimes you've got to get it all out even if you think no one will read it. I was finishing up Be My Last and the idea for this fic gnawed at my ankle until I drafted a couple of chapter outlines to satisfy its bloodlust.
Where Be My Last (very loosely) mirrored multiple parts of the series, this fic focuses more closely on the Misguided Miscreants episodes. Not that it'll be a 1:1, but you get the idea. Also, I really wanted to try writing their relationship as a little more volatile to start.
Fuu is 18, Mugen is 24ish btw :)