Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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 Mt.Fuji, 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 on. 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.

“S-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. 

Chapter Text

He didn’t know hospitals had chapels like this. Before he pushed the doors open, he expected to see cheap gray carpeting and fluorescent lights. The sort of stale waiting room someone tossed a few bibles into and called it a holy place. Instead, he’s met with the real deal: tall ceilings, stained glass, rows of polished pews. 

He doesn’t feel like he belongs here. He doesn’t. The fact that he hasn’t burst into flames yet is a small miracle on its own. He wanted to high-tail it out of the scene of the crime to call Mukuro and see what the fuck he was supposed to do next, but right as he tried to leave he found himself facing an open door to the back seat of a government vehicle. 

From a graveyard to a chapel; like he’s on his own strange pilgrimage.

The lone man sitting near the front with his back to him can be none other than Governor Kasumi. Mugen slides in across the aisle from him. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mugen.” 

“...Right.”

Well, he didn’t waste any time finding out who he is. Mukuro’s insistence on keeping him in the dark has him on edge. He and Shiren had their heads bent together for weeks, hammering out details of a plan he thought he had no part in. He wasn’t thinking about that when he agreed to help. He was thinking of the money they could make. 

Now he’s in a hospital chapel sitting across from the fucking city Governor. He can count the beats of silence like the ticking of a clock. Literal ticking. The Governor’s wristwatch. His paranoia is telling him that he must know that it was no coincidence that Mugen was there. Somewhere along the line, Mukuro fucked up like he always does. They found out the dead guy is connected to him somehow. They’re digging into his past. 

A lifetime of schooling his features to look careless comes in handy. It helps that they’re not looking at each other; they’re facing an altar where late-day sunshine spills in from outside through the rainbow-colored glass, painting colorful fractals against a crucifix.

“I received dozens of applications from men all eager to take the position guarding my daughter.” The Governor begins conversationally, “All of them are well-connected, upstanding members of society. Plenty of experience—And yet, I have been struggling to settle on one.” He pauses, “Put yourself in my position; can you imagine why I’d be hesitant to offer the job to any of them?”

Mugen thumbs through one of the bibles in the pocket of the pew in front of him. Something to keep his hands busy while his mind whirls through the possibilities of why he’s been brought here instead of a police station. Wasn’t expecting a fuckin’ pop quiz . The silence stretches between them until finally, he relents.

“Can’t trust anyone.”

Can’t trust me either.

“Yes, that’s one reason. Ulterior motives are dangerous. How could I trust someone to watch over her when they’re solely focused on what I could do for their career in the future? I had nearly given up. Then you show up as you did…Are you a spiritual man?”

The words on the page he lands on jump out at him:

…and he who breathes out lies will not escape.

He scoffs, snapping the book shut.

“Hell no.”

Surprisingly, the older man chuckles at this.

“I confess I am and I can’t help but feel your showing up was no coincidence. Perhaps God saw the need to intervene on behalf of my inaction.”

He’s right about one thing: it wasn’t a coincidence. It was a poorly coordinated series of events, as all Mukuro’s plans are. 

A few years earlier he covered for Mukuro when he owed money to a loan shark. There’s always some lender waiting in the shadows for him. Mugen is a good liar, but his bullshitting can only get him so far. Eventually, lies have a way of catching up to you, spilling from your pockets, becoming obstacles to trip over. He didn’t know what the shark knew. Had no idea that Mukuro claimed Mugen had the money. They showed up one day at his old job and proceeded to break his nose and a couple of his ribs searching for it. Mukuro claimed that he couldn’t be held responsible for it. He was strung out of his mind. Too fucked up to know better. His favorite excuse.

Maybe it’s for the best that he’s been kept in the dark about the whole thing. Just this once. He really has no clue what Mukuro’s been planning beyond what happened this afternoon. A plan that he never mentioned would end up with a dead man behind the wheel.

“So where does that leave me?” 

“I ordered background checks on every applicant. Yours was most surprising. Petty theft, a few cases of aggravated assault. You’ve been flirting with jail time for most of your life. Before this afternoon I didn’t consider you a viable applicant. I was wrong. The fact remains: I had half a dozen agents with us today. Not a single one put themselves in danger for her as you did. I’d say that leaves you with the job if you’ll take it.”

No one jumped up to save her because they didn’t know she was in danger. Mugen knew. He just had to be in the right place at the right time with his eyes on the girl.

He sees her in his mind now: wind blowing her ponytail over her shoulder as she stares down the oncoming vehicle. Not an ounce of self-preservation in her body. Had he turned back like he wanted to, she would have gone a worse way than the bastard driving the car. He was at least in one piece when his body was pulled from the wreckage. Her death would have been far more gruesome and worse: live-streamed.

He glances at the governor and for the first time feels that their thoughts are bobbing along on the same wavelength. The reality of how easily she could have ceased to exist. The reason for this meeting isn’t to intimidate him. He hasn’t found him out. It isn’t suspicion or wariness buried in the lines of his face; it’s gratitude. It finally dawns on him that this man really thinks Mugen is a certified hero—heart of gold and all that shit. He’s offering him the job because from his point of view what else can he offer?

Mukuro’s plan actually worked for once. He’s got the job. 

And despite it being everything he needs, something doesn’t sit right with him. 

“So just like that.” he says slowly, knowing that he’s pressing his luck by asking, “Even with the shitty background. You’re gonna let me have it?”

Rarely does he ever get accused of being better than he is. If he does exist, it wasn't God who placed him at that intersection. 

“There is no price I could pay that could be worth what you’ve done for me today. Think of this afternoon as an impromptu interview. You wanted the job. You showed you could handle it. It’s yours.”

He goes through the job description again. What he’ll be doing. That he’ll be considered live-in help. He’ll send a car to pick Mugen up in the morning. A helpful aide comes in and hands him a stack of bills with a bow before announcing that he’s ready to be driven home. He follows him out in a daze to the same government car as before. He briefly shakes hands with the governor. It’s all a blur because he still can’t believe it.

He enters his apartment an hour later, still holding the stack of bills in his hand. 

Mukuro jumps to his feet, knocking a few beer cans down as he does. He mutes the TV. 

“What happened? Did you get—”

Mugen raises a hand to silence him.

“Who was driving the car?”

“You got the job didn’t you?” he says, apparently choosing to ignore the murder in Mugen’s eyes, looking him up and down like he can’t believe his luck, “We’re in! This is incredible–”

“Who was driving the fucking car?”

If he’s going to continue helping with this little operation, he needs more information. No more getting left to grapple in the dark.

“Do you really care? It’s not like it was anyone you know.”

He has to keep himself from punching him in his stupid face. It’s only ever a problem if it affects him directly. 

“I care about not going to prison. You fucking failed to mention this plan involved someone dying,” he spits. “So who was it?”

“Aw shit, will you relax? Shiren said there were people who wanted the inside scoop on Kasumi. He was one of their guys.”

Something prickles at his intuition. Strange that a fucking janitor could forge so many useful connections. He’s never trusted that rat and now even more so. 

“So they don’t care that one of their guys ended is in the morgue?”

Mukuro shrugs.

“For the record, the idiot driving was supposed to swerve out of the way at the last second and speed off. It’s no one's fault but his for not following directions.”

He howls in delight as he plucks the money from Mugen’s hand.

“Look at that! Just enough to pay me back with interest.”

He doesn’t fight him on it; he knows Mukuro too well. He already pocketed a chunk of it before he came inside. He shoves past him so that he can collapse onto the couch, exhaustion finally settling into his weary body. 

“Make sure your sister gets something to eat,” he mutters pointedly. 

“Step-sister.”

He hates when he makes that distinction. It’s unnecessary. They all grew up together. They’ve even been mistaken for brothers before. Something about the darker skin and problems with authority. Neither of them has ever fit in anywhere. Always an extra pair of eyes on them wherever they go. Koza’s mom was more of a parent to the two of them than either of their dads ever was; spending their rent money on pachinko and booze, disappearing for weeks at a time. Until one day neither one came back.

Koza’s mom made sure all three of them were fed. She couldn’t convince him to go to school every day but she gave him a place to crash when his dad landed in jail. Eventually, she stopped inviting him over and it was just kind of expected. After she died he felt a rare sense of responsibility for Koza. Sort of like repayment for years of taking up space in their lives. Mukuro must have felt some responsibility too, but not how he expected. 

His protectiveness over her has always bordered on strange. It’s the sort of thing he’s chosen to keep a close eye on without really knowing what to make of it. All he can do is watch.

“Just make sure you don’t blow it all.” he snaps. “I don’t wanna come back here to see everything trashed. Don’t need anyone snooping around here if we’re gonna pull this off. She’s still in school—they’ll notice if she’s not eating.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Koza enters, her school bag hoisted on her shoulder, held by a few threads stretched to their limit. 

“He’s making sure I don’t let you starve while he’s gone.” Mukuro says and then frowns at her, “where the hell have you been?”

“Late club meeting.” She says absently, her bag slipping down her shoulder and to the ground. 

“So it really worked? You’re her bodyguard now?”

She seems just as surprised as he is. 

“Guess so,” he says.

He turns back to watch the news replay from the afternoon like it’s scenes from someone else's life. It’s more disjointed on TV with the number of crews there. No one gets the whole picture. No one catches the moment he throws himself forward, pushing her out of the way. One catches the sickening jolt to her head–a glimpse of it. There’s one of a woman shrieking as the car slams into the van behind her. Another shows a camera being hoisted into place to catch the smoke rising in black clouds. The cameras continuously cut to the Governor’s face over and over and only briefly onto his daughter when she’s being carried away.

You’d think he was the one who almost got run over.

After a few minutes Mukuro and Koza stop talking about it. He registers the door slamming shut when Mukuro leaves for work. Koza’s door shuts but never locks when it’s just the two of them. He wonders about the dead guy in the car. Why he didn’t slow down. What he was promised in return. If it was worth dying for.

He dreams of being behind the wheel instead. When he sees the girl he floors it; teeth gritting together until he tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Every detail is painfully sharp, overly sharp and saturated until at the last second he realizes it’s not the governor’s daughter–it’s Koza. He tries to swerve but the wheel is locked in place.

His phone rumbles from beneath his face and he jerks awake. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep. He checks the time and curses to himself, spending the next few minutes yelling at Mukuro to wake up, stomping around the place looking for something to pack. He slept nearly 12 hours. Long enough that Mukuro left and came back from the night shift.

He pulls out a duffel bag, swinging his arm trying to get some blood flowing after sleeping on it all night. He glances around the apartment, realizing how little he actually owns. There are only two other rooms. Mukuro’s and Koza’s. Mugen has always slept on the cramped couch. A few pictures of Mukuro and Koza as children hang on the wall, yellowed by time and cigarette smoke. There’s none of them in their teens. 

He puts in a few pairs of jeans, swiping up discarded t-shirts from the ground to throw inside. He tosses in a charging cable that’s been repaired with electrical tape on top before zipping it back up. His phone is in his back pocket along with a worn-down leather wallet. That’s everything he has to his name. 

“He’s got his sights set on running for Prime Minister,” Mukuro says with a yawn, relaying another late-night conversation he had with Shiren at work, “They’re looking for anything to make him look bad. I said, ‘skies the limit’, we got you on the inside now.”

Skies the limit because it’s not his ass being risked.

“You learned all this while scrubbing toilets?” 

“Shiren has been there longer. He said he told them what’s happening. Apparently, they’re seriously impressed that we’ve got someone on the inside now. They’re fine with playing the long con. All you gotta do is get comfy while we wait for more instructions.”

He and Mukuro make a tentative plan to meet in person once a week to exchange information. They agree to keep from texting anything important. For now, he’ll get a feel for Kasumi’s home and routines before they make their next move.

Koza sits next to him wearing the same pajamas she had when he first met her years ago. An oversized threadbare T-shirt, the colorful logo on the front faded to obscurity. She unzips his bag, poking over the contents. He pulls it out of her hands. He hates when she hovers like this. 

“What’s she like?”

“Who?”

“His daughter.”

He thinks of the way she just stood there in the intersection, waiting for it to happen. It’s the exact kind of passive bullshit he hates. The worst thing someone can do is stand there and just take it.

He remembers staring down at her afterward, trying to shake her awake while the world erupted in chaos around them. Too many people hesitating, asking stupid questions. For a second he worried he caused her to hit her head too hard. When she opened her eyes, it wasn’t even like she realized what happened. She just looked at him. Like, really looked at him. Like she was trying to figure him out. He still doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“I dunno. Typical rich bitch. Shouldn’t be hard to handle.”

She adds a pair of socks on top that he forgot about, carefully zipping his bag closed once more. 

“I heard she’s pretty.”

“She’s a kid. Like you.” 

He takes some of the money Kasumi gave him last night, pausing to glance back and make sure Mukuro isn’t looking before passing it to her. 

“Don’t tell him about it.” He murmurs, “and don’t do anything stupid. Once I start gettin’ paid better, I’ll get you more. Don’t be like your brother; be smart with it.”

She nods, tucking it aside as she glances back once.

“You’re not going to fall in love with her, are you?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

He pretends not to notice her relief. He doesn’t know what to make of that either.

“Whether or not this alleged murder attempt on Governor Kasumi’s daughter is connected to the murder of his wife is still unclear at this point. Some experts speculate that the crime is connected to a growing network of dissatisfied–”

She scrolls past this video and lands on another where his opponents are currently arguing that it wasn’t an attempt on her life at all. 

“Some nut job runs a red light and suddenly it’s an assassination attempt? Governor Kasumi’s dramatics are at play once again. It’s outrageous that we’re wasting time on his—“

She’s gotten used to these sorts of arguments over the years. Nothing they say really bothers her anymore. There’s rough callous beneath the shiny mask she wears. She’s too busy scrubbing over footage of the accident on her phone, trying to find a trace of the man who saved her life. 

It’s hard to find anything helpful. It’s mostly repeat videos of her father: kneeling over her, shouting for help, copious close-ups of his panicked expression. It’s intercut with more admiring words on his ability to make decisions under pressure (or inability, depending on which news source is reporting on it). Occasionally she gets a glimpse of tanned arms holding her or the mop of messy hair. 

She hasn’t stopped thinking about the enigmatic young man. She hears his urgent voice, sees his face filled with a puzzling amount of resentment. She wonders if she should try to track him down and thank him. She composes a letter for him on her phone and deletes it.

Does he blame her? Does he regret getting involved? She might if she were him.

Maybe he was just a nice guy in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to do the right thing. He probably recognized her father afterward. A stranger that understands the cost of getting involved with her family.

She turns over in bed, wincing at the throbbing pain still drumming in her head. There’s a gash that required stitches near the top of her head where she hit the curb. It’s a good thing she usually wears her hair up, she’ll be able to hide it. A minor concussion and a few days excused from having to go to school. She’s especially thankful for that. There’s no telling what sort of rumors they’re exchanging about her now. 

You wouldn’t know she’s unpopular in school. Overnight her home began to be overrun with stuffy flowers bearing cards wishing her a speedy recovery but none of them are really for her. They’re from her father's work associates and numerous kiss-asses who want to make a good impression. The only one that graces her nightstand is a single fat sunflower in a jar sent from Shino, the woman her father pays to clean the house once a week. 

Her phone dings in her hands.

Come to my office.

She sighs, hoisting herself out of bed. She never goes into her father's office. Even when it’s just the two of them in the home. She’ll just text him if she needs to say something and she always gives the door a wide berth on her way back to her bedroom. Since they returned from the hospital, her father has locked himself there. He said very little to her on the drive home aside from asking her how she felt. She said she was fine.

As she approaches, muffled voices float out from beneath the door. Her father's rasp is followed by the low tenor of another voice she doesn’t recognize. 

Her father is sitting behind his desk. It’s like the one at his office but more cluttered. Stacks of papers, manilla envelopes and discarded pens. The worn-down high-backed leather chair has always given her the feeling of approaching the principal to be scolded. 

“This is my daughter, Fuu,” he says and then nods behind her. 

She turns, surprised to see the man from before. She bows, hands clasped in her lap, glad for the excuse to look away. She wasn’t expecting to see him again. Not after the way he looked at her. She thought it would have been harder for her father to track him down, that she’d have a few more days to compose her thank-you message. 

She notices a rumpled duffel bag by his feet and glances back at her father.

“I don’t understand,” she says slowly. “Did you invite him to stay here?”

“He was one of the applicants to become your bodyguard.”

She blinks, feeling as though she’s been blindsided by a car for the second time in two days.

He’s nothing like the men who usually follow her father around. Government employees waiting for their next step up the ladder. They’re always perfectly groomed, in boring black suits, with boring expressions. The only thing this man seems to have in common with them is the lack of a smile. His dirty jeans and leather jacket make him look more like a delinquent than a government hired bodyguard. His sharp eyes size her up at the same time and she looks away in alarm. The thrum of something electric in his presence hums, striking her rattled nerves like a chord. 

“Can we talk about this first?”

His fingers cross together patiently.

He expects her to say it in front of him? She casts an uneasy look at the stranger before walking forward and leaning into his desk. She lowers her voice. 

“Dad, we don't even know him.”

“I know that you wouldn’t be standing before me if he hadn't acted.”

“And so he’s suddenly qualified to protect me?”

“Sometimes, people come into our lives for a reason.”

She sighs. For such a politically-minded person, her father is surprisingly superstitious. He would call it spiritual. Her mother used to tease him about it. She never subscribed to his beliefs and he never made her, but when he listens to God, his ears are closed to her. 

“I don’t want anyone to follow me around anymore and who says he’s even able to—”

“This is the decision I’ve made.” he says, his voice bearing a bitter bite of finality, “It’s done. If you step foot outside of this house, he will be there to accompany you.”

She bites her lip, nodding woodenly. She leaves before he can say more. As she leaves she feels the strangers eyes on her. She doesn’t look up to see if it’s still filled with hate.

Mugen turns out to be quiet. Unnervingly so. She leans against her door, listening to the delicate pressure of the wooden floors creak as he walks past her room at night. She’s shut herself there for the past few days.

Her father messages her about him as if any of it would make her feel better about the situation. She doesn’t want to hear his justifications or why she should give this guy a chance. Before the accident, she used to argue that she didn’t need anyone to follow her around. Now she has no leg to stand on. She’s less upset that she was almost roadkill and more angry that it’s set her back to being ten years old again, wondering why she isn’t allowed to stay late on the playground like the other kids.

You were raised better than to judge someone by their appearance.

Guilt ties her stomach in an unpleasant knot. It’s not that she’s judging…okay, she’s judging a little . Along with thinking her father has lost his mind, she’s just confused why someone like that would even want the job to begin with. 

Someone like that. There she goes again, making up her mind before she’s even talked to him. Just like how she made up her mind that he hates her. All these invisible arguments that make her decisions for her, so she never has to act.

The sunflower on her nightstand has begun to droop its heavy head as if it’s disappointed in her too. 

When she feels like she’s thoroughly coached herself enough on how she’ll act, she decides it’s time to face him. She brushes her teeth, and combs her hair, making sure she’s presentable. Casual . She enters the living room and is surprised to see him there, lounging on the couch, flipping through the TV stations.

“Oh. Good morning,” she says, as though she’s just realized he’s there. 

As though she hasn’t spent the last three days agonizing over how to talk to him. 

He grunts in greeting. 

She busies herself with making breakfast, pulling down a loaf of bread, and sliding slices into the toaster. She takes out strawberry jam and butter, peeking over her shoulder at him. 

The awkward silence between them is so much louder than the muffled jingles and laughter that emanate from the TV in brief flashes. He switches past ads for laundry detergent, polite weathermen, and variety shows, never settling on one thing to watch for long.

He’s sprawled across the couch and she’s relieved to find he seems a little less intimidating like this. He doesn’t look dangerous right now—just bored .  He’s dressed casually, wearing the same ratty-looking jeans and a stained, rust-colored T-shirt she first saw him in. She remembers that now: that he was a blur of red before the burst of fireworks. The longer she stares at him, the more interesting details begin to appear: the peek of an earring, a long pale scar on the forearm propping his head up. There’s a hole in one of his socks.

The toaster pops up and she startles, gingerly snatching it.

“So,” she says, adding jam to a piece of toast, “my father tells me you’re a mechanic?”

“Mmhmm.”

More jam. More scraping.

“And before that you–you were a bouncer ? Like at a club?”

“Yep.”

So he’s not entirely unprepared for a job like this. He must know how to handle rowdy crowds of people. He’s just supposed to make sure he follows her in case another car decides to mow her down in the crosswalk. Oh, and as a bonus, he’s a mechanic so maybe he can fix it after?

This stupid thought elicits one of her nervous bouts of laughter. She clears her throat.

“And…and so you decided to apply for this job because…”

Because you’re passionate about helping people? Because you need the money for new socks? 

His channel flipping abruptly stops when he lands on a pair of women wearing skimpy neon pink bikinis giggling together and splashing around in turquoise ocean water. 

“Yeah, hey listen, girly,” he says, sitting up to watch the screen with renewed interest, “I’m kinda busy. Unless you need a walk or somethin’ I’d rather we didn’t talk.”

A walk. 

Like she’s a dog.

Her face goes hot. The temper she’s been so thoroughly coached on suppressing flares dangerously to the surface. She drops the butterknife in her hand into the sink where it clangs loudly. For good measure she stuffs the toast she was making for him into her mouth, chewing furiously before swallowing.

“Lucky for you, I don’t need a walk,” she announces as she stomps past him, “and I don’t need you either.”

Her bedroom door slams behind her. Right back where she started.

So much for trying to get to know him. I’d rather we didn’t talk. She huffs. Maybe it would have been better to have another stuffy boring old man following her around after all. Sorry for trying to be nice. I don’t need a walk you jerk...

A sudden idea takes root.

It’s been a long time since she’s snuck out. The screen in her bedroom window pops out easily. Obviously, if he’s too busy ogling girls on TV he won’t be too concerned with her whereabouts. They’ve spent days avoiding each other; he probably won’t even notice if she’s not there.

She slips on a pair of sandals and grabs her bag before unlatching the window and removing the screen, carefully sliding down the roof toward one of the high concrete fences surrounding her home. She hops down, wincing when her body jolts at the impact. Once she’s out on the street she grins to herself. It’s been a long time since she’s been allowed out by herself. He’s right, she could use a nice walk. Alone.

The neighborhood is quiet. Their street is bordered by tall trees only just beginning to sprout bright green leaves, blossom buds still closed tightly. She makes a grand itinerary in her mind. Filled with shopping, cafes, her favorite bakery, a long walk in the park…

But by the late afternoon, this grand itinerary has petered out into sitting down alone on a park bench, a box of pastries beside her. The excitement at being alone has grown stale. She takes small bites of a rose-flavored macaron she picked up from one of the overpriced bakeries several blocks from her home, flicking off the bits of the gold leaf that flake away from the delicate cookie. She’s always thought how stupid that was; edible gold. How wasteful . If she had a friend with her she’d turn to them and say, “It’s pretty and all, but it tastes like nothing . They could have spent that money on dipping it in more chocolate!” 

She’s not made to be stuffed into a cage under constant surveillance, but she’s not made to be alone either. She’d try to go visit Shino, but she knows she’s probably still working and she’d scold her for going off on her own. There’s no one for her to turn to when she wants to get away. Getting away usually isn’t an option. 

She watches the people around her, wondering what their lives are like. Groups of girls walking home from school, gossiping in hushed voices, their walks in perfect sync with one another. There’s a couple nearby on an obvious first date. All shy smiles and nervous giggles, their hands held unnaturally at their sides as if to tempt the other into holding it.

There’s a guy she sees around school that she daydreams about. Shinsuke. He smiles at her sometimes in the hall and she smiles back. That’s it. She doesn’t really know him, he just looks like the nice sort of boy she should be interested in. Someone kind. Someone who doesn’t care who her father is. She wants to go on walks in the park after buying overpriced pastries. She wants to tell someone all the dumb thoughts in her head and have them listen. They can laugh at her or tell her she’s stupid; it doesn’t matter as long as they listen. 

She wants someone to agonize on whether or not they should hold her hand. 

It trickles into her awareness so slowly that she doesn’t recognize what it is at first. Her back straightens. She swallows the floral lump of cookie in her mouth. Her breathing quickens. Something feels wrong. Off. 

She’s being watched.

She gathers her box, stuffing it inside the shopping bag and begins walking back in the direction of her house, her pace just shy of a half jog. Nobody around her is familiar; they all seem to be going on their way without a second glance at her. After a while she lets herself breathe a soft sigh of relief, her steps slowing, thinking maybe she spends too much time around her catastrophizing father.

These are her thoughts until she feels herself nearly jerked from her feet around a corner and into an alley–the pink pastry bag falls, the cream puffs she saved for Shino roll out into the grit of the street. Her pleasant day out is stripped down to the ugliness of a stranger's rough hand covering her mouth, muffling the surprised squeak she lets out. He’s pressed her against the wall, using his body as leverage. He is enormous over her; trapping her frozen limbs–iron grip holding her still.

Frigid terror races like poison from her heart to her stomach when the ghost of another hand moves suggestively against the hem of her skirt.

It’s brief and terrifying; the need to call for help, to get her closed throat open wide enough to scream, knowing that she’s put herself here, realizing the precariousness of her situation.

The tremor of a chuckle rumbles through his chest to her back.

“Looks like you do need me.”

Recognition instantly burns away the fear, blooming into hot outrage as his hand leaves her mouth.

“W-what are you doing!?” 

“Just showin’ you how easy it is,” Mugen says quietly, still pressed so close against her that she catches the scent of his cologne along with a faint trace of motor oil, “Think of everything I could do to you right now.”

“Uhg, let go of me, you’re disgusting—”

He releases his grasp on her, letting her stumble away from him. 

She blinks away the furious tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She’s so angry that she can’t even see straight, heart still flapping like a trapped bird in her chest. She glares at him, trying to decide what string of obscenities she can use to let him know how despicable she finds him. This is the man who saved me? 

He takes a step toward her as she takes another back, bumping into the brick wall.

“I could take whatever the hell I wanted and you couldn’t do shit about it. That means anyone else could too. Maybe think about that next time you get an itch to leave without sayin’ anything.”

“Oh, so now you’re teaching me a lesson so that you can feel me up? You are such a creep!”

The way his eyes move carelessly over her is somehow even more violating than the way he touched her. His lip curls into a cold sneer.

“You got nothin’ I want.”

He turns and walks away, red T-shirt making him look like the walking red flag she should have known he was. He kicks aside one of her fancy cream puffs. She watches it roll away, fighting the urge to pick it up and lob it at the back of his stupid head. 

“Hurry it up,” he barks back at her, “Or I’ll tell daddy you were bad and snuck out today.”

Her mouth falls open and then snaps shut, her teeth clenched together. Once, she worried that he hated her. She doesn’t care anymore.

The feeling is definitely mutual. 

Chapter Text

He stares down at the tiny square of paper bearing a number so large he can hardly comprehend it. So many zeroes laid out like mouths gaping up at him. Even split three ways he’ll be set for a while. A long while. Enough to waste, yes. But enough to save too. The type of money that could give him a future.

It disappears in Shiren’s clenched fist before being lobbed into the gutter. Heavy rain batters the bus shelter the three have met in. He watches the crumpled piece of paper float away until the metal jaws of the gutter swallow it. 

Mugen knows not to look too eager. Mukuro beside him does not. His eyes are alight with untold possibilities that can realistically be narrowed down to women, drugs, and gambling. He’s simple like that. It would be a lie if Mugen said he didn’t also think about the uncreative ways he could use this sort of money. He wouldn’t blow through all of it though which is the difference between the two. He prides himself on being a little more multifaceted than his friend.

“That’s a hefty promise seeing as how I ain’t done shit yet.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Shiren admonishes with a greasy grin, “You’re living in Kasumi’s home. That’s an impressive feat. You take pictures of the right things tonight and that number might even go up even higher.”

There he goes: upselling like the sleazy salesman he is. 

All he’s been able to glean from the rat about the people he’s reporting to is that they want to tip the scales away from Kasumi and toward another politician. He’s seen campaign posters of the guy around the city. He’s got a creepy, clinical smile plastered across his smooth face. The exact type of shiny plastic guy he’d expect to be involved in blackmail and extortion. 

Mukuro slaps a burner phone into Mugen’s palm as the last bus of the night slows to a halt.

“Oh,” Shiren adds, “One more thing. Make sure you’re getting along with the kid too.”

Mugen sucks in a tense breath. 

“Why the hell would I need to do that?”

“It’ll keep you on Kasumi’s good side.”

“I’m already on his good side. I saved her.”

“You can only milk that for so long. Worry about getting on her good side now.”

Just one problem with that:

The little bitch hates him.

Surprisingly because of this, his opinion of her improves—if only marginally. She’s at least not moping around or trying to get buddy-buddy with him anymore. That ship fucking sailed. He hasn’t forgotten when she tried prying into his personal business before storming off when he didn’t give her what she wanted. Now he’s just subjected to the typical ire of a teenage brat. Anytime he needs to take a piss she magically shows up to claim the bathroom. If she’s within the proximity of a door he can bet soon after it’ll be slammed in his face. 

Something in his surly expression must tip them off that they’re not exactly on friendly terms.

“I don’t care how you do it.”

“Might even be good for you to get your dick wet again.” Mukuro offers with a grin. “She might really like you then.”

Mugen’s eyes narrow. From behind them, the bus driver makes a loud noise of impatience, apparently tired of waiting around for them to get on. 

Mukuro holds up his hands in defense, beginning to walk backward.

“You’ve been moping ever since that one chick dumped your ass. Just sayin’...wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“She didn’t dump my ass,” he mutters as the two get on the bus. He lifts his hood against the rain and heads back to Kasumi’s place. 

At the mention of his ex, his stomach tightens uncomfortably.

She did dump his ass. Worst of all he didn’t even see it coming. She was a one-night thing that turned into two, that turned into weekly that turned into something else completely. She became a regular fixture in his bed. Well, her bed. He’d spend his nights at her apartment, screwing her until they both collapsed and she ordered takeout. She was clean; never had to worry about her pupils being blown wide and empty. 

Sometimes when he finished working for the day he’d take her out for a ride on one of the bikes he fixed. When she found out most of his income came from stealing and reselling them, she didn’t even blink, just shook her head like it was a cute quirk of his. 

The last time they slept together she got up to get dressed. He was just admiring how her ass jiggled when she tugged on her jeans when she turned to tell him she was leaving. He sat there slack-jawed, the high from his orgasm taking a nosedive as she oh-so-fucking casually explained that she decided to get back together with an old boyfriend from high school. They were going to move up north to be near her parents.

“Just like that?” he said, betrayal burning hot like acid in his throat “Just wanted to fuck me one more time before you go?”

God, he hated how pathetic he sounded. Was he a goddamn scorned woman? 

She never even gave any signs that she was sick of him. They never even so much as argued which is a miracle for him. He argues with everyone. The only memories he has of his own parents are of them screaming at each other, chucking whatever garbage they can get their hands on. They never even got close to that. Shit, he thought he at least had that going for him.

He couldn’t stand the pity in her expression when she reached down to pat him on the head.

“Oh, Mugen. You’re a lot of fun…”

He shook her touch from him. 

“But?”

He always admired her straightforwardness. She sees the world exactly as it is. No candy-coating. No bright-side, glass-half-full bullshit. Like him, her eyes don’t glide past the truth to settle on a comfortable lie. She looks at life head-on. Which meant she always saw him for exactly who he was. 

“But we both know you’re not long-term material.” 

Her words pierced him until he felt something inside of himself deflate. Something that wasn’t even that full, to begin with.  

After that, he spent a solid week proving her point, fucking his way through his contact list—sending her pictures of himself in bed with different women. Just to show how easy it was for him to move on. He drank late into the night until he had to peel himself away from unfamiliar mattresses in the morning. Nothing soothed the sting of rejection. It still pisses him off how a piece of ass could make him forget that people aren’t permanent. Everyone eventually lets you down. 

So, long story short: no, getting his dick wet again was the last thing he needed right now. Especially not with Kasumi’s kid. 

He thinks of the girl— how it felt to follow her the day she snuck out. Predator stalking prey. The dark satisfaction in watching how his presence finally sent her head-in-the-clouds awareness plummetting back to earth. He trapped her against a wall, her trembling body caught in a vice, triumph singing in his veins. He was going to teach her a lesson. One that would keep her from wandering out alone into a world filled with people worse than him. She wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

Only she didn’t react how he wanted her to.

When she realized it was him, all the terror he incited was replaced with outrage. He was still a stranger who pulled her into a dark alley, fuck her anger, she should be worried about him—what he could do to her. Instead, he felt her body go pliant against his. That pissed him off even more. 

Despite her obvious annoyance with him since that night, there’s still a trace of curiosity in her brown eyes when she looks at him. One that hovers briefly when she thinks he’s not looking and he hates her for it. 

Once he’s back at the house he shakes off his wet jacket and sets off to Kasumi’s office. The Governor sends him updates daily on where he is and how long he’ll be. He knows he won’t be back until near morning. He pauses in the hall, hearing the hiss of the shower kick on. She always hogs all the hot water so he knows he has time to search now.

He pushes the office door open, slipping inside quietly. A lamp left illuminated in the corner half blocked by a dying houseplant casts sharp shadows across the floor. He snaps a few pictures of the room, unsure of what counts as helpful and what doesn’t. 

He approaches the desk. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses rest on yesterday's newspaper next to a precarious stack of documents that he knows better than to mess with. He opens a laptop and a password screen blinks up at him. Something to dig through another time. He closes it with a soft click.

He opens a few drawers at random, snapping pictures of the contents, but as far as offices go, nothing seems out of the ordinary which worries him. A few pens and highlighters roll around with discarded computer mice and tangles of cords. Nothing nefarious.

The bookshelf behind the desk is loaded with plaques of accomplishments, newspaper clippings of ribbon cuttings and handshakes, and endless stern leather-bound books on law. There are also a few framed photographs. Some black and white ones of long-deceased family members. A traditional wedding ceremony with a younger looking Kasumi, a pretty woman in a white kimono at his side. He picks up a silver framed one with the same woman and little girl playing in the ocean. The little girl is mid-splash, her frozen smile pointed at the picture-taker. His thumb swipes away a thin layer of dust over her small face.

The hiss of the shower stops. He sends the photos he’s taken to the only number programmed into the phone before backing out of the office.

He passes the girl in the hall wearing an oversized white robe, patting a towel against her wet hair. Her steps slow when she sees him, skin flushed, tinted pink from the shower, leaving tiny drops that fall softly to the floor. She’s brought along a waft of something sweet and feminine. It fucks with his head seeing her like this. Mukuro’s fault for running his mouth. Not to mention all her talk about him being a pervert and she’s still got the nerve to walk around half-naked. She’s got so little self-preservation it pisses him off. He imagines pressing her into the wall now, threatening to drag the neck of her robe down, finally stamping out all of that stupid curiosity in her eyes. 

And he’s supposed to get her to trust him? To like him?

He doesn’t worry about making people like him. They either do or they don’t. More often than not they don’t, which is fine; he doesn’t like himself either. Maybe if he hadn’t lashed out at her immediately he wouldn’t be in this weird position. He could have gone along with the big hero thing for her. Probably would have thrown herself at him then. 

A stray drop of water works its way from the end of a tendril of hair stuck to her cheek, trailing down toward her jaw. He watches it, distracted by a crazy desire to swipe it away. As if sensing this, her fingers tighten around the towel in her hands, her voice defensive.

“What is it?”

“Nothin’,” he grumbles, stalking past her to the bathroom. 

He slams the door behind him, happy to put a barrier between them until he’s engulfed in a steamy, sweet-smelling fog that clogs the rest of his thoughts.

Muffled noises from the living room TV drift down the hall to her room. Cursing and yelling followed by a spray of bullets. If Mugen’s not watching trashy reality TV with women rolling around in skimpy bikinis, it’s something with guys hacking each other to death. 

The afternoon slogs by, boredom causing her head to droop. There’s a spread of pens and markers laid out before her along with an open textbook and laptop. She hasn’t typed a single word. The rough draft for her history essay is practically unreadable but all she’s managed to make progress on is a colorful spray of flowers doodled in the corner of her notebook. 

Soon her tutor will be there for her weekly torture session. She was spared in the days immediately following the accident but a curt text message on her phone says he’ll be there on time. Always punctual. He’s currently in law school, apparently top of his class. Her father is paying him an obscene amount of money to discretely check over her homework and keep her grades above water. 

If he wasn’t so quiet and strict she might enjoy his company if only to spend the time staring at him. With his pale skin and shoulder-length hair swept back into a ponytail, she always thought he looked like a model. Her initial infatuation with him withered away almost at once however, the first time he returned her homework back to her, red-lined to hell and back. He never holds back on critiquing her. That’s when she decided he was way too intellectual for her anyway. Not even a supposed assassination attempt would keep that man from showing up for work.

She’s also not thrilled to be stuck with Mugen at the same time. She’s stopped trying to figure out his motive for saving her. Who cares what makes him tick. Sharing a bathroom with him has given her way too much insight into the type of guy he is. Not only is he a jerk, he’s gross too. When she’s not having to kick his dirty underwear from the floor she’s having to clean up the hair he leaves in the sink. He still has a scruffy face, so she tries not to think too hard about where exactly the hair came from without gagging. Their only direct interactions amount to dirty looks and slammed doors.

She hasn’t gone out since that day. She can’t stop replaying the scene in the alley in her head. I could take whatever the hell I wanted and you couldn’t do shit about it. That means anyone else could too. Later when she cooled down, she wondered if maybe, in a small, very deluded way, he was trying to teach her a lesson. 

She remembers the brush of his fingers against her thigh, the feel of him pressed so close. Blood rushes to her cheeks. A really stupid lesson.

The doorbell rings snapping her from her thoughts. She pushes herself from the bed with a sigh and heads down the hall. To her shock, Mugen has made himself useful and answered it himself. She hears his rough voice.

“Who the fuck are you?”

She rounds the corner in time to watch his feet fall from under him as he’s knocked to the ground. She blinks in surprise, shocked by the ruthless efficiency of her usually mild-mannered tutor as he presses a knee into Mugen’s back. 

“Call the police,” He calls out to her calmly, “I’ll take care of him until they arrive.”

Does he think he’s an intruder? He does look a little scruffy with his oil-stained clothes and wild hair.

“Jin, wait—”

“The fuck you will!” Mugen spits, ripping himself from Jin’s grip. He rolls to his side, kicking him back against the front door with a heavy thud. He knocks over one of the mirrors hanging by the entrance in the process, sending glass crashing to the ground. 

“Are you kidding me right now?” she groans. “Can you guys just stop for a second?”

It’s like she’s not even there. Undeterred, Jin unsheathes an umbrella from a stand by the door like it’s a sword. Five minutes earlier she was nodding off over her homework and now it’s like Mugen’s stupid action movie came to life in her living room.

Before Jin can pull back to attack again she launches herself in front of Mugen, arms thrown up in defense.

“He’s not an intruder! He’s my bodyguard! ” 

The umbrella stills, held aloft. He blinks at her before frowning at Mugen behind her.

“It’s kind of a new thing,” she adds apologetically. “Now could you–”

She nods at the umbrella. He lowers it, reaching down to help Mugen to his feet.

“Forgive me. I thought you were breaking and entering.”

Mugen ignores his hand, jumping to his feet. He rounds on her angrily, like she was the one about to bash his brains in with an umbrella.

“What the fuck?”

“This is Jin,” she explains weakly. “My tutor.”

“You didn’t think to tell me you had someone comin’ over?”

So it’s my fault? All the simmering anger with him flares up within her. All his menacing looks and pointed eye rolls have worn on her nerves. Ever since he pulled her into that alley he’s been a nightmare to deal with.

“Sorry I didn’t realize you’d be stupid enough to think that anyone who walks through the door is a threat!”

“Says the bitch who almost got run over. I’m doin’ my damn job.”

“Well, maybe it’s not the job for you if you’re so touchy!”

“That asshole threw hands at me first!”

Another distraction appears—this time in the form of their housekeeper. She opens the door without knocking, looking over the three of them briefly. Shino has an uncanny way of assessing any situation from the get-go. Her eyes trail over the glass, to the umbrella in Jin’s hand to Mugen, and finally to Fuu. Ever unruffled by unusual circumstances, she hops over the shards of glass, sweeping past the two men, and pulls Fuu into a hug so tight she wonders if her ribs will crack. She pulls back, worried eyes sweeping over her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.”

For the first time since that day, she feels an unexpected swell of emotion. Her father hired Shino almost two years ago. During that time she never once felt like someone who just worked for her father. She became like an older sister to her, guarding her secrets like one. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come any sooner.” 

“I’m fine, really,” Fuu says with a smile. “Thank you for the sunflower.”

Shino turns back and marches right up to Mugen. He takes an involuntary step back, looking dumbstruck when she reaches up to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you for saving her.”

Fuu sputters.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

Mugen’s shocked expression melts smoothly into a devious grin.

“You know, if you really wanna thank me, I can think of a few other options...”

Fuu grinds her teeth. No way in hell is she going to let this creep hit on her.

Jin clears his throat. His disapproving expression clearly mirroring her thoughts. Good, she’s got someone on her side for this at least.

Shino goes to the closet near the genkan to hang up her sweater.

“I’d actually appreciate it if you two could clean up the mess you just made.”

She presses a dustpan into his hands and a broom into Jin’s. 

“You don’t mind, right?”

Jin shakes his head and dutifully begins to sweep the mess at once. Mugen begrudgingly kneels down to scoop some of the glass, still eyeing her with interest. 

Mugen lets out a loud, satisfied belch. 

“Always said a good woman should know how to cook.”

Gross. Fuu rolls her eyes. She knows a pointed jab when she hears one. 

Mugen is more talkative than he’s been all week and it annoys the hell out of her. He doesn’t hesitate to help Shino around the house, taking out the trash for her, lingering in the kitchen while she makes dinner. His idea of a pickup line is so stupid. Shino doesn’t fall for them; she just gives him a polite, yet vague smile, trading amused looks with Fuu. 

“I can cook just fine,” she mutters, stabbing a potato with her fork. 

Jin sits across from her, looking supremely uncomfortable. Shino insisted he stay for dinner too. He can never tell her no. No one can. All she has to do is flash a smile and they turn into putty in her hands. Fuu is envious of this trait. No one loses their train of thought when she smiles. 

From the look on her tutor’s face though, he’s not a fan of her new bodyguard being a dinner guest either. He’s been uncharacteristically distracted all afternoon, shooting disapproving glances his way. 

“All I’ve seen you do is use the toaster. Maybe you should be taking notes. Oh, wait—” Mugen pauses, hitting her with a nasty smile, “you’re not good at that either, are you?”

She grinds her teeth. No, she would not have chosen to have Jin come over today. Mugen is the last person she wants knowing how terrible she’s doing in her classes. Not only did he linger around Shino, but he also leaned on a wall nearby to hear Jin’s critique of her essay. 

“At least it’s better than eating instant ramen for every meal,” she says, aggressively cutting her pork cutlet, now thinking she should have let Jin beat him with an umbrella. 

“That’s all I can afford. Sorry I wasn't born with a gold fork in my mouth.”

“Silver spoon,” she corrects, adding under her breath, “Idiot.”

“Anyway,” he says ignoring her, letting out a contented sigh, “it’s just good to be around a woman who knows her way around the kitchen. Maybe you could come by later and—”

“How is Akio doing?” Fuu interjects brightly.

“He’s doing well.” Shino smiles knowingly, “He’s out shopping with my mother for the afternoon.”

Mugen’s face sinks into a pout.

“He a boyfriend or something?”

She stands, gathering the dishes from the table. 

“Akio is my son.”

Fuu expects him to show disgust since he seems like the sort of guy who would balk at the idea of a single mother, but instead, he just goes quiet, which is the only miracle she needs right now.

Jin stops Shino from grabbing his plate, helping her clear the table with a mumbled thanks. Their fingers touch briefly, both their faces turning pink. Fuu has been watching the two of them for a while now, waiting for the day either one of them admits the obvious.

Though she’s never outright admitted it, Shino has alluded to believing he wouldn’t want to get involved with her because of her son—that it’s too complicated to involve him in their lives. He should have someone with less going on. There’s still an enormous, and completely unfair, stigma against single mothers, something Fuu has ranted about for a while now. 

Fuu doesn’t believe Jin would think that way. While he’s strict, he’s not without his quiet moments of kindness. A month earlier Shino mentioned in passing that Akio’s birthday was coming up. The next day he dropped off a wrapped gift to Fuu, telling her to give it to Shino for him. She told him he should do it himself but he shook his head, insisting he didn’t want to be rude. As far as getting him to open up about his feelings, he’s a shut book. Worse. He’s a shut book that’s been chained, padlocked, thrown into a safe, and dumped into the ocean. He’s never made a move on her, but Fuu has kept a careful eye, catching the moments his eyes soften on Shino. 

She grimaces, watching Mugen pick his teeth at the table and decides she’d rather help Shino in the kitchen. 

“Isn’t it nice having company?” Shino asks, sliding dishes into the sink. 

It’s definitely the most crowded the house has been aside from the rare times her father is actually home in time for dinner. Still, it’s not the company she would choose. She tosses a glum look over at the table where the two men seem to be having a competition on who can look like they're having the most miserable time. 

“I wouldn’t call having dinner with my bodyguard and tutor a fun time.” 

Shino gives her a sly grin, bumping against her playfully. 

“You’re more full of life than I’ve seen in a while. It’s almost worth watching him rile you up.”

She’s only full of life because Mugen seems to get sick enjoyment out of annoying her. Every word out of his mouth is sarcastic. The fact that Shino is the first person he’s been nice to doesn’t escape her notice. Something about it pricks at her. She scrubs a plate like she has a personal vendetta.

“Glad you’re entertained by my suffering. I’d personally like to spend a night with people who aren’t getting paid to deal with me.”

Shino snatches the plate from her before she scrubs through the enamel. 

“I know it’s not ideal, but you can let yourself get swept out to sea or you can fight against the current. I would also bet there’s at least one person in this room who loves you regardless of whether or not they’re getting paid.” she sticks her tongue out and adds. “Brat.”

Fuu smiles sheepishly. 

“You’re right. He’s just driving me crazy… always jumping to the worst conclusions. You saw him freak out earlier! It’s not like I’m gonna get run over in my own home.”

At this, Shino’s brows sink. 

“Well, I’m grateful you have someone around so willing to jump to your defense.” She closes her eyes briefly, “When I saw that video—the way that car swerved  for you…I know you like to ignore these things, but someone wanting to hurt you really scares me. I think you should rely on someone like him.”

She does ignore it. It’s easier to handle if she pretends it’s not a big deal, laughs it off. They don’t really want to hurt her, they want to get at her father. She’s just caught in the crossfire. Just like her mom was.

Shino seems to read her mind, reaching a hand for hers, squeezing lightly.

“That wasn’t a small thing he did. He might be a little abrasive now, but give him a chance.”

How are you two getting along? I know she can be a handful at times.

Kasumi’s text comes in at the same time as Shiren’s:

How's it going with the kid?

He hasn’t answered either one. There’s too much pressure. Too much money is riding on him getting her to like him when it comes way more naturally getting her to hate him. 

A timid knock hits his door. He gets up, wrenching it open.

It’s the girl. She jumps a little. 

“I-I’m thirsty,” she announces. 

He suppresses the automatic so what trying to escape his mouth. He’s already spent the whole day prodding at her, the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to be doing. Something about teasing her comes too easily, watching her face go red before she bites back at him. It’s probably been the most fun he’s had in a while. 

“There are some vending machines down the street, by the post office.” she continues nervously, “would you mind walking with me?”

He checks his phone.

“It’s late.”

Her cheeks flush pink and she nods, already backing away.

“Yeah, you’re right. Then maybe another time.”

He sighs, running a hand over his tired face. Might as well take a stab at the nice guy thing.

“It’s fine. Let’s go.”

The night air is cool on his face, the streets quiet. They walk in silence, not as tense as earlier. He glances at her, watching her chew her bottom lip. She doesn’t try to make conversation, which suits him just fine. 

They stop in front of one of the machines. He leans against a light post, stifling a yawn. 

“I bet I can guess which one you like best,” she says, peeking back at him. 

“Doubt it.”

She looks over the options carefully, pulling a few coins from a small pink coin purse, sliding them into the slot. There’s a metallic clanging as she bends to grab the drink, holding it up to show him. 

Canned black coffee, the same brand he always chooses.

“I’m right aren’t I?” she echos his thoughts smugly, giving the can a little shake. “Say I’m right and I’ll let you have it.”

He snatches it from her hands. She gawks at him as he cracks it open and chugs it down, only stopping once it’s empty. 

“How’d you guess?” he asks, wiping the back of his mouth. 

“I cheated,” she admits, “I saw an empty one in your room when you opened the door.”

“Huh.”

She stares up at him expectantly and he blinks. 

“You gonna get somethin’ or what?”

“Right!” She says, turning back, hitting a button at random until a peach tea tumbles out. 

They start to make their way back when she stops abruptly and he almost runs into her.

“I know you’re just doing your job, but having a bodyguard.” Her face twists unpleasantly around the word, “It’s just so…archaic, but I know it’s not your fault so…I’m sorry.”

“What the hell brought that on?”

“I don’t know, I just think I need to stop being so…” she gestures vaguely. “You know what I mean?”

He gives her a blank look. He has no clue what this chick’s issue is. She drags him out at night for a drink she doesn’t even seem to want and now she’s apologizing?

She sighs.

“It’s just…Sometimes you have to choose when to fight the tides or go along with them, right? And lately, I’ve let myself go along with them for too long and I got swept out further than I meant to. So now I’m fighting against the current like my life depends on it and my arms are tired. And you! You’re like, a big wave I wasn’t expecting.”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out in a gust of laughter.

“I’m not making any sense, am I? I’m just sorry for being a brat. I want to start over, if we can.”

She’s smiling at him. It’s timid and shy and it’s really weird how such a small thing transforms her from a snobby brat to…he’s not sure what. Being on the receiving end of her lips curved upward, her expression soft—a trickle of warmth creeps into his chest. He forgets he’s supposed to hate her for it. Instead, he hastily latches on to the idea that this is good. This is a step closer to getting her to trust him. That’s what his boss wants. Both of his bosses; the governor and the people trying to ruin the governor’s life.

This girl was almost murdered in broad daylight. She’s got every reason to walk around in fear, to be as mean as she fucking wants. He’s working for people she should be scared of. 

He’s not just a wave in her life; he’s a tsunami.

“I got it. Big mean wave fuckin’ up your life.” He coughs, jerking his head toward her house. “It’s fine. Come on your majesty.”

He can feel her beaming smile on the side of his face like a spotlight as they set off. 

“I don’t mind you calling me that.”

“Yeah, don’t get used to it.”

Chapter Text

Fuu stands at the kitchen counter making her breakfast. She pokes at the sunny yolk in the center of her rice, watching the yellow bleed through before dumping soy sauce over the top—all while steadfastly ignoring the broad expanse of bare skin standing beside her. It’s an exercise in self-control because all she wants to do is gawk at him. 

Mugen is obviously not used to being up this early. She had to yell to wake him up, lobbing pillows at the lump of blankets until he croaked out that he was awake. When he hobbled into the kitchen a few minutes later wearing nothing but baggy sweatpants, she almost choked on her juice. 

If her father weren’t so militaristic about her schooling, she wouldn’t be awake right now either. She’s been deemed healthy enough to return post-accident. If she thought he’d listen, she’d try to reason that she only has a few weeks left before she graduates, why go back at all? Can’t he pull a few strings so she never has to see those people again? Of course, he would never allow that. He pulled plenty of strings getting her into the school. Not just any school either, but a prestigious one full of the children of parents who also occupy powerful positions in the government—as if that would give them anything in common. It only put her in a pen with people who had built-in excuses to hate her.  

So she doesn’t blame Mugen’s reluctance to be up. They share that. 

“You’re not just gonna wait around outside all day, right?”

“What, like your dog?” he snorts, “I had a life before you. I got plenty to do.”

Just what were his days filled with before he was thrown into the chaos of her life? Late at night, she’ll hear the creaking of him walking past her door followed by the sound of his rough voice floating in through her cracked window. She can never catch exactly what he’s saying. He’s mellowed out toward her considerably since their walk a few nights ago and even with his natural tendency to annoy her, she’s still curious about him. He doesn’t talk about himself. Doesn’t mention friends or family, not even a girlfriend. 

She looks away when he catches her staring. 

“You’re a mechanic right?” she asks, trying to smooth over the moment, “Do you still work on cars?”

He opens the fridge, placing a barrier between them as he rummages around.

“Motorcycles.”

She takes a bite of her rice, chewing thoughtfully. Even without knowing much about him, she decides that it fits him—and not just because he doesn’t own any clothes that aren’t oil-stained. It makes him seem more human. She likes the idea that he fixes broken things. Broken dangerous things. 

“I’ve never been on one before, is it scary?”

“Maybe for someone like you.”

She’s distracted, watching the lean muscles of his back ripple beneath satiny, tanned skin. It takes her half a second to realize what he’s said.

“Wait, someone like me?” 

“Soft.” he clarifies, taking a long swig right from the orange juice bottle. She grimaces.

“Uhg, you’re not the only one who drinks that you know—also what do you mean by soft?”

What’s wrong with being soft? She wonders, taking another aggressive bite of her food. Lots of nice things are soft. Bunnies, blankets, mochi. 

He shrugs, twisting the cap to take another drink. She snatches the bottle from him and shoves it back inside the fridge, making a mental note to ask Shino to replace it. Who knows where his mouth has been. The idea is nauseating. 

“Let me guess, you’re hard?”

He smirks.

“Not at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s really nice, pervert.” 

“I’m not the one askin’ a guy if he’s hard,” he says leaning toward her, his face split into a wicked grin, “But since we're on the subject, trust me, you wouldn’t need to ask; you’d know.”

He has no problem stepping into her personal space, radiating heat from all that exposed, bare skin. She tells herself she’s only flustered by it because most of the men she’s around wear uniforms and suits. Starchy, clean, buttoned-to-the-neck sort of clothes with zero sex appeal. That’s the only reason it makes her uncomfortable.

“But I’ve got nothing you want,” she says carefully, “so fortunately I’ll never be subjected to that sight.”   

He leans back.

“Yep. Soft little high schoolers who need saving don’t do it for me. Your housekeeper though she’s got me thinkin’ bein’ a deadbeat dad wouldn’t be so ba–I’m kidding!”

His arms go up, dodging her backpack as she swings it at him.

“Hurry up and walk me to school,” she huffs. It’s a gift how effortlessly he finds the fastest way to annoy her. “And put on a shirt,” she adds, hoping her look of disdain deflates his ego some. 

“The way you were ogling me, thought I was doin’ you a favor.” 

She gapes at him as he steals her abandoned bowl of rice, shoveling in a triumphant bite as he walks away with it. 

Maybe it’s because he’s spent the last few weeks in a rich guy's house that’s taken care of by someone else, but the disarray of his apartment is more apparent than ever before. He was never great about keeping it up, but this…

The place is a wreck. 

When he unlocks the door, the smell of unwashed dishes and old food is a punch to his nostrils. Several trash bags lay by the cluttered genkan with fruit flies buzzing lazily.

Koza’s head pops up from underneath the old quilted blanket he used to use on the couch. She blinks at him sleepily.

“Mugen?”

“Why aren’t you in your bed?”

She bites her lip, glancing over at the door to her room. 

He sighs, pushing his way past the bags of garbage to get to her door. He opens it. A few of Mukuro’s stupid friends are passed out on the floor of her bedroom. Typical of him. When he lived here he wouldn’t let that shit slide. Now that he’s out of the way, Mukuro’s letting the place go to hell. 

He slams it, opens the door right next to it, and hits Mukuro’s foot. Apparently, he got too fucked up the night before to make it to his bed and passed out on the floor. That explains why he never answered his texts. His body is positioned neatly on his side, a hand tucked under his cheek. Recovery position.

“He’s okay.” Koza says from behind him, “I just thought I’d be safe. Just in case, you know.”

He does. They both know, from experience, how to position someone like that. After waking up and finding out your mom choked to death in her sleep, everything you could have done to prevent it becomes imprinted permanently upon your brain. 

He lets the door shut, turning away with a sigh. He’s been back 20 minutes but it feels like hours. This place sucks the life from him. Everywhere he looks is a reminder of why he’s doing this stupid job. He’ll get enough money to get the fuck out of here. 

He opens the fridge, surveying the contents with a grim expression. An expired bottle of milk. Empty egg carton. A bottle of juice with its own thriving ecosystem growing inside. The contrast between the girl’s fridge and theirs is depressing. The girl’s fridge is like a supermarket; complete with their own little servant who restocks it for them. His fingers clench on the door handle. It pisses him off because he told Mukuro not to let shit like this happen. 

“You eat?” he asks, turning back to her.

“I had lunch at school.”

Yesterday.

He feels like going into Mukuro’s room and kicking him flat on his back. Let him choke on his own vomit, the bastard deserves it. 

“Get dressed.” he says flatly, “we’re leavin’ in 5 minutes.”

She shuffles awkwardly. 

“But those guys…”

He strides across the kitchen, back into her bedroom, grabbing the wasted strangers by their collars, and dragging them to their feet. He makes a few colorful threats that finally have them stumbling out the front door.

Koza slips by him with a mumbled thanks, shutting the door softly. He opens Mukuro’s door next, squinting around the room until he spots it. He steps over him to grab his wallet, pulling a few bills from it before tossing it back to the ground. If I’m feeding his sister, it’ll be on his goddamn dime. 

Since when did he become a fucking caretaker? He hates having to be the one responsible for other people. At least with Kasumi’s girl, he’s getting paid. He has to deal with Mukuro’s bullshit for free. Keeping him in line. Keeping his sister fed. If the three weren’t bound by something darker and more oppressive than blood, he would have left long ago. 

It takes him longer than he anticipated to get ready to leave. He takes out all the garbage, ignoring some of the neighbors giving him dirty looks. He didn’t check to see if it was sorted property and today he really doesn’t give a shit. Before he left, he opened the cracked back window to let some air in. 

“Why didn’t you go to school?” 

She trails a few steps behind him. They left the apartment and headed to the convenience store nearby to restock the fridge before he leaves again. This isn’t how he wanted his day to go. He only came back to the apartment to check on the last bike he worked on, which he only fleetingly saw. It’s still there, unclaimed which means it’s as good as his. 

“They were loud. I couldn’t sleep.”

She’s not in school. She’s not eating regularly. All it takes is one phone call to find out she’s not being taken care of and the wrong sort of people will come sniffing around their business. None of them can afford that. 

“You need to tell him to quit fuckin’ around,” he says, grabbing junk food at random from the shelves to dump into the handbasket she holds, “He’s gonna get us all in trouble.”

“Shiren came by to check on me,” she mumbles.

“Shouldn’t trust him either.” 

She’s like a shadow behind him, tugging at the frayed sleeves of her oversized hoodie. One of his old ones, he notices. He can’t help but compare her to Kasumi’s kid. They’re similar ages. But where the girl always has questions bubbling out of her mouth—always finding an excuse to talk, Koza is quiet. Maybe it’s because she knows everything about him already. There’s nothing new to say between them. 

She steps over an oily rainbow-hued puddle to get to the sidewalk, glancing back at him.

“How much longer are you going to stay there?” 

“Till they get the dirt they need,” he mutters darkly. However long that takes. 

“I miss the way things used to be,” she says with a wistful sigh, squeezing against a chain-link fence as a truck rumbles by. “Do you remember? At the ocean?”

Before both his and Mukuro’s father dragged them all to the city, they lived in a small seaside town. They were poor there too but it was nicer somehow; being broke in paradise. He spent his days on his uncle's boat, swimming, and fishing. He has blurry memories of him and Mukuro jumping off of rocky cliffs into choppy waves while Koza sat on the beach in the background, sand running through her fingers. 

They always searched for higher bluffs to dive from, trying to see which of them would chicken out first. They were evenly matched until they found one cliff that neither of them wanted to attempt. They leaned over the edge, watching angry, white-tipped waves pummel the rocks below into thin shards. Defeat made his stomach sick and his muscles tingle in un-used anticipation. On the day he found out they were moving to Tokyo, he finally did it. He didn’t even psyche himself up for it either; he just climbed that hill and jumped. He remembers the terrifying sensation of plummeting through the air into the churning water, landing centimeters from the razor-sharp rocks. When he broke the surface, it was with a smile on his face. No one saw him do it, and Mukuro flat out didn’t believe him afterward, but none of that mattered; He knew he could do it. 

But the past is dead. There are no cliffs he can throw himself from to feel something. His adrenaline rushes come from pushing 90 on rain-slicked streets and getting into fights with big guys who think they’re tough—though he’s getting to do that a little less now. The last time he felt any semblance of excitement was when he threw himself into traffic to save a politician's daughter. The thrill was short-lived. He hears her head crack against the pavement in his mind. Other people are so breakable. Especially her.

Soft.

The thought jars him back to reality.

Anyway; the past is dead and he’s glad it is. 

“We can’t go back,” he says, checking his phone for the time. He needs to walk the girl home from school soon. Exchanging one helpless girl for another. He hands over the grocery bags to Koza at the steps leading to the apartment. 

“Put your foot down with him.” he reminds her, “don’t let him get away with this shit again.”

He gives her more money, ignoring the sorry’s peppered across her vocabulary. She’s always sorry. 

Defeat is woven into her slumped shoulders as she nods her head; weighed down by more than just grocery bags. He doesn’t have any better advice. It feels like the sort of thing you have to figure out on your own anyway. Can’t always have someone there picking up the pieces for you. Especially not him. If she had a little more fight in her, maybe this wouldn’t keep happening.

“Do you promise to come back?”

“It’s not like I have a choice.

As much as she dreaded coming back to school, she does find it easier to deal with it head-on. It’s nothing she didn’t expect; plenty of whispers about how the incident changed her. Someone spread a rumor she’d return with severe brain damage and a cane, which seems to be the worst of it. Her teachers watch her closely and she does her best to look like nothing remarkable happened. She’s glad she asked Mugen to hang back so she could go in alone. No doubt seeing him would cause a huge disturbance. Throughout the day the topic of her accident eventually falls off. She didn’t return hobbling on crutches or surrounded by 30 new bodyguards so people got bored and moved on. 

At lunch she sits outside by herself, letting the spring sun warm her skin while she scarfs down the bread she bought for lunch. 

She looks over a sheet of paper bearing a list of colleges and preparatory schools. She was supposed to make a decision on what she wants to do after graduation months ago, but she’s put it off. The idea of a gap year stresses her out, but not as much as trying to decide which college to attend. Not to mention the amount of studying she’ll need to do to prepare for the entrance exams. It’ll mean more long evenings spent with Jin sighing painfully when she gets something he thinks is easy wrong. More reading boring books that make her eyes feel like they’re going to shrivel up and fall out of her head.

“Kasumi-san!”

She glances up, letting the paper flutter from her hand in surprise.

Shinsuke makes a grab for it and grins when he snatches it from the air.

“Got it!”

Unlike most of their classmates, he’s not in this school because of a rich or powerful family member; he’s there on scholarship. He’s always been kind to her, partnering with her during school festivals when everyone else keeps her at a distance. There’s a quiet, boyish quality to him that she’s always liked. He never hesitates to smile at her, even if it’s not always in his best interest.

He looks over the page that flew from her hands before handing it back.

“Thinking about the future?”

She takes it with a small nod, tucking it back inside her bag.

“I guess. It’s a little overwhelming actually. I can never make up my mind. I don’t even know what I want to have for dinner!” That’s not true; she always has an idea of what she wants to eat but she can’t let him know that. 

“Well, I don’t know if you’d be interested, but the family restaurant I work at is hiring right now,” he says, scratching the back of his head, “if you’re looking for something different to do after graduation. It’s probably a stupid suggestion but—”

“No! That sounds really nice actually!”

Her dad won’t be thrilled, but at least she’ll be doing something productive. Maybe it’s not what he has in mind for her, but she can always go to college later. Tokyo Governor Kasumi’s daughter gets a part-time job…in order to appeal to blue-collar workers? He can have his press team spin it however they want. 

“Then, can I have your number?” he asks and then quickly adds, “Just to send you some information about it, I mean! I won’t text you unless it’s work-related, I promise.”

“Oh, yeah of course!” she says brightly, tucking her hair behind her ear as they dig their phones out. She smiles at him. “And I don’t mind if you text me for other stuff.”

His face goes red and she suppresses another giddy smile. He’s so cute. She’s never had any effect on guys before. She brings too much baggage with her. Maybe by working together, they’ll grow closer…Her imagination goes into overdrive. One step at a time. 

“See you then, Kasumi-san,” 

“You—you can call me Fuu, you know!” she blurts out.

He smiles again, his face still pink when he waves at her.

The rest of the day passes easily. She doesn’t even care when she answers a question wrong out loud or when she trips and spills her bag in the hall. She just sits and laughs at herself, ignoring the looks she receives. She’s busy imagining having a job, a life outside of her home, outside of this school. It sounds so spectacularly normal.

How her new bodyguard will fit into that scenario is something she can worry about later. She pictures him waiting outside the restaurant, his scowling face scaring away customers. She snorts at the thought. 

When she opens her locker to pull her shoes out, she notices a folded piece of paper tucked inside one of them. As she unfolds it, the dreamy smile she’s worn all afternoon falls flat from her face.

It’s a photo of her mother. One of the careless ones snapped after she was murdered. Blank eyes. One cheek pressed against the gritty sidewalk. She should probably be used to seeing it by now. She’s seen it dozens of times. Couldn’t avoid it even if she tried. She fixates on the trickle of red at the corner of her mother’s lips. Her lungs feel like they’ve deflated; she sucks in quick, silent gasps, biting the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. 

A group of boys approaches her. One of them, Kohei, gives her a sly smile. He’s always been especially vindictive toward her. Probably because she refuses to kiss his ass. His father is running against hers. He’s made it his personal mission to make her time at school hell. She doesn’t doubt that he was the one who spread the rumor about her being brain-damaged. 

Maybe he does it to gain favor with an absent father. Maybe his dad spends all of his time in his office or on business trips and he doesn’t notice him. He doesn’t care that his grades are good or that he’s a soccer captain. Maybe he thinks if he hates the right people, he’ll earn his father’s love back.

Her shoes fall from her hands when he shoves past her. She watches the picture of her mother flutter to the ground, his friends laughing along with him as he makes a point to grind it with his heel.

Just like her, he probably has a dozen justifications for being cruel.

She picks up the photo and follows after him.

Mugen watches from a distance, lying beneath a tree several yards from the entrance. It’s warmer here, away from his old apartment. Away from Koza’s haunted eyes. He smokes by himself, letting a warm breeze ruffle his hair. He’ll make better use of his time tomorrow. 

The bell rings in the distance and students begin spilling from the entrance in their neat uniforms. They trickle out in groups, laughing and unlocking bikes to ride home together. He waits for a long while for her to appear. He imagines she’s a social butterfly, surrounded by a gaggle of girls who spend too long talking after school. 

He’s surprised when he finally spots her leaving.

She’s alone and she’s pissed. Even from a distance, he sees it in her stance, her fists are white and tense at her side as she walks out to a group of boys standing outside the entrance. She grabs one by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around. So she doesn’t save all her fire just for him. He smirks, just settling back to see how this little scenario will play out. Probably rejected her or something.

But then the boy grabs her wrist, wrenching her toward himself. Mugen is on his feet in an instant, striding across the field, discarding his cigarette as he goes. Turns out he doesn’t need Shiren and Mukuro to manufacture scenarios in order for him to be a hero, she gets in enough trouble on her own. 

It’s a shame there are no cameras to catch it this time. He stops dead in his tracks, mouth falling open as one of her little white fists sails right into the kid's nose, sending him to the ground.

It’s like she snaps back into her body like a rubber band. Her fist stings and her limbs feel oddly loose like the blood is rushing from them back to her brain. She doesn’t even remember following him. Her feet moved without thought. She only remembers seeing red and then the triumph of watching him fall. 

None of his friends seem to know what to do. None of them help him to his feet. He touches his face, pulling back trembling fingers wet with blood. It falls in fat red splotches onto his white shirt.

“You fucking bitch,” he spits, glaring up at her, outrage coloring his face brick red, “You better believe the next car isn’t going to miss—”

“Thought I heard a little commotion over here.”

She whips her head to the side, the lazy drawl grabbing her attention at once. Kohei starts to get to his feet, but Mugen kicks him back down effortlessly, pressing a shoe into his sternum. His friends are frozen on the sidelines, wide-eyed and pale.

“Kinda’ sounded like a threat to me.” he continues conversationally, leaning over him, “You’re not threatening my girl, are you?”

Her anxiety over Mugen stomping this idiot into the sidewalk like a cockroach, skitters from her mind. The phrase my girl flutters delicately on the inside of her chest.

Kohei shakes his head emphatically.

“No! No-I was kidding! It was a joke!”

“A joke huh?” he leans down closer, “How hard do you think I’d have to press down before we’d hear your ribs start to crack?”

He squirms as Mugen’s shoe grinds into his chest, smearing dirt and blood into his crisp uniform. He really could crush him like a bug if he wanted to. Does she want him to? Her voice is weak.

“Mugen, wait—”

As soon as his name leaves her lips he pulls back with a grin.

“I’m kiddin’! See, I like a good joke too.”

Kohei coughs and climbs unsteady to his feet, clutching at his aching chest before he’s jerked forward by the collar of his shirt.

“Next time you got one for her,” Mugen snarls in his face, “you come tell it to me first.”

He nods, already backing away as he’s released. He scrambles for his bag, he and his friends throw another terrified look at the two before sprinting off together, the sound of their shoes slapping pavement echoing in the distance.

She can’t remember the last time anyone defended her like that. If anyone ever has. The best she could hope for was a sympathetic look. The apologetic kind that says, I know this isn’t fair but I don’t care enough to get involved. Tears unexpectedly sting her eyes and her shoulders sag in relief. She shouldn’t get so emotional over it—it’s his job. That’s the kind of defense money buys, but he looked so terrifyingly, genuinely angry on her behalf, that she can’t help but feel moved. 

“You…you didn’t have to do all that.”

He gives a careless shrug, squinting at Kohei running away in the distance.

“What a pussy. Thought since you wanna look normal I shouldn’t mention the bodyguard thing.”

“That’s a good idea,” she agrees weakly.

It’s probably best for everyone to believe she has a big mean boyfriend. Kohei will definitely spread the word tomorrow that she’s dating someone psychotic. Good. Maybe that will make her remaining weeks in school more bearable. She thinks fleetingly of Shinsuke and wonders how he’ll react. She’ll explain it to him later; he’ll understand. That gives her a little comfort. Mugen’s voice cuts through her thoughts.

“So don’t get all excited 'cause I called you my girl.”

“I would never!” she says vehemently, swiping her running eyes with the heel of her hand, “I should warn you not to get any ideas.”

He scoffs.  

“Not fuckin’ likely.”'

Unexpectedly, he takes a hold of her hand and she winces. He holds it at eye level, his grasp softening as his fingers probe hers. 

“You closed your fingers around your thumb, didn’t you?”

He presses a tender spot near the knuckle of her thumb and she winces again, nodding. He shakes his head.

“Stupid.”

She pulls her hand from his, cradling it against her thumping chest.

“Sorry, I’m not as well-versed in hand-to-hand combat as you. I’m in high school.”

“Knowin’ how to defend yourself is a basic life skill. Especially for a chick.”

He looks her over, sharp eyes snapping from her dirty socks to her tear-stained face. 

“Especially you.” he murmurs, “What the hell did he do to piss you off so bad?”

The photo of her mother burns from inside her pocket. She shakes her head.

“Nothing.”

“When a woman says nothing it’s always bullshit,” 

By the way his expression darkens, he must think it’s something worse than it is. Is there anything worse than someone throwing a picture of your dead mom in your face with the sole purpose of hurting you? She doesn’t know, but she does know he’s probably thinking it’s something else. 

“That guy has always been a jerk to me,” she explains, thinking about how good it felt to watch him receive even a small taste of what he’s given her, “I just…I had to. I couldn’t let him get away with it anymore.”

It’s quiet between them for a few seconds, just the sound of traffic in the distance, and wind through the trees. Whatever he thinks of her reasoning, he doesn’t say. 

Unexpectedly, he turns and leaves her standing there. She watches him disappear into the entrance of the school. She wonders if she should follow him, gnawing her bottom lip until he reappears a few seconds later holding her shoes in his hand. She blinks in surprise. He drops them before her, kicking one that falls over right side up so that she can slide them on.

She slips a foot inside, briefly balancing on one leg and swaying. He reaches out a hand to steady her at the same time she instinctively reaches for him. He’s solid; grounded. Their eyes meet for a beat and she’s reminded again that he called her my girl. In a weird way, for just a moment, she was.

“Um, thank you.” 

He drops his hand from hers. 

“Just doin’ my job.”

“I know.”

She lets the light from the setting sun obscure his form as he leads the way back home, wondering if someday she’ll ever feel that cherished without money crossing hands.

Chapter Text

She gets out of bed and shuffles down the hall. A sliver of light spills out from her father's office along with a hacking cough—one that roused her from sleep minutes before.

She peers in just as he's taken by another bout of painful-sounding coughs. He presses a trembling handkerchief to his mouth, waving his other hand to ward off his concerned guest who has risen from his seat to help him. Easing the door open more, she sees that it's Jin. He hovers a moment before sitting back down.

"Are you alright?"

At the sound of her voice, they both turn.

This close to election time she sees her father everywhere—on news feeds, televised press conferences, and interviews, but never home. The only evidence that he's been there comes in the form of cold coffee grounds in the garbage and the absence of an old silver travel mug in the cabinet. She's used to living with ghosts, but a creeping fear twists its way up her spine seeing him like this. There's a stark difference between the self-assured man on television and the one who now grips the edge of his desk with white-knuckled fingers.

"You're working too much."

Her gentle accusation causes his shoulders to slump as if granting permission to think the same thing.

"It has been a long day."

On cue, Jin shuffles a stack of paper to slide into his bag and begins packing away a laptop. He adjusts his glasses, glancing her way once before looking away.

"I was just about to leave," he murmurs.

More like looking for an excuse to. She notices with some surprise that he seems almost awkward as he gathers his things. He nods at her father and then passes by her without another word.

Her father's face sinks into something like disappointment. He nods to the door.

"You should walk him out."

"I think he knows the way by now," she says lightly, approaching him to get a better look at his tired features.

He clears his throat.

"He's been helping me with some legal issues," he offers and adds, "He's going to be successful in the future. I can tell. He's smart."

Oh, she's well aware of how smart he is, if only in relation to how stupid he makes her feel. She's constantly testing the limits of his patience. Especially when during her lessons he looks close to snapping a pencil in half when he realizes she's been daydreaming instead of listening to him.

"Do you enjoy your time with him?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. His phrasing is…weird. Enjoy tutoring? A doubtful smile tugs at her lips.

"I don't think that's something people usually enjoy."

"Ah. Well." He shuffles the rest of his paperwork awkwardly, "In time maybe you two could find something else to bond over. He's fond of you."

What Jin is fond of is watching Shino make dinner. Or do dishes. Or talk. Or do anything. It's a little sad actually, to see someone so wholly devoted to staring longingly at another person without ever making a move. The romance dramas she watches have nothing on the unrequited glances that those two share and like a drama, neither of them seems willing to take a step toward a relationship. Maybe by the eleventh episode. If her father spent more than 20 minutes at a time at home, he'd be able to see in an instant the reason Jin deals with this job has nothing to do with her.

"I was actually hoping to talk to you about something," she says, steering the conversation away from her lovesick tutor, "A classmate told me the restaurant they work at is hiring. I thought after I graduate I could try working there."

He pulls off his glasses, running a hand down his weary face.

"A job?"

"Yeah! I think um…it could be a really good experience."

"I don't like the idea of you being somewhere so open. It could be dangerous."

"At a restaurant?" She laughs, twisting her fingers together, "No way! Besides…Mugen will be there."

She adds this last bit hesitantly.

"So, you trust him now?"

She shifts from one foot to the other, fingers still tangled in one another. She does. At least, she thinks she does. There are moments, sparsely strewn across their short time together when she feels like they're getting closer. Or rather, that it would be easy to grow closer. The problem is that her grumpy bodyguard seems hesitant to share anything with her. It's like a switch flips and he becomes standoffish. Then again, what kind of relationship should you have with a bodyguard? Her father doesn't seem to keep close relationships with any of the people who surround him at his press conferences or wait outside of his office to cart him away to the next interview. For him, it's always a strict employee-employer type deal.

Mugen would probably like it better if she treated him like that, but that's not who she is. She's been spoiled by Shino's friendship and sometimes she can even trick a smile out of Jin. What's the point in having someone close without being at least a little friendly?

"A few years ago, I considered remarrying," he admits after a moment of her silence. "someone with older children."

"You were going to remarry?"

Her voice goes up an octave. It's silly, but she feels betrayed on behalf of her mother. Even considering it feels wrong.

"I realized it would be for the wrong reasons," he says, accurately surmising her feelings, "I just thought if I could find someone to watch over you, I would feel better about…well. I know I'm not home enough."

So, is that what he thinks Mugen is supposed to be—a surrogate sibling? The idea of him being brotherly rubs her the wrong way, even if he's definitely capable of being annoying like one. You can't buy a family, no matter how hard he seems to be trying.

"You don't have to jump through all these hoops for me," she insists. "I'm not helpless."

But standing in the middle of his office like this is a familiar sort of helplessness. This is where he would coach her on how to behave in front of cameras; keep her grief in check and wipe her face clear of emotion. She'd stare down at her socks; the ones her mother bought for her just before she died. They were colorful and covered with Sanrio characters. She wore them for longer than she should have. Until they grew threadbare from repeated washes and a toe peeked out of one of pochacco's faded eyes. She feels the same. Like her essence is getting scrubbed and rinsed away. She has to exist in a diluted form. He must believe if he keeps her neutral, she'll be overlooked.

"I'll help pass laws to make it harder for these sorts of things to happen again. I'll make things right."

What law could he pass to bring her mother back? To a grieving child, those promises were meaningless.

It's his guilt making him like this. He knows that when someone's eyes light up in recognition of her name—it's him they think of. Whether it's some policy he endorsed that screwed over their father's failing business or a law he campaigned against that would have guaranteed better housing for a sick relative—she bears the brunt of their anger while being afforded none of her own. Because she's reachable. Just like her mother was; she gets it. She wants to live her life regardless.

"I can't live in hiding forever," she pleads softly, "please understand that."

He seems to be thinking her words over. Her eyes stray to the corner of his desk where the same heavy, ancient bible has lain for as long as she can remember—sometimes flipped open or bookmarked. She can usually gauge his state of mind based on which passages he has it turned to. Gilded edges catch the light from his desk lamp as she tilts her head to read upside down: Ephesians 5:25 Husbands, love your wives…

"Trust is important."

She looks back at him as he pulls the heavy tome toward himself and shuts it. He takes a deep breath and continues.

"I'll discuss it with Mugen soon."

Outside of the governor's home, Mugen leans against the concrete fence flicking a lighter absentmindedly, sending brief flashes of sparks into the dark in quick succession. To his ear he holds his burner phone, not-so-dutifully prepared to give his weekly check-in. Mukuro's voice cuts off at the third ring.

"So, you learn anything new?"

What is he supposed to be learning? He could tell them when the girl goes to school and comes home, but anyone could find that out. He has a trove of other useless information you can only get by living with someone. Like what breakfast she prefers (tamago kake gohan—which she never shares). She watches cheesy dramas nightly. The sleeves of her sweaters are always damp from holding them up to her streaming eyes (he still doesn't get how women cry over that corny-sounding bullshit). She's clumsy, constantly running into the corner of a table or something because her head's jammed in the clouds. Beneath her skirt, her pale legs are frequently kissed by a smattering of mauve-colored bruises. She's weird about it too. When he stubs his toe on something he's likely to try and murder the offending piece of furniture; she sits there with tears in her eyes and laughs, like it's just a funny little accident.

But as far as the man he's there for…nothing.

He barely sees him. Once a week there's an envelope with his name on it laying on the kitchen table containing his payment. They exchange brief messages about his daughter's well-being. Thankfully the Governor is fine with short answers. Yeah. She's fine. No sign of any rogue vehicle swerving to hit her because Shiren's boss hasn't ordered another one. She's never been safer.

There was the asshole that messed with her after school. He remembers this with a sharp flare of annoyance. He's primed to hate any brat that goes to that sort of snooty rich school, but especially him. Because even after she knocked him on his ass, he still had the audacity to talk shit.

"You better believe the next car isn't going to miss—"

That fucker would have been much less lucky if Mugen had gotten there sooner. He would have heard whatever it is the coward said that gave her reason enough to hit him. He gives another aggressive flick at the lighter.

"I don't know. What do you want me to say? He's hackin' up a lung in there right now. He hired me to watch over his kid; that's all I do. You wanna know what toothpaste she uses? 'Cause I know that."

Shiren's voice chimes in from the background.

"Wait—is he sick?"

He glances up at the house to the Governor's office windows where more muffled coughing seeps into the quiet night.

"Doesn't sound good."

"Now that's helpful information!" Shiren exclaims, "As far as anyone knows he's got a clean bill of health. Good! This is useful!"

He hears the door behind him open. His back straightens.

"Later."

He hangs up and slides the phone back into his pocket. They know the signal for when he needs to go. He'd rather not drag out the conversation longer than it needs to be anyway. They got something useful out of him. That's enough hard work for one week.

The four-eyed law school nerd walks by him. The silence is loaded. He's always giving him these looks. Like he knows everything. Could be his own paranoia. Might not be a bad idea to have one of Shiren's guys take that judgemental bastard out, or at least keep him away. Occupied. He's always hovering and it pisses him off. He notices that he shifts closer to the girl when Mugen is around—a protective hand steering her away. Like he's going to pounce on her or something.

He flicks the lighter again until a flame blooms. He runs his other hand over the top, letting the warmth kiss his palm until it nearly stings. He catches sight of the light turning on in the girl's bedroom on the second floor. Her silhouette darkens it briefly before she pushes back the curtain.

Drawn to the flickering light, she looks down at him and waves. There are still two tiny bandaids over her knuckles where her skin split on the kid's face. You wouldn't know she was capable of something like that looking at her now in her oversized sleep shirt with her hair falling loose over her shoulders. She just looks like a girl; innocent and unassuming. He remembers how she looked after though; her bared teeth, the fury in her eyes. Not at all like the way she flares up at him. This was cold, long-held rage. The kind that demands you to retaliate. He understands it; he just doesn't understand what that asshole could have said to trigger that sort of reaction in her.

I couldn't let him get away with it.

What couldn't she let him get away with?

She stammered out to the housekeeper that she fell down on her way home and sprained it. She looked over at him, breath held, waiting for him to contradict her. He didn't. It's not his business who she lies to. He ignored her smile along with the mouthed thank you.

Her presence oscillates between comfort and discomfort. It's hard to find a good balance between keeping her close enough to avoid suspicion, while also keeping her far enough away from knowing him. Especially because he almost…craves it. But that would be really fucking stupid on a thousand different fronts.

It's all this sneaking around bullshit. How do you tip from one cup without spilling from another?

Her curtains flutter closed over a smile he hasn't earned.

If you knew, he thinks darkly, letting the flame from his lighter flicker out, If you knew everything, you wouldn't look at me like that.

"Kasumi-san's boyfriend is crazy."

"Who is he?"

"I heard he's some washed-up old criminal."

At that last comment, she snorted to herself in the hall, earning her a few head turns. Mugen would love that one.

She flexes the muscles in her hand, feeling soreness wash over her as a pale remnant of the anger that led her to jam it into Kohei's face. His resentful eyes may still follow her, but he's kept his comments to himself. She goes home without finding any more surprises in her locker. She can't control the whispers that follow her, but at least they now have a note of caution in them.

It was only Shinsuke who connected her bruised hand to Kohei's newly discolored nose.

He joined her under the awning during lunch while the rain fell in a soft mist. She smiled at his concern, fiddling with the straw to her drink.

"So then…" he said, gnawing the straw to his juice, "that guy I heard about…is he your boyfriend?"

"Nope!"

"Then who is he?"

She hesitated.

"I'll tell you, but don't make fun of me." she said, lowering her voice, "My dad hired him to watch over me."

Bodyguard still seemed too embarrassing to admit out loud.

He nodded and looked away from her momentarily, rubbing the back of his reddening neck.

"Do…do you still want to work at the restaurant with me?"

"Of course I do," she assured him, "I just need to convince my dad. He's worried about my safety or something; it's really stupid."

"You know, I wouldn't let anything happen to you, Fuu."

He said it with such conviction that she felt warmth spread across her face like a spotlight. She had to be the one to break eye contact, unsure of what to do with that sort of intensity.

Hours later, the sky has broken into shards of clear sky slicing through taupe-painted clouds. The end of an early spring rain fills the air with sweetness. She inhales it greedily, letting it fill her lungs with something like hope.

Mugen waits for her a little ways from the entrance beneath a spindly tree heavy with pale green buds days from bursting open into rich, pink blossoms. The hood of his jacket is drawn up, hiding his face. She stops in front of him, her smiling face ducking to meet his impassive one.

Their walk home is usually quiet. She rambles on about her day and, if she's lucky, he'll grunt in response. Today, she tells him about her conversation with her dad the night before and about the restaurant job with her classmate. Judging by his reaction, this is news to him, which means her dad hasn't talked with him yet. He probably won't for a few more days at least because of all his campaigning.

She also tells him that no one has messed with her since he threatened Kohei. She doesn't know how she expected him to respond; maybe with smug cockiness since that seems to be his other default setting. But to her surprise, he denies any credit.

"Wasn't me,” he says, "he was probably pissin' himself because you hit him first."

She doesn't consider her actions anywhere near as threatening as his. She'll never have the sort of aura he possesses. One made of steel and fire. His presence is one that commands you to pay attention. It strikes her that if she had been born a son to her father, he probably wouldn't worry about her getting a job. Or having a bodyguard. But she's…what did Mugen say?

Soft.

"Hey, Mugen…"

"Hmm."

"What were you like in high school? Were you in any clubs?"

"I played baseball."

"No way!"

Her steps slow, but he continues on, throwing the words over his shoulder.

"You think I'm lyin'?"

She jogs to catch up, darting to avoid the still-dripping eaves lining the street.

"No, I think it's cool! I can't play any sports."

Her softness extends to organized sports. She's got all the spirit and none of the coordination. She pictures him younger, maybe not quite so scruffy and sullen. He can't be more than a few years older than she is. Was he popular? Did he have a string of girlfriends or was he quiet? Did he make a show of home runs or was he laser-focused on winning? She smiles to herself. Was he cute in a uniform?

"I bet your family liked to watch you play."

"Hm."

And he's back to noncommittal grunts.

Her fingers tighten on the handle of her book bag. This is where she should drop it and celebrate her small victory that they're having a normal conversation, but she can't control the next one that tumbles out.

"Are you close with your family? You never mention them."

He gives her a sharp, sideways look as they stop at a crosswalk. It's a warning. She's drifting too close to one of his invisible lines. She doesn't know much about him, but she knows how he gets when she's too friendly. Like a caged animal; if she reaches in too far, he'll bite.

"I get that sort of thing can be hard to talk about," she tries again, keeping her voice light, "I might be able to understand though."

A muscle in his jaw flexes.

"I doubt it."

A few people have gathered around to wait with them for the light to change. She notices with some indignation how they shuffle to keep from getting too near to Mugen. A few sideways glances accompany switching designer crossbody bags from one side to the other. It's then that she realizes the armor of being intimidating comes with a cost. Stubbornly, she sidesteps closer to him.

A little girl in a banana-yellow raincoat bounces around in the oily, rainbow-hued puddles leftover from the rain while her mother carries on a loud, distracted phone conversation. Maybe it's not the right time to talk about something so personal, but she does understand how complicated family can be. She's acutely aware of the pain of having half of her own ripped from her. Maybe he's been through something similar?

"Well, for me," she begins, taking care to keep her voice quiet, "it was tough growing up with—"

"Yeah, bet it was hard havin' everything handed to you."

The little girl splashing in puddles hops between them. A cold wave of water soaks into her socks, but it's nothing compared to the frigid slap his words are. Stung, she steps back from him.

"Excuse me?"

He gives an irritated look to the little girl still squealing and jumping around them.

"Forget it."

"Why are you being like this?" she whispers, hating herself for how whiny she sounds. "I just want to get to know you."

"No, you don't. So drop it."

A chorus of gasps pulls her attention away. Mugen's arm shoots out and grips a handful of the little girl's yellow coat, yanking her back before she can hop off the curb and into the rush of traffic. The harsh gust from a passing truck whips her hair back.

"Pay attention to your damn kid." he snaps at the now stunned-looking woman holding her phone. She hangs up her call, wordlessly reaching for her daughter.

A half-second later the crosswalk light changes and he steps off at once.

Fuu wonders what it's like to have yourself so utterly closed off from other people. If there are doors to her heart, they've always been thrown wide. What is it about him that makes her so determined to break into his?

She follows after him, looking over her shoulder at the little girl whose face holds some of the same shiny, wide-eyed awe he must resent seeing in her.

As her graduation day arrives, Mugen is given an unexpected day off so that the governor can take her out to celebrate.

He sleeps late and spends too long laying around the empty house doing nothing. By early evening he decides to go back to Mukuro's garage to take out the motorcycle he worked on before. The lights in the apartment are on when he gets there and since Mukuro spends his free nights out partying, it's probably just Koza. Judging by the candy wrappers in the trash can in the garage, she probably hangs around there when he's gone. He pulls out a wad of cash and stuffs some of the bills inside one of the wrinkled envelopes the Governor uses for him before texting her to let her know it's there.

Once the bike roars to life, he lets himself relax as he makes his way out of the neighborhood. He weaves his way through winding streets and tight corners, skirting boxy vans and glossy taxis. It's not as free driving in the city when it's busy; figuring out the fastest ways around traffic and taking narrow alleyways to avoid the tight squeeze between two semis. It's less puzzle-solving and more instinct that he follows.

Eventually, through his twists and turns he's rewarded with a long stretch of empty street he can gun it down, pressing forward and skimming by a city bus into the eerie green glow of a tunnel, before emerging into a spectacular view of the indigo skyline jagged with high-rises.

He stops at an intersection where a sea of pedestrians pass by in a swarming mass. A few girls in glittery, short skirts ogle him as he idles. He smirks beneath his helmet. They all giggle when he lifts the visor to stare at them openly. The shit you can get away with on a bike. He knows exactly how he looks. He revs the engine teasingly as they pass, eliciting excited squeals. It's the helmet, he thinks. If he didn't need to get back tonight he might try to find a dumb slut who's impressed enough with his stolen bike to let him take her for a different kind of ride.

Impatiently he inches through the crowd, eager to get back onto emptier streets, only pausing when he catches the briefest glimpse of a familiar blue-plaid skirt. It's not the girl, but someone from her school, out celebrating with friends.

This inevitably brings her to his mind. She's been quiet around him the last few days and it doesn't take a genius to guess why.

He hurt her feelings.

And fuck, the last thing he wants to worry about is a teenage girl's feelings. But this is his life now, isn't it? Half of his damn job is making sure the little bitch doesn't sulk so badly that her dad fires him. He's not doing a good job.

Part of him worries that at that very moment, she could be spilling her guts to her old man over dinner. He's mean to me! He yelled at me!

What's he supposed to do when she gets nosy like that? She's trying to wriggle her way into his business by pretending she would understand him. He doesn't want to hear her complain about her cushy childhood not being everything she dreamed of— is he supposed to feel sorry for her? Did daddy not get you a car when you turned sixteen? I bet that sucked. Her mom doesn't look like she's in the picture, so what? Neither of his parents is in his life. That's all they've got in common. Even ignoring his own, he's seen too many people with actual fucked up childhoods to feel bad about her.

What was so hard for you?

The crowd parts and he lurches forward into the night. Usually, a good long drive is enough to clear his head, but tonight all of her words needle at him until he finds himself back at her house a lot sooner than he would have liked.

He cuts the engine just as his phone buzzes from his pocket. He pulls it out, his stomach sinking. The governor wants to have a little chat. He removes his helmet in resignation. He knew it was coming. There has to be a way to talk his way out of his. Even if he has to pretend he cares that he hurt her feelings.

There's a waft of perfume in the breeze that she makes as the girl passes him on his way to the Governor's office, her eyes downturned from his. It's been like this all week, but now she seems even more upset.

Aw, shit.

Like the first time they met, Mugen feels a distinct sense of someone flexing their position of authority when he enters the Governor's office. He prefers their less in-depth conversations. It's a lot easier to bullshit someone over a text message.

The hard wooden chair in front of the desk creaks as Mugen sits down. His foot begins to bounce and he has to stop himself. He waits for the kick. She told me you're an asshole I actually don't give a fuck that you saved her life. Something along those lines.

"Did you enjoy your day off?"

"Yeah."

Kasumi nods. The silence he lets build is probably a technique he uses against his opponents. It's definitely unnerving and if this were a debate and Mugen was an oily politician he might be tempted to fill it with empty words. Mugen keeps his face smooth instead. He's not into politics—but he can appreciate that Kasumi is probably intimidating to other politicians.

"Now that she's graduated, I thought it would be a good time to have a talk about the length of your employment," he pauses here, his expression shifting, "She was hurt on your watch."

Mugen frowns. Hell no she wasn't. He's always with her, barring what happens in school, but that won't be a problem anymore since she graduated.

"I noticed the swelling on her hand days ago." the older man continues, his eyes hard on Mugen's, "you had every opportunity to tell me about that incident, but you didn't."

Which means she probably didn't tell him how it happened.

"She punched someone," Mugen says with a shrug. She did the hurting. Big deal. If she knew how to throw a decent punch she wouldn't have had a swollen hand in the first place.

Kasumi’s expression is still coldly appraising.

"I assumed as much. I'm concerned that you didn't think this was information I would need to know."

And do what with it? If Mugen was in her position he wouldn't tell him either. Maybe if he spent a little less time doing interviews he'd notice this shit quicker, but that's not his business.

"I can tell the difference between some kid being an asshole and someone who wants to hurt her. You should be proud of her for not runnin' to me right away. She's gotta stand on her own feet or else she'll always run. She's not helpless."

"No, she's not helpless,” he agrees, "but she cannot only rely on herself. No man is an island."

Mugen bites his tongue. I beg to fuckin' differ. If Kasumi had any sense he'd teach her that the only person she can count on is herself. Believing otherwise is not just stupid, it's dangerous. Then again, he's into that holy-divine bullshit, there's no reasoning with him.

"How long are you willing to stay by her side?"

From the governor’s point of view, Mugen wanted the job to begin with. He sent in a neat little application, got rejected, and still risked his life for her. He's just a down-on-his-luck, needing-a-second-chance sort of guy. Throw in the divine intervention bullshit and he thought he was golden. But these aren't the eyes of a man asking in religious gratitude. The governor's eyes are steel on his own.

He needs to tread carefully with his words—which has never been his strong suit, as proven by the whole conversation.

He's heard Shiren say that the best thing to do to make a lie seem more convincing is to convince yourself. He doesn't hate her. She stands in front of a life-changing amount of money. She's a means to an end, but that's empty.

He digs in and imagines a different scenario: one where his only job is to keep her safe. There's no sneaking around, no late-night phone calls. He's the hero she thinks he is—that's stretching past the point of breaking. Even before all this, he's done enough harm to keep him from ever earning that title.

He settles somewhere between the truth and a lie.

"As long as she needs me."

Her old man nods once more, now sinking back into his chair, all sternness leaving his shoulders. He coughs, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth.

"That’s all I need to hear."

A chill weaves its way down Mugen's spine. Why does this feel even more like he's selling his soul away? Half of it belongs to Shiren's boss. Half to the governor. There's nothing left for him but it's worthless at this point anyway. He might not even want it back after all of this.

Mugen finds Fuu sitting on the back steps near the driveway. She's still in her school uniform, her arms wrapped around bruised knees, her head bowed. He lights up a cigarette. He's never been good with emotional women. Whenever Koza gets sniffly he just keeps his mouth shut and waits for it to pass. He has a feeling she's not like that.

He exhales, letting a stream of smoke between his pursed lips.

"Who made you cry? If he's still around I'll make him cry."

His shitty attempt at a joke earns him the barest shrug of her shoulder.

"My classmate wants to come over and try to convince dad on their own and I know it won't work" she sniffs again, "and they went through so much to help me get this job and now I'm going to have to turn it down and—"

"Quit your bitchin'. I talked to your old man about it. You're allowed to."

Right after Mugen signed away the other half of his soul, the Governor let him know about her doing the job. He warned him that it could potentially come with more problems. He'll need to be on guard even more, she needs to be able to rely on him blah blah blah. Nothing he's too concerned about.

The girl's head whips up to look at him.

"But you gotta do one important thing or he'll call the whole thing off," he says solemnly. He watches her bottom lip quiver and he grins, "He said you gotta feed me for free every night–"

She doesn't even seem to register his joke as she launches up from the ground.

"Oh, Mugen, you're the best!"

Her praise thaws some of the dread from before. She snaps to his side in an instant—like the last few days never even happened. If she had any self-preservation she wouldn't let him get away with it. One day he'll give Shiren's bosses whatever it is they need to destroy the Governor. If he's lucky, she'll be none the wiser that he played a part in it. He really might stay a hero in her memory. He's not sure how he feels about that at the moment.

He sucks in another lungful of nicotine.

"Remember that the next time I piss you off."

She makes a face. "Don't tell me you're planning on doing it again?"

Fuck, I hope not, he thinks feeling himself relax. It's a strange relief to have her back to normal. When she's mad at him he can poke and prod until she blows up and cools off, but when she shuts him out completely he feels less in control. It's a good lesson. When she's happy, it's easy. More than easy, it's almost enjoyable.

"Was that—a smile?"

Which of course causes it to drop from his face.

"Hell no."

She steps closer to him, poking a finger into his chest.

"Admit it! You think I'm fun to be around!"

"No way."

"You couldn't stand me not talking to you."

He scoffs as she continues, her face smug.

"You hated that a cute girl like me was giving you the cold shoulder!"

He rolls his eyes. "Hah, a cute girl?"

Her arms cross over her chest, defiance causing her eyes to sparkle in challenge.

"That's right! I bet you've been dying to make a move."

He opens his mouth to let her know otherwise, but up close like this a ripple of awareness passes through him, causing his skin to tingle. His tongue moistens his cracked lips. The way her big eyes are lit up right now—how the round hills of her cheeks tinge pink when she smiles. Even the sight of her teeth briefly pressing into the soft flesh of her bottom lip does something for him. He's probably always had some awareness of it.

She is cute.

"Maybe I will make a move," he murmurs, almost without thought.

She blanches, all teasing laughter evacuating her face.

"Wait—what?"

He flicks his cigarette down, stomping it into the pavement as he takes a slow step toward her.

"Yeah. Think I wanna taste of what a cute girl like you is offerin'."

She glances over her shoulder as she stumbles back over the knotted roots of a tree in the yard.

"I-I am not offering anything!"

He tilts his head.

"Hmm, no?"

It's so easy to tease reactions out of her. Her eyes are wide–Doe-eyed. A deer in headlights. It fits her. She's not his type, but he can't help but enjoy watching her get all flustered over something so small. His face cracks into a grin.

"Shoulda' seen your face. What're you worried about? I told ya; you got nothin' for me."

She flares right back up.

"You jerk! Well…Likewise! Because I don't like guys who don't even brush their teeth!"

"Huh?"

"That's right! I noticed you never brought a toothbrush here! That's gross even for you."

His eyebrow twitches. What a stupid thing to notice. He just doesn't keep his on the counter because it's always cluttered with all of her crap. He can't resist another opportunity to mess with her though. He crosses his arms.

"I do too brush my teeth. I use the little pink one."

Her voice comes out as a strangled whisper. "You do not."

He shrugs, "Figured it was the guest one."

A shaking hand rises over her mouth.

"That means you and I have been…"

He gives up on keeping his cool, falling into a fit of laughter, his hands on his knees as he snorts at her mortified expression.

"You better be lying!"

She smacks him, but there's no sting to it. Instead, he feels that strange awareness from before settle pleasantly into his stomach at each soft blow she lands on him. He catches one of her wrists mid-swing and her smile turns quizzical.

"Fuu? Are you there?"

The voice coming from the end of her driveway causes her eyes to light up again.

"That's Shinsuke! I'll tell him I can take the job. Thank you again!"

He watches her ponytail swing as she bounds away from him and to her former classmate's side. Something like cold water is doused over his head. Not only is the party over, the cops have arrived. This whole time he pictured this classmate she mentioned as a girl.

When she beams up at him, something ugly—petulant sinks into his stomach, turning it sour. She's not acting differently. She's always handing out her smiles like candy. The sugary one she gives this boy is the very same she just gave him.

And he doesn't like it.

Chapter Text

She’s ending her shift with a bang. 

Well, more like a crash. 

A platter of udon broth and noodles spills across the restaurant floor like slippery worms, Fuu right along with it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. In fact, her new coworkers would probably be shocked if she made it through a shift without breaking something.

It’s a disaster in slow motion. One second she’s fine. She’s totally fine—no I don’t need any help I can do this seriously—carrying two heavy platters laden with table six’s order that they’ve been waiting on for forty minutes (plus another ten when she had to go back to ask them to repeat their order) the next second she’s sprawled across the floor scooping a mass of fried chicken from her lap. 

Other servers come to her aid grabbing bowls and utensils scattered across the floor. The manager to her right is apologizing profusely to the table, offering to comp their meal while not so subtly shooting daggers at her. Shinsuke hurries to her side, his eyes pitying as he helps her to her feet. She catches him wiping his hands off on his pants when he thinks she’s not looking. He must regret suggesting her for the job. She would. 

Through the chaos she created, an amused pair of eyes watches her from the bar. 

Her uniform is a casualty in the aftermath, spattered with chili oil like gore across her chest. After helping clean up she rushes to the back, eager to clock out ASAP. She wipes down the front of her white shirt with a fistful of napkins to no avail. It’s going to stain. She’s just pulling a stray noodle from her apron pocket when Mugen approaches, leaning against the doorframe. 

“You can probably get a to-go box for that.”

She gives him a withering glare. Even beneath all of her frustration, she knows it’s not him causing all of her issues. He doesn’t help though. She spotted him earlier drinking at the bar, making another one of the waitresses giggle. She doesn’t know what he was saying, but seeing him turn on the charm like that gets under her skin in the worst way. She was watching him when she fell—a secret she’ll take to the grave. 

“Ha ha,” She mutters, discarding the last of the paper towels. She pulls off her soiled apron and grabs her bag, ushering Mugen out the door. 

“Come on,” she says miserably, “before I break anything else.”

“Fuu, wait!”

Shinsuke follows them out into the alley exit, a brown paper bag in hand. 

She turns, face still burning in embarrassment as he jogs up beside her. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

She looks at Mugen but he’s already stalking away, a scowl on his face as he mutters something about grabbing the car. She bites her lip, finding it hard to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she begins weakly but he holds up his hand. 

“First couple weeks are always rough.” He says reasonably.

More than rough for her. Working at a restaurant has proven to be nothing like she expected. For one, the place isn’t a quaint little mom-and-pop shop or even like the quieter neighboring izakaya; it’s in one of the busiest parts of the city. And It’s chaotic. At every moment it seems as though the operation is seconds from falling apart. She’s always rushing around, narrowly avoiding collisions with other servers just as frantic as she is to get where they’re going, trying to memorize orders. The patrons in the bar connected to it are always rowdy and loud. She hears them, usually businessmen out late after work with their arms draped over each other's shoulders singing old karaoke songs, between her trips to and from the kitchen to the cramped dining area. She’s always sweaty, the back of her neck sticky with perspiration. At the end of the night, when she gets home she collapses in bed sore in ways she didn’t think possible. There’s never enough sleep.

This night has to be the worst so far. 

Shinsuke hands over the paper bag he’s holding. 

“Another work shirt. I’m not sure if the one you’re wearing will make it.”

She takes the bag, smiling bravely. 

“No, I think it’s done for.”

He takes her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, lingering a moment. She swallows, finally meeting his focused gaze when he lets go.

He looks out for her just like he did in school, introducing her to everyone and like tonight, trying to smooth over her bumpier moments. She learns a lot more about him sitting in the back alley eating leftovers and instant ramen on their breaks; he’s an only kid like her and he takes care of his mom in his spare time—of which there’s little. He works way more hours than she does, volunteering for any available slot. He told her his dad ran out on them, saddling them with a lot of debt, so everything is up to him to manage. It makes her heart hurt to think about him struggling like that. 

“I hope you aren’t going to let a few bad days keep you away.”

“Me? No way. I’m too tough!” 

Is it obvious how strained she sounds? He steps closer to her, his voice low. 

“Listen, on one of your days off, you think that maybe we can—“

“Oy, can you two hurry the fuck up? I gotta take a piss.”

Mugen hollers from the window of a car on the street. 

“You should have thought about that earlier, idiot!” she bellows back at him. 

She says her goodbyes to Shinsuke, secretly relieved by the interruption. She’s not stupid about Shinsuke’s motives. He keeps finding excuses to touch her, hold her hand, wipe something from her face…She doesn’t mind the attention, but most of the time she’s looking to see if Mugen has noticed. What he thinks about it. Which is silly.

It’s not like he’d care. 

She hops in and he gives her a pointed look until she scrambles for her seatbelt. The moment it clicks into place he speeds off. He never wears his. 

Her father insisted they borrow an unmarked government vehicle to take her to and from work. Mugen complains about it. Something about it being outdated and something a grandpa would drive. 

When they arrive back home, she eyes his motorcycle in interest. He brought it home a few weeks ago. It’s shiny and dangerous—like him. Sometimes he’ll go for a quick ride, counting on her home security system to keep her locked tight for a few hours. She stays up and listens for the roar of him tearing down the street, peeking through her window when he comes back shaking his wild hair from his sleek black helmet.

I wonder…

He shakes his head. 

“Nope.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Didn’t need to, it's all over your face. Not taking you for a ride. Your old man would kill me.”

She hates how easy she is to read. 

She pouts, bottom lip sticking out. She’s just curious about what it would be like. He drives like a bat of hell as it is. She doesn’t really expect him to take her out…even though he did offer to take Shino out the other day. She sours at the memory, slamming the car door. 

“I don’t want a ride on your stupid bike anyway. I had a bad enough night without you crashing us into something.”

Her irritation only increases when he chuckles as he passes.

“No worries there girly. Unlike you, I watch where I’m going.”

She ignores his all-knowing, cocky smirk and pretends he doesn’t know that’s why she fell down tonight.

Her next night at work comes with a surprise. 

“Jin! What’re you doing here?”

Her former tutor looks deeply uncomfortable. He lifts a shoulder as a drunken man passes by too closely, slurring an apology. He’s not in a suit for once, but still looking studious in a navy cardigan, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

“I…wanted to see you.”

His words are stilted and awkward, but she waves him over anyway. He’s always been a little weird around her. Thankfully it’s been slow so she seats him in her section, sliding across from him in a corner booth. 

“You haven’t come by in a while,” she says sadly, “Shino has been asking about you.”

He perks up at once. 

“Has she?”

Fuu nods, eager for any excuse to push the two together. “She’s sad you don’t come by anymore. I thought I gave you her number, why don’t you call her?”

He hesitates. “You no longer need a tutor.”

“No, but I’ll always need a friend,” she says lightly and smiles, “I don’t want to make you feel weird about it, especially now that you’re not getting paid to hang around me.”

He shifts uncomfortably. He’s acting like it’s some big secret. He’s probably bummed to not have an excuse to see Shino anymore and she doesn’t blame him in the least.

“I know she would like it if you stopped by. So, I’m officially inviting you over for dinner tomorrow night! If you say no, it’ll hurt my feelings and if that doesn’t work to convince you, I’ll ask my dad to pay you.”

Finally, some of the awkwardness dissipates and she earns a weary smile. He might pretend to be all stoic and serious, but she always wears him down eventually.

“No need for that. I’ll be there.”

She leans forward beaming at him. “Good. I didn’t want to have my bodyguard beat you up if you said no.”

At this, Jin leans forward too. 

“About him—”

“Don’t you got a job to do?”

How does he do that? Mugen appears from nowhere, arms crossed over his chest, leveling a look of extreme dislike at Jin. She sighs.

“Don’t you have a waitress to be flirting with?”

He raises one scarred brow at her.

“I-I didn’t mean me,” she stutters, grateful when she hears her name being called.

“Fuu—Fuu!”

Her manager looks stressed as he presses a notepad into her hand.

“I need you to do the private room tonight. Just got a group in there. Make sure they have a quiet time.”

He means: don’t mess this up for once. She nods, jumping into action, eager to get out of Mugen’s line of sight. 

Mugen watches her leave, not satisfied until she disappears around the corner. He slides to the other side of the table taking her spot. He’s interested to see that the smile he had for the girl has dropped from the nerd’s face. Like I’m not just as good company. He holds up his hand, calling a waitress over to order a drink. And because he’s a nice fuckin’ guy he orders one for four-eyes too. 

Once he has a bottle in front of him, he pours the amber liquid into each tall glass, raising one to Jin, grinning wider when he doesn’t react, his cold face a mask.

“So, what’s your deal–” 

Jin cuts in flatly. “I don’t trust you.” 

Right to the point. Mugen shrugs, leaning back comfortably.

“Sounds like a you problem.” 

“And I have no issue with making it your problem.” Jin responds, his voice dropping an octave, “I intend to speak with Governor Kasumi.”

“I wonder how that’s gonna go?” Mugen asks, his voice mocking at four-eyes’ name-dropping, “Cause outa’ the two of us, which one saved his kid?”

His eyes narrow from behind his glasses. 

“If you think that entitles you to certain privileges with her—”

Mugen holds up a hand, sputtering on his drink. He sets the glass down, wiping the back of his mouth.

“Whoa, hold up a second.”

Jin waits, his eyes still narrowed. 

“You think I’m interested in that brat?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her—how you talk to her. It’s obvious.”

Mugen huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

“Maybe you don’t have much experience with women so I’ll spell it out for you; there’s a difference between getting a kick out of annoying someone and wantin’ to bang ‘em.”

She’s cute, but as far as wanting to stick his dick in her…it’s laughable. Hasn’t even crossed his mind. Well, until now. It’s also pissing him off that this jackass thinks it’s any of his goddamn business. 

“You’re one day at the playground shy of dipping her ponytail in paint,” Jin says dryly. He pulls out a few bills for the drink he didn’t touch and sets them in front of Mugen. 

The hell does that mean?

“Why’re you even hanging around still?” he asks, irritation causing his voice to rise, “she graduated. She doesn’t even need you anymore.”

Jin stands and Mugen is surprised to see something like resignation flit across his face. 

“Duty.”

He scoffs.

Okay, Batman.

Jin leaves and good riddance. Even if Mugen was into her, it’s got nothing to do with him. It would have nothing to do with anyone. He feels another roll of agitation causing his fists to tighten. It's like he’s trying to mark his territory or something. He swipes Jin’s undrunk beer, throwing it back. She’s his territory right now and he’s tired of these assholes trying to encroach on it. 

Upon entering the back room designated for private groups, she knows these guys will be annoying. They’re younger, wearing tacky suits, and flashing money at every opportunity. At first, it’s easy to slip by them without drawing too much attention to herself. She takes their orders quickly, trying to be efficient: anticipate their needs before they have to ask. She keeps the drinks coming, exchanging empty bottles for full ones and ducking out before they have a chance to notice her.

It helps that they brought a couple of girls to distract them, their arms are thrown carelessly over their shimmery, bare shoulders. She peeks at them, feeling especially plain in comparison. They sip from fruity-flavored clear alcohol, waving away snacks, making sure to fawn over the sleazy suites guys, letting their long manicured hands run over their chests. Their breathy giggles are so fake. She can’t exactly blame them, though. Clearly, the wads of cash the two guys are throwing around are keeping them there. It’s definitely not their stupid jokes.

Trouble arrives when one of the men does notice her on one of her trips to replace their drinks. He tilts his head back like he’s trying to figure something out. Her stomach turns uneasily, but she continues gathering some of the empty plates and bottles.

Movement catches her eye. The one watching her moves his bottle toward the edge of the table, giving a sly push until it falls and the glass shatters to the ground. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she bends to collect the larger pieces, carefully placing them on a tray. She hisses in pain when she slices the end of her finger on a jagged edge.

“You’re a clumsy girl.”

Riveting observation she thinks, refraining from rolling her eyes.

Some of the group have looked over to their exchange. It’s technically your fault, jerk . But she can’t very well accuse him. With her track record, no one would believe her anyway. She presses her bleeding finger into her apron.

“I’m sorry sir, it was an accident,” she grits, adding, “I’ll get a broom.”

He shakes his head, nodding to one of the women he has his arm around.

“What if my girl steps on it and cuts herself? You’ll clean it up now.”

Her temper rises with her as she stands to her feet. 

“Sorry, but I’m not really interested in losing any more blood.”

He grabs a hold of the loose strings of her apron, tugging her to look at him.

“Wait a minute,” the other man leans forward, pointing a steak knife at her, “you look like Kasumi’s kid.”

She freezes.

The sleazy guy holding on to her apron looks at her, eyes widening in mock surprise.

“I’ll be damned. You were almost roadkill weren’t you?”

The predatory gleam in his eyes makes her stomach turn uncomfortably once more. 

“Would have been a waste.” the other man says appreciatively, “You’ve got a pretty hefty price on your head.”

Does she? Kohei’s words come to mind, the next one won’t miss. She feels like a deer caught in the crosshairs. Both of their eyes are on her, laser-focused. She refuses to show she’s scared. She straightens, stepping backward, but he redoubles his grip on her apron string, wrapping it around his fist. 

“Daddy must be hard up having you work here,” he says, eyes traveling the length of her body, “You wanna come home with us?”

Even the women they’ve paid to be there are starting to look uncomfortable, shifting in their seats, tugging their short skirts down over their knees. They know better than to speak up.

“No thanks.” 

The other man grins at her discomfort, his lecherous eyes alight with interest. 

“You sure? We can teach you to put that smart mouth to good use. You’ll be sucking my cock just how I like it in no time.” 

She backs away, yanking herself free until she bumps into someone. Mugen. Relief sings into her chest. For once, she’s grateful for his materializing out of nowhere. His gaze pans from her pale face to her still-bleeding hand curled into her apron, eyes lit up with unquestionable fury hardening into steel.

Something else takes over as he steps past her, his expression smoothing free of animosity. He crouches down to clean up the broken bottle pieces, picking up right where she left off, gingerly tossing shards onto the tray. The man who dropped it glares down at him.

“Fuck back off to the kitchen. I don’t want you cleaning this shit. I want her.”

He thinks Mugen works there. It’s got to be the alcohol clouding his judgment because he definitely doesn’t look like he works there. Mugen looks—what does he look like? He looks cocky and dangerous and hot…Oh…Where did that come from? But it's true; there’s something that coils from his broad shoulders to his hands clutching the broken lip of the bottle. Something potent. Her knees feel oddly weak. It’s power concealed beneath lazy grace.

He stands from his crouch, grinning down at the guy.

“What the hell’re you smiling at?”

He slams the jagged end of the bottle down, jamming it into the man’s exposed forearm. He cries out in pain, the table nearly overturning as he jerks up and away. The women shriek too, scooting out of the way. Whatever they were paid to be there tonight proves to be too little as they dart past, tottering away in their glittery heels.

“Might wanna go get that checked,” Mugen calls out as the bleeding man stumbles away, yanking the glass still jutting from his arm. He abandons his friend with a wild look of fear, “Looks pretty bad.”

The other man lunges over the table, but he’s too slow. Mugen grabs a knife and slams it down into the table, millimeters from his nose. The man’s eyes go cross watching it vibrate in the wood. He tries to scramble away again but Mugen grabs him by the back of his head and slams his face into the table.

“Nuh-uh. You’ve got an important job,” he grunts, lifting one of the man’s hands. He turns to look back at Fuu, “Which one, girly?”

“Huh?”

“Which of your fingers is cut?”

Nervously, she lifts her still-bleeding hand, her index finger twitching.

“Damn,” he chuckles darkly, “ That’s an important one too.”

“Wha-what are you doing?” He squirms but Mugen holds his palm flat to the table, lining up the steak knife to it.

“Only bein’ fair. You messed with the governor’s girl. Can’t let you run back to your friends without sendin’ a message can I?” he pauses, looking over the knife with a critical eye, exhaling a low whistle, “Sorry pal, this ain’t gonna be quick this thing is dull.”

His eyes widen, his sweaty lip trembling. 

“W-wait! I didn’t even touch her! She-she cut herself on the glass, it wasn’t me!”

Mugen pauses, “Really?”

He nods furiously, visibly sinking in relief as Mugen tosses the knife aside. 

“Then again…” he muses and with a sudden violent twist—snaps the man’s finger backward.

Fuu’s gasp is swallowed up by his howl of pain. He crumples to the floor, curling up around his broken finger. 

“That’s for the cock-suckin’ comment you made to her.”

Mugen crouches down beside him, unaffected by his whimpering, and grabs the scruff of his neck, forcing him to look up at her.

“Apologize.”

The man twists on the ground, red-rimmed eyes leaking tears as he gets a pitiful sorry muttered between his trembling lips. Mugen releases him.

“Leave.” 

He crawls to his feet, still cradling his index finger. She blinks in astonishment. This isn’t like with the boys from school. No vague threats. And after all of that, he barely even looks bothered. He almost cut a man’s finger off...Because he insulted her.

“W-was all of that necessary?” she asks weakly.

“Yeah. Now they know that messin’ with you has consequences.”

He frowns at her hand, grabbing one of the cloth napkins from the table and tosses it at her.

“You’re always gettin’ into some fuckin’ trouble, arent you? Can’t leave you alone for five minutes before the goddamn wolves start comin’ for you.”

Then stay with me. 

“He was right though,” she says, face warming at her thoughts, “I did just cut myself by accident—did you really have to hurt them like that?”

There’s a cut on his hand in the very same spot as hers. His tongue backtracks along the path the beaded drop of crimson makes as it falls from his wrist to the tip of his finger. When he grins at her, there’s blood on his teeth. 

“Yeah, I did.” 

On the ride home an underlying tension has her slumped in her seat, unable to get comfortable. She hoped the bass from the music Mugen blares would drown out her thoughts, but it only jumbles them up worse. She glances at him. The muscles in his forearm flex when he puts the car in park. He sighs. 

“Alright. Let’s go.”

He nods his head to his motorcycle as he gets out. She follows, confused as he pulls the cover from the bike.

“What? How come?”

“You had a shitty night.”

She’s had a lot of those recently. He gets the helmet and puts it over her head. She grumbles in protest. He only has the one.

“What about you?” 

He’s quiet, dark brows knit together in concentration, making sure it fits snugly on her head. He flips the visor down over her questioning eyes.

“Your head is worth more than mine.”

He swings a leg over the bike and even though she always wondered what it would be like, her shyness keeps her still.

“Oh but…what do I hold on to?”

“What else?”

Right. Him. 

She climbs on awkwardly, her arms sliding around his waist. It feels too intimate to be wrapped around him like this. She’s also hyper aware of having just spent the whole night sweaty, delivering food and drinks. She adjusts her tentative grip several times, unsure how tightly to hold. Through the bulky helmet, she feels more than hears his laugh. He eases the bike forward in teasing, incremental bursts. 

Her heart sputters along with the engine. She shouldn’t have agreed to this. What was I thinking? Just as she thinks she’ll let go and swing her weak legs back over, he takes off down the quiet street. Her squeak of shock disappears in the roar of the engine and her grip redoubles, this time with zero hesitation. 

When she gets the nerve to crack open her eyes, her neighborhood has disappeared into a blur of streetlights racing by. It’s effortless for him, completely within his element. When they come across congestion in traffic, he slips them through side alleys onto less busy streets.  

Eventually he slows, pulling into a quiet parking lot near a pier and cuts the engine. 

“Think you’re cracking a rib.”

She lets go of him at once. Her legs are weak as she climbs off after him, taking off the helmet to look around. 

“Why did you take me here?”

He nods his head toward a bridge overlooking the water. Iridescent blue lights are spaced every few feet so that the entire bridge appears to be glowing. 

“I dunno. I come here sometimes.” He shrugs, almost defensive. 

They follow the lit path, the gentle sound of the water muffling the harsher traffic noises in the background. If she wasn’t so gross from working, it would almost feel romantic. Especially because he brought her here because he thought she would like it. She wants to enjoy the moment but she has to get it out of the way now. 

“Please don’t tell my dad about tonight.” she bursts out suddenly, “I don’t want him to think I can’t handle this. I can.”

His silence makes her nervous, so she fills it with more of her babbling. 

“Those guys were drunk. They probably wouldn’t have done anything to me and they for sure won’t come back so—“

“I’m not gonna tell him.”

“Thank you.”

Relief floods her chest and she beams up at him. He doesn’t return it.  

“You thank me too damn much.”

“Because you're always helping me.”

He gives her a strange look. 

“You got the wrong idea about me. I’m not who you’re makin’ me out to be. I sure as hell wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t gettin’ paid.”

It’s a spectacularly harsh thing to say but for some reason, his words don’t sting like they should. She lets out a giggle. At his glare she raises her hands. 

“I believe you,” she laughs, “but you’re definitely not paid to take me to a pretty spot on your motorcycle after I had a bad night. You’re not as mean as you think you are. You can let yourself be friendly, you know. It’s not against the rules.”

“Fuck the rules. I’m tellin’ you who I am, point blank girly: I’m a scumbag and I’m gonna hurt you.”

“I’m terrified.” she says cheerfully, smiling bigger when he scowls at her.

He’s not a scumbag. He’s rough around the edges for sure, but she likes it. You wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t believe that. It’s a thought that clenches at her chest briefly. She leans on the rail overlooking the water. After a few minutes of comfortable silence he asks. “What do you need this job for anyway? Your dads rich.”

“The only person who should be building my future is me.”

“Your future huh.” He squints out over the water. “You’re not goin’ to school. That’s usually what rich people do.”

She doesn’t really dream of a career. In fact her dreams are small compared to her former classmates. She doesn’t want to be a doctor or god forbid a politician. Her dreams are soft, shapeless things. She dreams of collecting happy moments like jewels to look back on in old age and feel richer by them. How does that translate to a job? She wants to be free. Happy. 

Maybe she’ll move to a small town where no one knows her name. She’ll take walks on early, misty mornings. Get a dog. Start a garden. Fall in love and have a baby. The sort of life you see play out in movies after the heroine goes through her trials and tribulations. Happily ever after. 

She tells him this and then blushes. She just admitted her dreams include getting married and having a baby. She thinks he’s going to laugh at her or tell her how stupid she is for wanting something like that. But he doesn’t. He actually offers something about himself, unprompted. 

“I’m gonna open up my own shop. Fix bikes. Someday, anyway.”

“Where?”

He shrugs. “Not here. Once I save up enough and I’m gone. Not as noble as your whole being a mom thing…which reminds me, what about your mom?”

She hopes her small intake of breath isn’t noticeable. 

“What about her?”

He shrugs. 

“You never mention her. She run out on you guys or somethin’?”

Her fingers unclench from the rail. So, he doesn’t know. He must be one of the few. All it takes is a quick search and he’ll see her. Despite how hard her fathers lawyers tried to remove it. It’ll always be there. 

“Something like that,” she whispers, “It doesn’t matter now.”

He doesn’t press her and she’s grateful. He spits over rail into the water. 

“My parents weren’t around. Me and my buddy practically had to raise ourselves. So—I don’t know. Don’t let it get to you.”

She notices his phone light up. He silences it, sliding it back into his pocket, but not before she gets a glimpse at the screen. 

Koza?  

The sight takes a jealous bite out of the evening. A girl is calling him. Who is she? A friend? Girlfriend? Who cares, he’s ignoring her for me! The voice is small but hopeful. Hopeful for what? 

This feeling lingers even after they arrive back home. Like her chest is at risk of both bursting or collapsing at once. The entire ride back she holds on to him, eyes closed, letting herself enjoy the feel of him without guilt. When she has to pull away it’s reluctantly, her fingers brushing muscles beneath his thin faded red shirt.

He helps her with the helmet, her hair getting tangled in the straps. His lopsided smile sends another swoop through her. She swats at it, trying to tame the wayward strands. He reaches over and smooths a piece, a rough knuckle brushing her cheek. Are they really standing still? Because her heart is still pushing 80. 

All she wants is to be precious to someone…not someone, him. She wants to believe he took her out tonight purely because he wants to spend time with her. Not because he’s paid to, but because he likes her. It’s all wrong though. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She has no one to blame but herself. She has no reason to even ask for more than what he’s giving her. 

But you can’t leave the doors to your heart open in a storm and expect it to stay dry. That’s what he is. He’s thunder and lightning rolled up into a person.  

Her lips part, eyes falling to his mouth. If she took a chance.

You got nothin’ I want. 

His words from before puncture the moment. How many times does he need to remind her? It would be humiliating to have him remind her again. 

“Well!” She cries, jumping back, bent on cutting through the tension, “Thank you! That was…it was fun!”

She presses the helmet into his hands without meeting his eyes, before rushing inside. 

Even through closed doors and walls, she feels him watching her. She feels him. It’s a heady, invading feeling that spreads, searing her skin. She feels hot and confused. The soft brush of his hand on her face, the strong muscles she clung to. Her fingers shake as she strips off her clothes. She hops into the shower, determined to let the hot water relax her tense body—quiet the thoughts in her head. 

Scrub away the feelings. 

Please don’t tell him.

No problem, girly. It’s in his best interest to keep dear old dad in the dark. If he gets official word that people are happy to hurt her in order to get to the Governor, more heat will be on Mugen. But he knows someone else who should be told. 

“Are you really shocked?” Shiren asks after Mugen lays it all out. He didn’t recognize the guys who were eyeballing her, but he did recognize the type of guys. “My boss put out a call to take Kasumi down by any means necessary. You didn’t seriously think it was just us going for it, right?”

He did, actually, but he doesn’t admit this. He looks back at the house, glad she’s inside and out of earshot. 

“If I wasn’t there, they would have taken her.” 

It’s not difficult to imagine what they were thinking. The type to play with their food before going for the kill.

“Mugen,” he says after a pause, “Are you worried about her?”

He’s worried about his paycheck. 

But yes, he’s also bothered by the way they looked at her; like she was their golden ticket. One they didn’t mind tearing up and soiling before turning in for a reward. Well, she’s his golden ticket, but he’s not going to hurt her. Not like that at least. He might be a piece of shit in every other regard but hurting women isn’t his thing.

“I’m not a fucking rapist.”

“Right, right,” Shiren says dismissively though his voice is still thoughtful. “The rest of them don’t have a man on the inside to bide their time with. They have no choice but to resort to uh…messier means.”

Messier. He feels another tight clench in his chest. Not on his watch.

“So, I gotta protect her from everyone else.”

Shiren laughs lightly.

“A little ironic, isn’t it?”

He hangs up letting out a long sigh. 

It’s not a bad gig, but fuck is it turning more complicated by the day. He's learned his lesson from before. He’s nice to her. As nice as he can manage. He balances keeping her happy without being a total pushover. He spends his time at the bar drinking and people-watching, but watching her proves to be entertainment enough. 

He expected her to give up after a few days. Being the daughter of a rich politician he thought she would crumble when faced with actual hard work but she didn’t. 

It’s because she’s trying so damn hard. She doesn’t back down when she’s ordered around. When some hag complains about her bringing the wrong drink, the girl just flashes another one of her tooth-rootingly sweet smiles and goes back at it again. He hears her groan like an old woman at night, complaining about how tired and sore she is—only to be ready the very next day for more torture. 

So he doesn’t mind it. She’s held strong and damn if he doesn’t almost admire her for it. 

What tests him is that damn kid. Shinsuke. He works in the kitchen but still manages to follow her around like a love-sick puppy. He keeps a close watch on him for sure. It’s stupid. He’s no threat. Fuck, there’s nothing to even threaten. Just annoying for some reason and beneath all of that annoyance is a vague threat; something he doesn’t trust. 

And now Jin is sniffin’ around too. Nosy asshole always in his business. Why the hell is he hanging around her? It makes no sense. She’s got nothin’ on the hot housekeeper he’s supposed to have a thing for. The girl is just…cute. That’s it. 

She was especially cute tonight. 

He almost got a little too excited by the feeling of her holding on to him earlier. He forgot what it was like to have a girl hang onto you like that. It’s been a long time since anyone has. Since his ex. It sent a thrill every time she tightened her arms—he got a kick out of her exhilarated squeaks. 

More moments come to mind: The stupid, weirdly sexy way she bites her lip when she’s deep in thought. How soft her expression got talking about wanting a baby—Goddamn it. It’s been a long time since he got laid. A long time. Little shit like this should not be keying him up so badly. 

He’s not in his right mind. That’s the only reason he walks into the bathroom without realizing that the shower is already running. 

Through a swirl of sweet, fragrant steam, he’s gifted with a view of her from behind. His eyes follow a glossy patch of bubbles that glides down a soft expanse of creamy skin. Soapy rivulets cascade from her hair towards more luscious, rounded curves. Her musical little hum of contentment goes straight to his dick. 

His phone vibrates from inside his pocket, jarring him to reality. He gathers enough sense to back out of the room as quietly as possible before she notices the sound over the hiss of the shower. 

Outside of the restroom he gulps in cold, dry air. The quiet hum of the air conditioning becomes ringing in his ears.

He ignores the call still buzzing from his pocket, choosing instead to go back to his room, not bothering to turn on the light. He shuts the door, sliding down against it until he hits the floor. 

A good man might feel guilty for catching her like that: Vulnerable and unsuspecting. Innocently unaware of his eyes taking in the sight of her naked like a greedy thief. 

Fuck, he wishes she would have turned around. Just for a second. Might have been worth the mess that would have unfolded after just to see her.

He’s not a good man.

He’s a bad man; shamelessly letting instinct take over. He undoes the button of his pants to take himself in hand, too painfully hard to care that doing this right now really does make him a scumbag. Lowest of the low. 

Fingers brushing across his abdomen. Soft chest pressing against his back. 

Thoughtless need guides his hand. His mouth falls slack, panting harsh breaths into the darkness. Every clumsy tug winding him tighter. 

Sweet-smelling, mouth-watering. Warm body, soft, wet. 

He strokes himself faster, his head knocking back against the door. One final thought pushes him over the edge, completely filthy and forbidden, escaping as a strangled, dirty secret

“Fuu—“

Chapter Text

Fuu finds herself up to her elbows in hot water in a sink filled with soiled plates and bowls. Every few minutes another waitress drops by to slip in a few more, knocking them against the others. The gentle scrape of cutlery against the metallic bottom lulls her into a trance.

The task leaves her with plenty of time for her mind to wander and when it does, it inevitably leads her to the back of Mugen’s motorcycle, with her arms encircled tightly around him while the wind whips at her face. Having never been so close to a man before, she finds her heart thudding unevenly when she remembers how his muscles felt moving beneath the thin fabric of shirt, her palms splayed against them, how the heat of him seeped through.

Each time the kitchen door swings open, she gets a burst of conversation and a glimpse of him sitting at the bar with his back to her. In her imagination he takes her out again. This time in the daylight on a scenic road with the ocean glittering beside them, the rare sound of his laughter warming her better than the sunshine.

“Are you ready for a break?”

Shinsuke holds out a towel for her to dry her hands with. She takes it gratefully, ready to step away from the humid kitchen air and give her pruney fingers a rest.

They sit in the back alley on plastic crates. She accepts the bottle of juice he hands her with a smile, taking a sip while a few drunk salarymen sing loudly, bumping into one another as they hobble past them to the neighboring izakaya.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with the grunt work,” he says after a while.

She shrugs, peeling the label from her bottle.

It’s an unfortunate consequence of Mugen’s little “lesson” to the men who harassed her last week. Sure, they probably won’t come poking around again, but now having another reason to be too nervous to fire her, her boss has sentenced her to kitchen duty until things quiet down again. It isn’t too bad, but it leaves her with a lot of time to think about things she shouldn’t.

Like her bodyguard’s muscles, for example.

“It’s my fault for letting it get out of hand,” she sighs. It really was. She just can’t stop herself from talking back to people. Especially big stupid men.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Shinsuke counters aggressively. “It was his.”

Her smile fades.

“If Mugen hadn’t done what he did, it might have gone a lot worse.”

Shinsuke frowns, pulling his crate closer to hers. Their knees touch when he leans forward.

“Then he should have done the right thing and called the police. Let them handle it. Why does he think he has to barge in and hurt people like that?”

After a furtive look over his shoulder and a beat of silence he adds: “I don’t like him.”

She smiles through a bite to her lower lip. She’s not met many people who like Mugen on sight. In fact, she’d be concerned if they did.

“What?” he says defensively, leveling her with a stern look that almost rivals one of Jin’s. “I mean it, Fuu. He’s—he’s no better than the criminals he beat up. They’re the worst kind of people in society—just using violence and intimidation to get their way. They’ll walk all over anyone to get what they want. I can’t stand guys like him.”

She sits up, taken aback by the venom in his voice, the ugly look on his usually kind face.

“That’s not fair,” she says quietly. “You shouldn’t judge people like that. You don’t even know him.”

There’s more to him than just violence. Maybe his methods are questionable: she doesn’t exactly want to hear the sound of bones snapping again anytime soon, but she does feel safer with him. For that at least, she can forgive the roughness around his edges.

Shinsuke scoffs, getting to his feet to pace. After a moment he kicks the crate aside.

“Maybe he’s got you fooled, but not me.”

“He’s not fooling me. Why are you acting like this?” Her tone softens as she asks, “Is it your mother?”

He glares down at her for a second longer before his shoulders abruptly deflate.

“Yeah…shit, I’m sorry,” he begins miserably, rubbing his face. “I just feel like I’m drowning. I want to take care of her, but I can’t work anymore than I already do. I’ve already messed things up before I can’t…The laundry needs to be done, the dishes—things are stacking up at home. I guess—I’m taking it out on the wrong person.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks softly. She notices for the first time the dark shadows on his face, the bags under his eyes. When isn’t he here working? Having to take on all of that responsibility alone must be hard.

She perks up. “I can come over and help with some of those chores! Would that help?”

“Wait—really? Do you mean it?”

She jumps to her feet.

“I’m an expert at dishes now. it’ll be easy.”

He smiles sheepishly.

“I have some time tomorrow before work and the kitchen is the worst. I’ve had no time to cook either. Maybe…maybe after I can make you dinner. To thank you. You’re always so nice to me, Fuu.”

Her heart gives a fretful thump. She feels the gradual shift in his mood, noticing how red his face becomes, how he’s always making excuses for his hands to find hers. It isn’t the first time she’s felt it with him either. Like always, she doesn’t know how to handle his attention without hurting him and without confusing herself.

“Well food is my favorite form of payment,” she says playfully, letting her fingers slip from his as she steps back. “I can’t wait.”

“Yeah, me either.”

Somehow, she’s not surprised to hear his voice, Mugen would find a way to intrude upon a nice moment. It’s probably an instinct for him. He’s leaning against the side of the building clicking his lighter, the sparks illuminating his darkened form.

“Were you spying on me?”

“That’s my job,” he drawls lazily, lighting up a cigarette.

“It is not part of your job to listen in on my conversations,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Not my fault he got noisy,” he says, jerking his head towards Shinsuke, but his eyes are on hers. “I’ll talk to your old man about adding in a clause that lets me listen in. How about that?”

Shinsuke’s jaw tightens, immense dislike written all over his face.

“He isn’t welcome in my home.”

“That hurts,” Mugen responds dryly, thumping a fist over his chest. “Guess that means you’ll be cleaning up after yourself then.”

Shinsuke looks like he wants to say something else but instead he turns and heads back into the restaurant. She waits until she hears the door clatter shut before she starts in on Mugen.

“If you were listening in, then you know his mother is sick,” she hisses at him, slapping his arm in emphasis.

He blows a cloud of smoke over her head through pursed lips.

“That ain’t your problem. You’ve got a goddamn bounty on your head and you think I’m gonna let you go play housekeeper? Don’t be stupid for once.”

She glares up at him, waiting for a million different comebacks to spring to mind so she can put him in his place, but they all get jumbled up in her throat when he gives her a cocky grin.

“You’re the stupid one.”

When he starts to snicker at this weak reply, she snatches the cigarette from between his lips to stomp on it, grinding it beneath her heel before stomping back inside.

He looks over at her at a red light. She’s quiet. Always a bad sign. Her knees are tilted as far away from him as humanly possible, arms crossed over her chest. He can almost see her playing out arguments with him in her head—ones where she’s winning.

It’s been a few days since what he fondly recalls as the Shower Incident. He’s proud of himself for not trying to risk another peek at her since then, making sure to steer clear of her at night. It doesn’t stop him from remembering though, and in such close quarters it is difficult to keep himself occupied. Especially when his curiosity is a monster getting harder and harder to keep sated. There are a lot of things he’d like to do to her, but some lines he isn’t stupid enough to cross.

His hands flex around the steering wheel as he risks another glance her way.

“You in a shitty mood now or what?”

She looks ahead and then back out the window, sighing.

“It’s green.”

A horn blares behind him and he snaps his gaze back forward, hitting the gas. After a few minutes of mindless ads from the radio she reaches over to turn it down, turning to face him in her seat. Based on her slow intake of breath, he can tell she’s about to plead her case again.

“Shinsuke is doing everything all on his own. His mother is really sick and he has to take care of her by himself.” Her voice goes annoyingly tender. “Wouldn’t you appreciate it if someone helped you when you needed it most? Can’t you put yourself in his shoes?”

No one ever has, so it’s a little hard to imagine fitting into that particular pair.

“He can help himself,” he murmurs. Because that’s what everyone has to do.

She lets out a whiny noise of irritation.

“Mugen, please?”

He suppresses a deep rumble of laughter. Does she think begging is going to make him say, sure, go spend some time alone with this guy? Always so naive to think people mean exactly what they say. She wants him to put himself in his shoes? Fine. The second that kid gets her through his door he’ll make a move on her. Mugen sees the way he looks at her— those lovesick puppy dog eyes following her wherever she goes. It reeks of desperation.

She won’t be so sad for him when she finds out he wants to get into her pants.

It occurs to him then that that’s the real problem. The kid likes her. He might want to make her his girlfriend. Take her on dates—which Mugen would be forced to supervise. He bristles at the thought. It’s just because that would make it too complicated. It’s hard enough as it is to keep up the act, if he had to share his time with her…no use in adding unnecessary barriers.

And what’s the harm in admitting it to himself after the Shower Incident: he’s a little territorial, so what? There’s a lot of money at risk.

She must take his silence as an answer because she throws her head back and lets out another frustrated groan.

“Mugen!”

“Sorry girly.”

There’s also the way the little shit ranted about him that’s been bothering him all night. It almost felt personal. It needles at him for some reason.

He pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine, plunging them into silence. He puts his arm on the back of her headrest.

“Look at me.”

When she doesn’t, he reaches over to tilt her chin toward him. Her lower lip juts out and he pictures sinking his teeth into the soft pink flesh. Something to shock her out of her pissy mood. Even when she’s mad—especially when she’s mad, she’s cute. Like a kitten thinking it’s ferocious enough to strike fear.

If she were his girl, he’d make use of the ample space in the back seat to make her forget Shinsuke and her shitty mood. His gut tightens at the thought: dragging her to the back, pulling her onto his lap…

There’s that monster again: the one that covets everything of hers, including her glares, because there’s fire he can warm himself by. It’s just his insatiable libido wanting to sink its teeth into the only sweet thing around. If you’re starved for long enough anything sounds good.

Her eyes widen, as if trying to decipher the tension rolling off of him. She’s a virgin—he’d stake his life on it. That’s why there’s a measure of confusion in her expression. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. She doesn’t know what he’d do to her if he could. The breath leaving her lips is shallow and her eyes dart to his mouth before flitting guiltily away. A blush floods across her cheeks and it beckons to mind the one she had in the shower, when the hot spray of water spread the same rosy glow all down her bare body.

What if some part of her wants him too? Would he be more willing to cross that line if she met him on the other side of it? She’s soft and trusting and thinks he’s a good guy. In the midst of Shinsuke’s rants she defended him:

“You don’t even know him.”

His stomach clenches. Neither do you.

He wonders if that’s what he wants—something pure like her wanting him in return. Something he wouldn’t need to cheat or steal, or lie to get this close to. It’s a disturbing line of thinking.

She pulls away from him, and for a wild moment he worries she can read his mind but she’s looking over his shoulder.

“There’s someone outside.”

He follows her gaze. Sure enough, someone is standing near the entrance to the driveway. A figure shrouded in the shadows. He hits the locks and cranks the car back to life.

“Is your old man supposed to be home?”

She shakes her head, adding breathlessly: “He’s got a speech in Saitama, he won’t be back until—wait, is that a girl?”

The headlights illuminate the figure. It is a girl. Thin legs. Curly hair. A familiar oversized sweatshirt dwarfing her slight frame.

Un-fucking-believable.

He pulls back in and cuts the engine.

“Go wait inside,” he mutters darkly.

“Wait, do you know her?”

He gets out, slamming the door. Fuu scrambles to do the same, trying to keep up with his long strides until he wheels around to glower at her.

“I told you that I have a life outside of you and it’s none of your fucking business. Now, get inside.”

A flash of hurt briefly fractures her expression before icing over. He catches her muttered asshole when she turns back. Fine, he deserves that.

He grabs Koza by her forearm, dragging her a little ways from Kasumi's home until they’re around the fence and just outside of the glow of a streetlight busy with swarming moths.

“You gotta be out of your goddamned mind coming here,” he growls at her, keeping his voice low.

Koza’s eyes widen, rubbing her arm when he lets go.

“I didn’t have any choice, you wouldn’t answer my calls! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all week!”

He inhales. Exhales. Trying to reign in his temper.

“I’m doing my job. You think you’d remember that considering you had a hand in gettin’ me here. So what is it?”

Her eyes drop to the street.

“It’s Mukuro,” she says quietly. “He’s bad again. Really bad.”

He knows what that means. Another coke-fueled binge. Mugen is no saint; he’s experimented plenty, but being subjected to Mukuro’s erratic episodes over the years has always been enough of a deterrent. Occasionally he misses the quick burst of euphoria, the limitless kind of high you get like jumping from a cliff and surviving. But gravity collects its dues whether or not you’re ready to hit the pavement. Mukuro never learned that lesson.

When he’s on it he’s top-fucking-dog, nothing can stop him. When he’s off it, he turns into an asshole. And since that shits’ becoming harder to get, he’s almost always an asshole.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, a trickle of guilt running through him. He ignored Koza’s call the night he walked in on Fuu. Maybe none of them are in their right minds right now. But why does Mukuro have to be such a fuck-up now?

He’s noticed during his check-ins that Mukuro answers much less frequently or when he does answer, he mindlessly passes the phone off to Shiren. They’re close to having enough money that soon he’ll be able to ruin his life in luxury if he wants. He can snort lines out of a whores ass crack and he won’t say a damn thing. He’ll be gone by then. Mukuro won’t be his responsibility anymore.

“You’re not fuckin’ around with that stuff, are you?” he asks gruffly.

She fiddles with her sleeves, still not meeting his eyes.

“You know he hates doing it alone,” she mumbles. “It’s not like I want to.”

He runs a hand through his hair. The whole situation is fucked.

“What do you want me to do?” he says, pointing up at the house. “I can’t babysit him for you. He’s your brother.”

“Step-brother,” she corrects. “He’s always saying that. We’re not related.”

He’s tempted to call the whole thing off. If there’s any time to bail, it’s got to be now. He can head back on his bike, beat the shit out of Mukuro, and then take the money he has and…

It wouldn’t be enough.

It’s an empty sensation. He’ll end up in the same position or worse sooner or later. It's a vicious cycle he gets sucked into. Over and over. If he believed in it, he might wonder if he’s being saddled with some sort of karmic debt from a past life.

Why hasn’t Shiren put a better leash on him? Can’t he see what a liability he is? How hard would it be to cut him from the deal entirely and send him packing?

I’m doing all the work anyway. All these risks and complications.

“I’ll deal with him,” he decides. “But you gotta get the hell out of here. Don’t come back or you’ll ruin the whole thing.”

She hesitates. He sighs.

“You need more money?”

She bows her head in apology. Mukuro probably stole everything she had. Again.

He reaches into his pocket and crams the small wad of cash he has into her waiting hands.

“Will she suspect anything?” she asks softly, looking back up at the house.

“No,” he mutters. “Doesn’t mean people around her won’t. I have a role to play and it only works if I keep my private life away from her.”

She smooths out the crumpled bills, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

“That must be lonely. I thought maybe you two would be closer by now.”

He thinks of her arms around him, clinging to him.

“Close enough.”

“I…kinda feel bad for her.”

He looks at her. She’s wearing old ratty clothes, living with a guy who makes her do blow because he’s too much of a pussy to do it alone. She feels bad for her?

“Don’t. It’s not like I’m gonna let anything bad happen to her.”

“Bad things have already happened to her,” she points out quietly, looking torn. “Like with her mother and all of that. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t worry…”

What did she say about her mom? That she walked out on them? Since when does that constitute a bad thing? He thinks of his short childhood, and his parents—topics he usually keeps vaulted shut. He wishes leaving was the worst thing they did.

“I’m taking care of her,” he says distractedly. “When this is over, she won’t be nearly as fucked over as we’ve been.”

Koza steps into the blue halo of the streetlight. It washes her ghostly pale and she pauses, looking back at him—an apparition with an unreadable expression.

“I guess in some ways she’s luckier then.”

Mugen promised he’d return within a few hours and she did her best to appear absorbed in one of her shows, shushing him over a handful of popcorn so she wouldn’t miss anything. The second she heard his bike roar to life she jumped to her feet, hitting send on her Uber request.

She knows wherever he went, it has to do with the girl from the night before. She must have also been the one she saw calling him. Koza. A prickly thorn of jealousy lodges deeper into her chest each time she thinks of what he could possibly be doing with her today.

Shinsuke’s home is much older than hers and in a more run-down area than she’s used to seeing. The house has a grayish-brown cast to it that matches the drab sky. Nothing like the pristine manicured streets she grew up on.

He answers moments after she knocks at his door. His hair is wet and he’s quickly pulling on a T-shirt over his head.

“Sorry I’m running a little behind.” He peers around her, trailing off. “Is he…”

She shakes her head, feeling a peculiar sense that he’ll somehow materialize behind her to drag her away.

“He doesn’t know.”

“Oh. Good. Come in, ah…please excuse the mess.”

The entryway is dark and he mumbles about needing to replace the light bulb. She removes her shoes while he mutters more apologies, leading her through the home.

“Thanks again for this uh, well, here’s the kitchen…”

She stops in the doorway. It’s just as filthy as he warned her it would be. Take-out containers and spare sauce packets are scattered across the cramped countertop along with a mountain of used dishes and disposable chopsticks that would rival the ones she sees at work every night. He explains that he doesn’t always have time to cook so he ends up taking home leftovers. His mother is bed-bound most days so she can’t help either.

He rubs the back of his neck, looking stressed.

“If—If you don’t want to help anymore, I’ll understand.”

She shakes her head, smiling brightly.

“I’m ready! You just leave it to me.”

She tackles the kitchen headfirst, bagging the trash and throwing out the old containers, sweeping up weeks worth of crumbs and debris from the ground. At one point a fat cockroach skitters across her slipper and she does everything in her power to keep from crying out, deciding tact is more important than her disgust. At least her dishwashing experience from work comes in handy. She realizes how spoiled she is at home with Shino taking care of all the cleaning around the house.

While she cleans she hears the occasional sound of a conversation and a low buzzing noise from somewhere in the house, sometimes accompanied by a painful-sounding cough. It reminds her of her father and she feels a pang of worry. He hasn’t been home in a few days, and from her glimpses of his press conferences, he’s looking worse for wear. Maybe it’s just the normal stress of campaigning. She sent him a good-luck text message earlier that he thumbs upped in typical dad fashion.

With the dishes done and floors swept she works on organizing the countertops and putting away clean dishes. She tries to rescue a crisp houseplant situated on a windowsill covered in cobwebs, carefully plucking out the curled and dried leaves. There’s a tiny shoot amid the root rot and parched soil, a bright green sprout of hope. She wishes she had her mother’s green thumb. When she was a little girl, Fuu was thrilled when she gave her a handful of seeds from her garden, encouraging her to grow her own. She remembers showing her mother her failed attempts: miniature terracotta pots with weak roots and drooping stems, frustrated that her flowers never bloomed. She followed all of her directions, she just couldn’t understand what she’d done wrong. Her mother gently explained that sometimes even a good seed will die despite your best efforts.

Shinsuke enters, lighting up when he sees her progress.

“It looks amazing in here,” he says, looking close to tears. “I was just about to run to the store for some ingredients, is curry okay?”

“That sounds amazing actually. I’m starving,” she says, removing the apron she borrowed from work. Her stomach growls in anticipation. Food. She can’t remember the last time she willingly skipped a meal.

“I just gave my mother her breathing treatment. She should be lying down for a while longer. Feel free to have a seat in the living room. I’ll be back soon.”

The living room is much less messy than the kitchen, but still chaotic, packed with a lifetime and more of family pictures and heirlooms crammed on shelves. The TV is on low with a game show playing. She wanders over to a shelf to look at the photos of Shinsuke. There’s one of him in middle school holding a baseball bat, serious eyes squinting in the sun.

Mugen played baseball too.

“I thought I heard someone.”

Fuu startles and turns around.

His mother is a thin woman with dark hair streaked with silver at her temples. She smiles warmly at Fuu as she settles herself down into a worn cushioned seat by the window.

“You’ll have to forgive my rudeness,” she says, inhaling sharply. “My illness keeps me in bed for longer than I’d like. Please make yourself comfortable.”

Fuu sits down somewhat shyly on the low couch across from her. From the TV the audience erupts in a bout of applause.

“I’m sorry to intrude, ma’am. I was helping your son.”

His mother’s eyes crinkle at the corner when she smiles.

“So I see. I appreciate your help. I’m so happy he’s found such a kind girlfriend.”

Fuu goes to correct her but thinks better of it. Something about her strained expression, the slight gray cast to her skin. She swallows back the truth and nods.

“Shinsuke is very kind, too.”

His mother smiles again before closing her eyes, looking for a moment so tired and worn down that Fuu worries she may collapse right there. She takes a deep, labored breath.

“I worry about him. He’s always out all hours of the night. He used to come home with terrible bruises…I’m glad that he’s found the time to find someone he cares about. He pushes himself too hard for my sake.”

She thinks of her mother. All the things she wishes she could have said. All the questions that remain unasked. If it were her, she would work just as hard to keep her here as Shinsuke is for his mother. She would never wish the pain of navigating life without her on anyone.

“I think he works so hard because he loves you. It just shows what a good job you’ve done.”

She smiles again.

“I hope that’s true.”

When Shinsuke returns he formally introduces the two. He stumbles over his words when his mother calls her his girlfriend again and notably reddens further when Fuu doesn’t correct her then either.

His mother feels well enough to help prepare the meal, showing Fuu the right way to cut vegetables. She watches her hold the blade in her hand, carefully slicing the carrots and potatoes she washed, slowly rotating with each slice.

Maybe this is what it would be like if her own mother was alive still and she brought home a boyfriend. Cozy dinners with lots of shy smiles. Her memories of her mother get fuzzier with time, but she imagines she would be accepting of a new boyfriend while her father would definitely be more reluctant. But her mother had a way of softening his gruff attitude like a potato in water, making him more agreeable. She would make him accept it.

In her daydream, it isn’t Shinsuke milling around in the background, eager and helpful…it’s someone else she pictures. He’d be surlier, less helpful, but maybe he too would soften. Maybe she could have that effect on him too. Her heart aches when she imagines it, almost dazed when the reality around her sets back in. Because her mother is gone and in no world would it make sense for him to be there. If her mother were alive, there would be no reason for them to have met in the first place.

At the end of the evening, Shinsuke walks her out to the street. Her ride will be there soon and she’ll have to face Mugen’s wrath. She made peace with it hours ago that he’d likely be back by now, waiting to rip her head off.

“Fuu,” Shinsuke begins. “Thank you, for everything. My mom really likes you. I think today has been the best day I’ve had in my entire life.”

“You’re exaggerating!” She laughs before adding more seriously. “You’re lucky to have her. I’d give anything to have mine back.”

She remembers about his mother said: about him coming home with bruises in the past and adds gently:

“Please don’t get yourself into any trouble. It would break her heart to lose you.”

He stares at her for a long moment before taking a slow step into her space.

“I…haven’t always been a good person. There are things I’ve done that I’m not proud of. Things I thought I had to do, but tonight reminded me of why I need to get away from all of that once and for all.”

Startled by his sudden intensity, she only nods her head, hugging her apron to her chest.

“Listen,” he says, glancing around her at the ride pulling up to the street. “Can you come back and see me again? Maybe tonight sometime? There are things I want to talk to you about but I don’t want to risk my mother hearing and I know you have to get back... I can meet you somewhere. Maybe behind the restaurant after it closes?”

She hesitates. She was only able to go out now because she knew Mugen left for an errand. Sneaking out while he’s home is almost impossible.

“Shinsuke...” she begins, now ready to let him down gently.

But his face is at once both pained and determined when he leans in, eyes moving between her own and her mouth, willing her into silence. In that silence, she almost hears the roar of a motorcycle or maybe it’s just the rush of blood to her face.

Just like she didn’t stop his mother from referring to her as his girlfriend, she doesn’t stop him now. Not because she wants it or because she thinks she can’t stop him, but because like everything else in her life, it’s just something that happens to her.

She doesn’t return the foreign pressure of his mouth on hers. It’s too quick, too chaste. Like him, it’s sweet, fleeting, and somehow still unable to move her heart the way she knows it’s capable of. When he steps back, her face burns, and she can’t meet his urgent gaze.

“Please, please try to see me tonight,” he breathes.

“Okay.”

“Please.”

“I’ll try.”

Fury isn’t the right word for what he feels. Something loud rushes and pounds angrily in his ears, each boom causing a painful echo across his ribcage, a nail hammered into his sternum. He watched her slide into the back of the waiting cab, red tail lights reflecting off the wet street before disappearing around a corner.

He spent the afternoon cleaning up after Mukuro who had, of course, trashed the place again. Each time he returns home it feels more and more foreign to him. Stifling and unwelcome. This time Mukuro wasn’t home; Koza said he went out, probably to a club to get his dick sucked and ego stroked. He waited around for a while before getting impatient, deciding to go back to Kasumi’s before he got a chance to confront him.

When he found the house empty, he wasn’t angry. More annoyed with himself for believing she’d stay put. She never fucking listens and it only took one guess where she went.

Having caught the tail end of her conversation with Shinsuke, he decides he doesn’t need to go back so soon. No doubt she’s going to be relieved when she tip-toes back into the dark house. She’ll crawl into bed safe and sound and none the wiser. That leaves him with time to deal with the kid. He could do it now. He’s broken into houses before. But his mom is there and even Mugen isn’t that hungry for revenge to get her involved. He needs more ammo anyway.

Instead, he makes a quick call before hopping back onto his bike, peeling away.

A few hours later he waits behind the restaurant, itchy with anticipation. The streets are still busy, but here in the dark, it’s quiet, far enough removed from the bustle to get lost in his thoughts. By now the pounding he heard earlier has dulled to a low ache. He can’t get it out of his head: her sweetly upturned face, the hills of her cheeks pink, her voice uneven. Everything he wants—handed freely to someone else. Someone he knows now with certainty doesn’t deserve it either.

So when Shinsuke finally walks into the alley, he feels a renewed sense of righteous fury settling over him once more, kindled with his vindication. It feels good to intrude upon the place where he planned another little romantic rendezvous.

The kid’s face contorts in confusion, brows knitting together when he spots him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Expectin’ someone else?” Mugen asks with mock interest. He cracks his neck, pushing himself from the wall to stand squarely in front of him.

Shinsuke’s face hardens, but to his credit, he doesn’t look scared.

“Here’s the deal:” Mugen says flatly. “You’re gonna leave her alone from now on.”

And because the little shit has an attitude problem, he snaps back.

“Why should I? Just because you said so?”

“The way you talked before—“ Mugen tilts his head to the side. “I just had a feeling you were used to dealing with people like me. I was right. All it took was a little digging and what do you know? You owe people way worse than me a lot of money.”

Shiren did the digging for him. Turns out the kid was a well-known pickpocket before, working alone for a while but eventually he found himself a client base. So then he stopped stealing and started selling. Getting caught with a gram of anything is a one-way ticket to prison. You need protection to get away with it. Which he got. Then he made his biggest mistake: stealing from the people offering that protection. It was a risky game to play.

“But then you found yourself a little bargaining chip at school. You heard the rumors about the Governor’s daughter. That’s why you got her hired here, isn’t it?”

Shinsuke swallows hard.

“I haven’t done anything with that information. She doesn’t even talk about him.”

“But you were going to. That’s why those assholes were poking around that night at the restaurant. You opened your fucking mouth to save yourself.”

He was going to use her as collateral.

“Okay. I did. Once,” he admits, his expression pained and desperate. “But only because my mother has been sick for so long. I needed the rent money. The electricity got turned off—I thought if I could eventually learn something useful I could use it; but I never did. I like her too much. I would never hurt her like that.”

He understands that desperation well. It’s a page out of the same book he’s in. They’re in the very same position. Almost. Shinsuke might actually have better, more noble reasons. A sick mom to take care of whereas Mugen just wants…what does he want again? A way out? A girl he can’t have? He’s looking into a mirror, and he doesn’t like what he sees.

“I don’t give a rat's ass about your sob story,” he says calmly. “You’re gonna forget about her.”

Shinsuke suddenly strides forward, grabbing hold of Mugen’s shirt, his expression frantic, teeth gritted.

“What about you? For a crappy bodyguard, you were able to get that sort of information pretty quickly. I knew there was something rotten about you. I’m going to warn her about you. I’ll warn her father too.”

The tepid words that leave his mouth are devoid of emotion:

“Are you?”

Sensing his mistake, Shinsuke swallows again, realizing in real time that Mugen is blocking his way out, slowly crowding him backward until he sucker punches him in the stomach. Shinsuke releases his grip on his shirt as crumples to his knees, gasping in pain.

What else can he say?

You can’t screw her over; that’s my job?

And for how much he claims to like her, he planned to hand her over to people who wanted to hurt her. He heard the way those guys talked about using her. He compares himself to the kid, but at least Mugen was willing to jump in front of a car for her. Shinsuke planned on doing the pushing.

Does that scrub some of the grime from his tarnished soul? All he needed to do was tell Shiren that this kid was getting in the way of their plan—he’ll rough him up when Mugen is done talking to him. Scare him a little. That will take care of this annoying complication once and for all.

He doesn’t care that he changed his mind. He shouldn’t have put her in danger in the first place.

He crouches down beside him. Shinsuke flinches hard when Mugen places a hand on his shoulder. He leans in close so that listening ears won’t hear him.

“If she ever gets hurt because of your fuck up, I’ll find your mother when I’m finished with you and before I take care of her, I’ll let her know what a piece of shit her son is.”

He lets the words hang heavy before slowly pulling back. Shinsuke’s face goes white at the implication and he retches between his knees.

It’s a bluff. He’s not interested in killing women. Especially not ones who are probably already in the process of dying. The lie sours his stomach, but it’s easy enough to ignore. He’s used to walking around feeling vaguely sick with himself these days.

He stands, leaving him keeled over on the ground. He stares down at him with disgust but is satisfied that this final threat will keep him from ever reaching out to her again.

By now Shiren has arrived, watching the scene with a foxes grin on his face. Another man watches as well. Someone Mugen’s not seen before. Broken nose. Dead eyes. Tattooed wrists peeking out of his suit sleeves. He catches a brief flash of silver in the moonlight when he passes him. A swell of foreboding curdles his stomach.

“I scared him enough,” he says roughly. “What’re you doing?”

Shiren shakes his head slowly, throwing an arm around his shoulder as he leads him away from the alley. The man in the suit stays behind.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mugen repeats, panic rising in his chest. The arm around him is a vice, forcing his feet to move forward.

Behind him, he hears the beginning of a scuffle. Over his shoulder he sees Shinsuke’s sneakers kicking backward on the ground while a black shadow crosses over him.

“The people he’s been stealing from aren’t satisfied with scared,” Shiren explains, and adds: “Though, I agree, whatever you told him must have really got him terrified: he threw up his last meal.”

Dazed, all Mugen can concentrate on is the sudden silence looming behind them, even as it’s eclipsed by the noise of traffic and people passing them by like a river around stones. They stop before a vehicle parked on the street.

“Accidents happen,” Shiren says, sighing, checking his reflection in the car window, smoothing his hair with both hands before turning back. “Which reminds me; thank you for letting me know about Mukuro. I agree. He’s becoming a problem. I’m going to have a talk with him soon. Hopefully, that will straighten him out without having to resort to any of this.”

He waves a hand back at the alley.

It’s the first time he gets a good look at him. The strong cologne and the clothes he’s wearing are nicer than any he’s seen him in before. His role in this operation has changed drastically; he’s definitely not a janitor anymore.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls a few bills from a leather wallet, holding them out to Mugen. He takes them numbly, staring down at the cold, crisp edges. He looks back at Shiren in question.

“For a job well done,” he encourages. “There’s more where that came from. Loyalty is always rewarded. I’ll make sure of it.”

The man from the alley returns, brushing off his suit jacket before opening the back door for Shiren and climbing into the driver's seat. The back window rolls down, and Shiren leans out, grinning up at him.

“You head back to our girl, Mugen. We don’t want her getting lonely. I’ll call you soon.”

One step over, one step back.

Where is the line?

Is it his first step off the curb towards a girl carrying a bouquet like a doomed bride?

Is it in the alley where he left a boy to face the consequences of his actions, while Mugen left to face his own?

Or is it when he steps back over the threshold into the Kasumi home that night as Fuu flies into his arms? He holds her without a second thought like she’s the anchor he needs at that moment. His eyes are lost in the middle distance as his back hits the door, trying to figure it out. For the second time that night, someone clings to his shirt. This time there are tears. Maybe the monster that’s been growing inside of him never craved blood in the first place.

Tomorrow she’ll wonder why Shinsuke is ignoring her. She’ll wonder why he hasn’t shown up for any of his shifts. She’ll worry and fret. And all the while he’ll take her to work and watch her like he always does. She’ll live safe under his watchful eyes while the other monsters that followed him to her sniff around for an opening.

“Mugen.”

Her eyes are swollen, face wet. She can’t know already.

He isn’t even cold yet.

She looks up at him from the protective circle of his arms, taking a tremulous breath.

“It’s my dad. He’s in the hospital.”

Chapter Text

Mugen watches the girl pace: a trapped bird fluttering from one end of her cage to the other.

“Why can’t I see him yet?”

The head of her father’s security suppresses a sigh. This is the third time in an hour she’s marched over to him and asked, so he recognizes the look on this man's face: suffering under the heavy mantle of professional politeness. This is the Governor’s daughter. Defer to her. Bow to her. Apologize profusely. And later, in the hall in hushed tones, complain about what a pain in the ass she can be.

“I apologize, Kasumi-san. Your father requested privacy and discretion. As I said before: I will let you know as soon as I am able.”

There’s a familiar spark of fire raging in her eyes. She’s seamlessly moving from the crying stage to the angry one as only she can. It’s been a hectic 24 hours.

Seconds after he made it through the door, Mugen was accosted by the Governor’s security. For a full day, they were sequestered in the Kasumi home before finally being transported to the hospital, ushered in through a back entrance, and into a private wing. They confiscated his keys, his phone. Thankfully his other one is safely hidden away back at Kasumi’s place. He hasn’t had a chance to send out a warning text and after the way things went down, he’s more than okay with the forced distance.

The private wing of the hospital is nearly empty save for a few members of the Governor's security, Fuu, and himself. He can tell from their disapproving glances, he’s not liked or trusted. Maybe they’re jealous he doesn’t have an issue telling her no.

He’s been sitting in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs for so long that his ass is slowly going numb. There are no windows, so his sense of time is getting warped. It doesn’t help that the room is blandly purgatorial: neutral gray walls with inoffensive abstract art. There are fake plants and two old vending machines buzzing faintly in the corner that he’s raided twice by now. The tables are full of depressing pamphlets with pictures of the ocean and phrases like Death and Loss: Coping with Grief.

She slumps down beside him, her hands falling limp at her side.

“Why are they taking so long? What if…what if he’s already—“

“He’s not.”

“I hate it here,” she mumbles plaintively, looking at him. “I hate waiting.”

He’s been full of a lot of unfamiliar urges lately. Like the one telling him to reach out and pull her close—anything to get rid of that look on her face. It strikes a painful chord within him. Like a stitch from running too hard. He’s seconds from striding down the hall himself to see what the hell is taking so long, when the waiting room door finally swings open. Jin enters, brisk with purpose.

Fuu jumps to her feet, rushing over to him.

“Have you heard anything?”

“The Governor suffered a minor heart attack—he’s awake,” he adds when she lets out a small cry, hands flying to her mouth.

“How can a heart attack be minor,” she cries, her eyes sparkling with tears.

“It didn’t cause as much damage as they feared.”

Noticing Mugen, he reaches into his suit jacket pulling out his phone and keys. He sets them on the table before him.

“You can leave,” he dismisses. “I’ll escort her home myself.”

Fat fucking chance.

“Where she goes, I go,” he replies coolly, cocking an eyebrow. “For such a smart guy, you’d think you’d get that by now.”

“Can you two quit it,” Fuu sighs, grabbing hold of Jin’s arm. “When can I see him?”

“Now. He’s asked to speak to the two of us. Alone,” he adds coldly.

She hesitates, looking back at him, but he nods, murmuring to her.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

When she was a little girl, she was taken to this very hospital. It wasn’t an ordinary day. She might have remembered it even if nothing horrific happened. If things had gone differently, she would have looked back on it fondly as a special childhood memory.

Her mother was supposed to pick her up after school. They would take the bus together and shop for dinner on the way home. There was a bakery between the two stops that Fuu always begged to stop in. The last time they went, she pressed her little face to the glass case containing the fancy decorated cakes; the ones with fat red strawberries swirled into perfect dollops of whipped cream. Her mom promised that if Fuu brought her grades up, she would treat her to one.

“A whole ENTIRE cake?” Fuu had clarified dubiously, making sure her ears hadn’t deceived her.

“A whole entire cake,” her mother repeated. “Only if you do well on your test tomorrow.”

Fuu thought that was fair, but at the same time she worried. There was a lot at stake and she would have studied much harder if she knew dessert was on the line.

She winced and asked: “What if I only bring my grade up a little?”

Her mother pinched her fingers together.

“Then only a slice!”

She giggled at this and posed the most likely scenario: “Okay: what if I don’t get a good grade at all? If it’s really bad…Then what?”

Her mother gave her best stern expression, which is to say not stern at all. She had the kind of face that fell easily into smiles; dimpled and infectiously sweet. You couldn’t help but to return them. She impersonated her father then, stroking her chin like he did when he was deep in thought before saying in her most grave-sounding voice:

“Then you must watch me eat the cake!”

What a surprise it was in class that day to see her test with the highest mark she’d ever received. She stared down at it in awe of herself. The prospect of an entire strawberry cake held like a golden coupon in her small hands. She carefully slid it into her folder, the folder into her backpack, and her backpack over her shoulders. Precious cargo.

She had a plan ready: she would act sad and say she’d done bad, maybe even sniffle to make her think she’d been crying, and then, when her mother would go to comfort her, she’d pull it from her backpack with a dramatic flourish. A grand reveal.

So, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement, she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And when the sun began to sink lower, stretching her shadow from one end of the classroom to the other, her teacher began to call around, trying to find out why no one had shown up for her yet. She heard snatches of hushed conversations and caught a single glimpse of her teacher’s palm covering her mouth.

Fuu didn’t understand.

When her father’s security picked her up, which they sometimes did, she was worried, but not about her mother. What if they sold out of the cake she wanted? She hadn’t considered that was a possibility. She’d have to choose another…maybe the vanilla one instead, with the chocolate drizzle and crumbled cookies. That would be okay, but her heart was set on strawberry.

She still didn’t understand why they were taking her in the wrong direction or why they didn’t answer her when she very politely asked where her mother was—if she was waiting for her. Did her dad have a speech she forgot about? Had her mother simply forgotten? She was led into a hospital, where she assumed she would meet with her soon.

In the waiting room, feeling her eyes grow tired and the swinging of her legs beginning to slow, she pulled the graded test from her backpack, deciding if her mother came in, she wouldn’t draw out the reveal: if she showed her quickly, maybe there would still be enough time to get the cake.

This is where her memories begin to flicker like an old movie where the film has burnt and warped: when her father entered. Red eyes. Wrinkled suit. Childhood eviscerated. His knees gave out, and he sank down in anguish before her. The last thing she remembers is her graded paper fluttering to the ground beside him.

She went to school one morning with two parents and came home with the shell of one.

She’s hated hospitals ever since.

Now, years later, she pushes the door open to her father’s hospital room with the same sinking feelings she had back then. They twist and writhe in her stomach, squeezing painfully up to her heart. She is that same little girl, carrying the weight of how easily the entire world can collapse in an instant.

He sits up in his hospital bed, looking worse for wear, but thankfully not at death’s door like she’d been imagining.

She crosses the room and slips her hand into the one he extends to her.

“I knew you were working too hard,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

He gives her a watery smile.

“Are you going to stand there and say ‘I told you so’ and leave your poor father without a hug?”

She laughs through her sob as she bends to put her arms around him, careful to keep clear of the machines and cords cluttered around him.

She pulls back, so unnerved seeing him like this. A hospital gown instead of a suit. His dark hair peppered with gray has been neatly combed back, which makes her think he tried to make himself more presentable for her. The idea causes another lump to form in her throat.

Obviously, he’ll need to cut back on working so much. He’ll need lots of rest and she’ll tell Shino to buy foods that are good for heart health. Some diet changes, some lifestyle changes and he’ll be better soon. She goes through this mental tally, trying to soothe herself.

“Is there anything you need?”

He gestures to two chairs that have been moved close to the bed, side by side.

“There is something I have been needing to speak to you about. Both of you.”

It’s then that she remembers Jin is even there. He’s standing by the door watching the exchange and looking supremely out of place. And really, it’s a little strange. Her father is such a private man, it’s surprising he’d be comfortable with someone who isn’t family seeing him in such a vulnerable state.

“I should have brought this up to you earlier,” he begins, speaking down to the hands folded in his lap. “But here we are.”

She sinks down into the chair beside Jin.

“Before your mother passed, we began discussing your future. This…event has given me some much-needed perspective on the matter. It’s time we press forward with those plans.”

“And they are?” she asks carefully.

“Omiai.”

Bewildered, she blinks at him.

“You mean…like an arranged marriage?”

He nods once.

“But…why? And with who—”

She trails off, looking sideways at Jin for help, but he’s not looking at her. His posture is straight, his eyes steadfastly pointed forward. It clicks into place then and her mouth falls open. There’s no way.

“This is a joke,” she denies flatly.

Her mother wouldn’t have agreed to this, on that she is certain. She hated his political ambitions. His scheming. His way of sewing connections to other families that forged more opportunities for his job. It’s always been a ladder for him, climbing higher and higher. She remembers her mother’s tired face after his dinner parties and social outings. Even her famous smile became strained with the constant entertainment demanded of her as the Governor’s wife. She wanted better for her.

For the most part, Fuu’s been spared from that aspect of his life. Only her yearly walk to her mother’s grave has become something of a publicity stunt for everyone else, stripping it of its meaning. But she’s not expected to give her opinions or favor publicly. She’s been carefully shielded her whole life. Maybe that’s because she’s already so deeply embedded in his web there’s no way out.

Her father clears his throat, disregarding her comment.

“Jin’s family is respectable and have been longtime supporters and friends. I cannot think of anyone better suited for—“

“I don’t care who his family is,” she cuts in, leaning forward with a hand over her heart. “What about what I want?”

His eyes narrow and his demeanor ices over and she gets a glimpse of the steely politician he is even through the hospital gown and IVs.

“Look what happened to your mother. There are people who will do whatever it takes, including hurting you, to get to me. What you want in this case is inconsequential. Your safety is at stake.”

She huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

“I’m safe now,” she says calmly, attempting to knock some sense into the conversation. “I have Mugen and you have your security. Dad, this is silly.”

“And if something were to happen to me tomorrow? If I hadn’t made it this time?”

“Well…” she pauses, not enjoying his line of thinking. “Then, no one would have a reason to hurt me. You’d be gone.”

He shakes his head as if he pities her.

“I don’t mean to make you bear the sins of your father, but the fact is there are aspects of my job that have made me enemies. Even if they remove me from my position, even if I am dead, they may still desire to use you.” He nods to Jin. “His family has certain connections that will ensure your safety for the rest of your life—if you take his name.”

“Why can’t you just stop? Stop running,” she says, her voice rising with emotion. “We can move away and I’ll take care of you. Why does it have to be like this?”

His lined face briefly sinks into misery before hardening in resolve.

“It’s too late for that now. I am sorry.”

She stares at him, stunned.

“I realize I’ve done this out of order. I thought if you met first and got to know each other on your own, it would make for an easier transition.” He turns to address Jin. “Please schedule a time to have Fuu formally meet with your family next week. Let them know we’ll be moving forward.”

Jin nods his assent.

“Yes, sir.”

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for a dozen different reasons but most of all it isn’t fair because she sees the toll his poor health has taken on him. She sees how even this conversation leaves him exhausted. It’s not the time to fight back because she would never forgive herself if something worse happened to him.

She stands numbly when Jin does, following him out after mumbling her goodbyes. She stops him before they enter the waiting room again.

“He can’t be serious.”

She peers up at him, trying to find the truth in his smooth face. He’s always been guarded with her. Always so proper and polite. Under her unwavering gaze though he finally sighs, removing his glasses to rub his face, looking for a moment uncommonly tired.

“He is. I’ve known about these plans for quite some time now.”

“You never told me,” she accuses softly, but there’s no sting in her words. So used to secrets. “I thought he hired you to be my tutor?”

“A ruse.”

“Okay, but my grades were really bad.”

He gives her a faint smile, one corner of his mouth upturned.

“A helpful coincidence.”

“But you don’t like me,” she says plainly. “I know you don’t.”

He hesitates before saying stiffly:

“I don’t dislike you.”

She snorts.

“But you don’t have feelings for me,” she presses, already knowing the truth. He’s never been cruel to her, or unkind. Strict maybe, but nothing to give her any indication of wanting something more. Especially because she’s seen him with Shino and he’s never looked at her like that.

It’s just another dull blow to her ego. Bodyguards, housekeepers, tutors. Her father intends to purchase every person in her life. He even put a down payment on a husband for her.

“And what about Shino?”

As if prepared for this question he takes a breath.

“She will understand.”

She will, because Shino is kind and she won’t even resent Fuu’s involvement because she’ll know this is another role she’s being forced into without any choice.

“Regardless of how I feel, I will fulfill my duty to your family.”

Her incredulous laugh reverberates down the empty hall.

“How romantic! Well, you’re off the hook, seriously. Once he’s feeling better, he’ll change his mind. This whole thing has just made him paranoid, that’s all.”

“Fuu, I don’t think you understand. I can’t back out. My family and your father made this agreement years ago.” He places a placating hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “I will go through with this.”

The door to the waiting room opens. Mugen looks suspiciously between the two, narrowing in on where Jin touches her. She shrugs off his hand, retreating to Mugen’s side.

“Get me out of here.”

She leans her head against the car window, watching the city lights streak by. There have been no more tears. She doesn’t even have the emotional capacity to ruminate over anything right now. She just wants a few hours of normalcy. To pretend to be someone else. Someone whose life isn’t a constant game of money changing hands, bargaining who will gain ownership of her next.

“I want to go out.”

“Out?”

“Out,” she repeats and adds: “Like on a date.”

The words balance delicately between the two of them for a few seconds before he responds.

“We’re goin’ home.”

Her heart stammers in her chest and she decides to ignore what he’s said.

I’d love to take you out, Fuu. Do you want to go to a club? A bar? Karaoke?

“Well, I’ve never been to a club before,” she says thoughtfully, answering the faux-posed question in her head out loud. “Can we go there first? Or is there a bar you prefer? I don’t have a fake ID, so maybe karaoke is better?”

His eyebrow twitches.

“The hell are you talking about? I said I’m taking you home.”

He always speeds and now she thinks she can use that to her advantage. Despite the recklessness of the plan forming in her mind, she feels completely at ease.

Eyes on the speedometer, she says quietly:

“Take me out, or I’ll jump out of this car.”

He does a double take, eyes bouncing between her and the road.

“What?”

In answer, she slowly unbuckles her seatbelt, letting it slide across her chest, and hit the door with a pointed thunk.

“Hey—what the fuck is wrong with you?”

His voice jumps an octave as she puts one hand on the handle, flicking the lock with her thumb, her other hand keeping the door steady as she opens it. A roar of wind whips her hair as she holds it in place.

“Jesus fucking—fine, fine!”

With some effort, she tugs it shut, sealing away the vacuum of wind.

She has to brace her hands against the dash as he slows for a red light. He reaches across her one-handed and furiously buckles her back in. He must think she’s lost her mind. But this might be one of her only chances to go out and live a little before her next prison sentence begins.

After a few seconds of prickly silence, she asks:

“So, where does Mugen take his dates?”

She looks over at him expectantly, like she didn’t just threaten to jump from a moving vehicle. He’s grinding his jaw, the muscles in his neck taut.

“Back to my apartment.”

Her face heats.

“There’s got to be somewhere else.”

“Love hotel,” he suggests idly.

“You’re gross.”

After another minute of silence, she says his name warningly.

“Mugen.”

“I’m takin’ you somewhere get off my back, alright?”

‘Somewhere’ turns out to be Shibuya. He parks in a car park before leading her out onto the crowded streets.

She’s never been to this part of the city, especially not at night. The streets are packed with people clustered in groups chatting, girls perched on safety rails laughing with their friends, and men resting elbows on their knees as they smoke on curbs. The occasional drunk person stumbles out of the mazes of hidden alleyways they pass.

It’s vibrant and loud and after the stale quiet of the hospital, it’s a lot to take in.

“What were you and the nerd talking about back there?”

He’s actually my future husband. Apparently. Maybe.

She sidesteps a particularly boisterous group of guys laughing and rolling around on the sidewalk.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“It’s none of your business.”

Maybe someday after she convinces her father how stupid this idea is, she’ll tell him: you won’t believe the scheme he cooked up. He hired someone to be my tutor but he was actually my future husband. Crazy right?

Almost as crazy as threatening your bodyguard to take you out or you’ll jump out of the car. She must get her bad ideas from him.

“You know, you’re bein’ real bitchy for someone begging me for a date.”

“I did not beg you for a date,” she says, irritated. “I was asking you to take me where you take your dates. Big difference. Besides…” she chances to look at him. “You’ve been quiet too.”

It’s a dangerous place to go: back into the comfort of his arms. She didn’t even think when he came through the door that night, so sick with worry and fear that the moment she saw him, she needed him. It was gravity pulling her into his orbit. He held her, comforting her. Ever since it’s like he’s been muted. He sticks close, but she can tell his thoughts are far away.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, I see. You’re allowed to be grumpy and mysterious because you’re a guy. But I’m supposed to just tell you everything?”

He rolls his eyes, nodding towards a cramped side street lined with graffitied walls.

“You usually don’t shut the hell up, so it’s not a problem...”

She kicks an empty can down the litter-strewn street. She kind of appreciates him acting like everything is normal now though. It helps put some distance between the conversation she had tonight with the reality of tomorrow—whatever it may be.

Marrying Jin. It’s just too weird to consider.

She hears the club before she sees it: a low pulsing vibration beneath her feet. She watches his back as he leads her through a tight walkway between two Izakayas and a karaoke bar, long strings of lanterns stretching zigzag between the two. He explains that since she’s underage, they’ll need to slip in through a side entrance, but once inside she won’t get carded. It’s kind of exhilarating: doing something illegal.

With his hand on her lower back, Mugen tucks her through a door and then leads her through a maze of bodies snaking in from the darkened side entrance to a balcony overlooking a dance floor.

It’s a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and moving bodies that make it hard to see where she’s going. She relies on the steady hand at her back guiding her while the bass booms, sounding like the pulse of a beating heart.

She realizes she looks like she’s dressed for a Sunday brunch surrounded by other girls in their tight dresses and dark makeup. Her outfit was chosen at the last second before she was taken to the hospital that night: a plain cream-colored dress with thin shoulder straps chosen only because it was easy to slip on. At least she had the sense to leave her sweater in the car.

Irritated, she notices Mugen’s eyes linger on a few of the girls they pass, their plunging necklines obviously much more enticing than her own. It lends to the growing comprehension that this excursion isn’t a date at all and more like he’s taking the girl he’s babysitting out so that she doesn’t throw another tantrum.

Is it too late to think she’s made a huge mistake?

Everything in the club is connected; a circulatory system of neon lights. He shoulders them through to a bar that has its own set flashing to the beat.

“I’ll give you an hour,” he says over the music, handing her a drink.

She nods, taking an eager sip before blinking in surprise. It’s fruity and sweet but really strong. She’s only ever had maybe one or two in her life besides on holidays.

“And listen: I don’t want to have to kick anyone’s ass tonight,” he says, pulling her aside as a group passes by, nearly running into her. “Try not to get into any trouble. We don't need any more attention on us. Just—” He looks her up and down as if trying to figure out what her deal is. “Live out your little rebellious teenage fantasy or whatever and we’ll go...”

He trails off, checking out yet another girl dancing nearby in a low-cut top, winking flirtily at him. At this point she’s not even mad, just disappointed in herself for expecting anything different.

He's on her father’s payroll, but he didn’t have to take her at all. He could have called her father and told him that she’s acting crazy. Instead, he’s indulging her—somehow that feels worse. Rebellious teenage fantasy is right.

She downs the rest of her drink before promptly ordering another.

After a while she loses sight of him in the crowd but it doesn’t matter, she knows he’ll be somewhere along the periphery keeping watch when he’s not talking to some other girl. She bobs her head to the music, a thin straw held to her lips as she finishes one drink. And then another. And then somehow she finds herself on the edge of the dance floor, swaying to the music by herself, with hundreds of strangers.

It isn’t exactly the reprieve from her worries she hoped it would be. It only makes her wonder if she’ll ever have the chance to do something this spontaneous again. It’s hard to imagine. Her future is a fogged mirror; only the vague shape of some faceless darkness stands behind her. She pictures wiping away the condensation over her own face. Trapped behind glass. If she marries Jin, what will he expect of her? She wants a family, but the idea of starting one now, with him—her stomach turns unpleasantly, the alcohol in it burning. She can’t imagine doing anything like that with him.

There is someone else she can imagine it with. Easily. Lost to the beat of the song, she closes her eyes. In her mind, he’s behind her, possessively running his hands over her body, his eyes on hers in the mirror. Even within the safe confines of her thoughts, she blushes, feeling hot.

“Hey there.”

Unfamiliar hands skim her shoulders, crudely pulling her from her fantasies back to reality. She turns to see a guy a few years older than her with bleached hair and baggy clothes leering at her.

“You’re really cute!” He says over the music, leaning in way too close. “Are you here by yourself?”

She shakes her head, backing away. His breath smells sour when he gets close again.

“Do you want to dance?”

She remembers what Mugen said about not drawing attention to herself. This guy probably doesn’t mean any harm but she shouldn’t take any chances—plus his breath is making her nauseous. She spins dizzily, trying to spot Mugen again.

The music is starting to feel a little too loud, she blinks, trying to keep from swaying as she weaves through the sea of undulating bodies, feeling a million miles from herself. Pink, blue, purple. Mugen’s face is somewhere in the crowd, flashing red.

She makes it to the far edge of the dance floor, where the music isn’t quite so loud, near a secluded corner.

A hand slides around her waist, tucking her to his side. She gasps, only relaxing a little when she realizes it’s him. He leans in from behind, his lips at her ear.

“You don’t want that guy hitting on you again, do you?”

“N-no.”

I don’t, she thinks, do you? She thought he cast her off for being a pain in his ass.

“You gotta make ‘em think you met someone better,” he murmurs as he slides a hand over her stomach, pulling her flush against him, slowly swaying to the music. “Makes it more believable.”

In her pleasant, inebriated cloud his words are honey dripping down her spine, pooling in her floaty limbs. This isn’t real. This isn’t real, but… If all she can do is play pretend, she’ll play pretend.

“How?”

His voice is hotly hypnotic in her ear:

“Tell me you want me.”

Her breath catches as his hand begins tracing short lines toward her hips. Her thighs squeeze instinctually, trying to chase this new, unfamiliar feeling his touch is fueling. Her face flames as the words leave her mouth:

“I-I want you.”

The friction of his rough hand now rucking up her dress to her thigh causes her heart to stutter. He moves her hair to press his mouth just beneath her ear.

“Tell me not to stop.”

Breathlessly she repeats:

“Please don’t stop.”

It takes her several moments to notice that the other guy has long given up his pursuit of her.

The words almost make their way to her mouth, but his mouth feels so good, she can’t bring herself to make him stop. This is nothing. It’s a game for him, to press her until she’s close to breaking, but when she breaks there won’t be broken pieces to collect: it’s too late for that now, she’ll simply melt into his hands.

“Mugen I don’t—”

The hot brush of his tongue at her neck is too much, sensory overload. Red lights flashing, music pounding.

“I…I don’t feel…”

He pulls back, looking across the room.

“That got rid of the fucker.”

He looks back down at her.

“You don’t look good girly.“

The world is swaying, tilting off its axis. As usual, she’s dragged along for the ride.

“Knew’ you’d be a sloppy drunk,” he grunts, hoisting her over his shoulder in a limp piggy-back. Her skinny arms wrap around his neck, choking him while he makes the trek through the streets towards the car park.

At one point they pass by a salaryman passed out on the sidewalk using his briefcase as a pillow. She breaks into a fit of giggles at the sight, smacking his shoulder to make sure he’s looking.

“If it weren’t for me that would be you,” he bites. “Bet then you wouldn’t be laughin’.”

“You’d never let that happen!”

Where did this misguided confidence come from? He considers dropping her on her ass in the street to show her he’s serious, but he’s distracted when she begins to blow his eardrums out with her shrill voice.

“I’d choooose you over three meals a day.”

Bullshit you would he thinks sourly, selfish little bitch wouldn’t even let him have some of her snacks from the vending machine earlier. He feels bad for the poor idiot she does share food with.

Shinsuke. A bleak pit of darkness wells up in him like a drop of blood on a wound. Yeah, she would have shared with him.

He manages to drive her home without any more threats of abandoning ship. By some miracle, the house is still empty when he unlocks the front door. He kicks off his shoes, shutting and locking the door behind him while she sings the same song as before.

“Pinky swear...I would rather die!”

The lyrics become ridiculous and hard to understand, the words nonsensical. He tries to set her on her feet, but she sways, still singing deliriously.

“Your tolerance is shit.”

The club he took her to usually has the weakest drinks. He should have known she’d be a lightweight.

He scoops her up again, this time over his shoulder. He opens the door to her bedroom and deposits her onto her bed, now attempting to pull the strappy sandals from her kicking feet.

“Muuugen,” she says in a singsong voice, head lolling to the side with her eyes closed. He ignores her, managing to unstrap one and toss it to the side.

Her fingers crawl up his arm, stroking his bicep. It causes a flurry of pleasant tingles to erupt along his skin. It’s been a while since he’s had a girl touch him. It feels a little too good considering the unfortunate circumstances. Each time she flails around her dress rises up her smooth thighs, and his eyes catch distractingly onto the triangle of lavender fabric nestled between her legs.

He wonders if he made her wet earlier or if she was already too far gone to understand what he was doing.

Ignoring this tantalizing thought, he pushes her hands aside and yanks her dress back down, focusing on trying to get her to cooperate without letting her fall over and crack her head on the nightstand. Soon, she won’t be so fucking giddy and he doesn’t want to be around when the cheap drinks decide to make their reappearance.

“I have a secret to tell you,” she slurs dreamily. “Don’t you wanna know?”

“Nope.”

He finally wrenches off her other shoe, letting it drop to the ground. He shoves her legs beneath the frilly covers, jerking the comforter over her. She promptly kicks it off and sits up again. He groans, seconds away from losing his patience completely.

She reaches up and grabs hold of his mouth, causing his lips to pucker ridiculously.

“Aw, for fucks sake—”

“I like you, Mugen.”

He freezes.

“I like you so much, too much,” she continues with a loud hiccup, “and it’s the worst—worst thing ever.”

Her glassy eyes fall to his mouth, the longing in her expression so painfully palpable that he almost forgets that he shouldn’t give her what she’s practically begging for. He wants to. Badly. She’s too drunk to know better. Too drunk to know that she’s wrong about him. There’s nothing to like.

He suddenly wishes he weren’t sober either. At least then they could have the excuse of not being in their right minds together. A sloppy make-out could be excused and waved away the next day as a drunken mistake. He could make an excuse for earlier too: under the guise of keeping some other guy’s hands off of her, he’d put his on her instead. Marking territory that isn’t his.

His heart slams inside his chest.

She’s right. It’s the worst.

The hand holding his chin falls limp to her lap, her eyes sliding out of focus.

“Why…do you look at me like that?”

She slumps back against the pillows and he stands back, staring down at her until she begins to sleep fitfully.

The feelings’ not mutual. This is what he repeats like a mantra in his head. Even though he now fantasizes about pulling her soft little body beneath his nightly. He replays the image of her showering like a movie on repeat and in each increasingly filthy iteration he adds himself to the scenario until he’s under the spray of water with her, gripping her soapy hips so that he can sink to the hilt inside of her.

So far he’s been able to rationalize all attraction to her down to the simple fact that he hasn’t gotten laid in a while and she’s conveniently prancing around looking cute. Workplace hazard. He’s still all torn up over whats-her-name like Mukuro said once. A harsh voice rages in the forefront of his mind. I don’t like girls like you. I don’t fuck with them.

Yeah, right. He just carries them home and tucks them into bed.

Her drunken confession is a shot of pure sunshine and reality is the chaser. Now he doesn’t even have the luxury of believing it’s one-sided.

“Why’d you have to go and say that shit,” he says to her.

She mumbles incoherently, curling into a ball. The feelings he’s kept at bay now claw their way out from his chest with the sickly desire to crawl into bed behind her—not to fuck her, just to hold her while she sleeps, press his face into her soft hair and breath her in until that’s all there is inside of him. Like she could cleanse the oil slick in his heart.

It scares him—just how far gone he is. She’s addled his brains somehow. There’s something like the toll of a bell echoing inside of him. A final warning that there is no longer a way out of this unscathed. For either of them. Maybe there never was and he was just too stupid to realize it before now.

You fucking idiot.

The guy who tried to run her down. Her coworker. More blood to darken his hands. He might as well add her to the list too because for whatever reason she’s decided to hand him her heart when he can’t be trusted with it.

He backs out of her bedroom, shutting the door behind him. There has to be a way—some damage control he can attempt to salvage this mess he’s ended up in. With any luck, her hangover will make her forget most of what she said. As long as he doesn’t…encourage her, they’ll both survive. He can manage that.

Tomorrow, he’ll pretend like nothing happened and she’ll be too damn embarrassed to call him on it and someday, hopefully soon, he’ll be gone from her life. What happens to her after that doesn’t concern him. It can’t. The faster he gets done with this job, the better. He just needs to be more careful from now on. No more letting his feelings get in the way. No more letting her get to him.

He goes to his room and digs the burner phone from beneath the mattress and dials the only number programmed there, intending to stick one foot out the door again.

“Hey. Here’s what I know.”

Shino stops by the next day and coaxes water and medicine into her. She doesn’t ask why she’s still in bed at noon or why the sunlight burns her eyes. She must think she’s still distraught over her father, and she is, but that’s not what’s keeping her in bed, hidden beneath her covers hours later.

I like you, Mugen.

Burying her face into her pillow, she lets out a muffled cry, kicking her feet. Of all the times to open her mouth, why why why?

She doesn’t remember him responding, she doesn’t remember anything but stupidly letting her feelings slip.

She sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes. It’s much later in the evening now. Her mouth tastes horrible and her hair is a mess. She tugs the elastic from her head, massaging her aching scalp. According to Shino, her father won’t be released for a few more days. That means she’ll need to face Mugen at some point since it’s just the two of them there.

She cracks open her door and slips down into the bathroom to shower and brush the stale taste from her mouth. By the time she gets out, she decides she can’t put off facing him much longer. She’ll go to the kitchen. Make a snack. Totally casual.

He’s lounging on the couch, eyes glued to his phone. He only briefly looks up at her, his voice a little sardonic.

“Late night?”

She clears her throat and laughs awkwardly.

“You could say that.”

She goes to the cupboard, pulling down chocolate chips, flour, and sugar. It’s good to have a task to keep herself occupied. Crack eggs. Level flour. Preheat the oven. Pace the kitchen going over every possible scenario of the conversation she needs to have. At one point she has to start over when she realizes she’s measuring salt instead of sugar. From the living room the TV is turned low and she hears the creak of him tracking across the floor toward her.

Heart leaping into her throat she turns, overenthusiastically mixing in too many chocolate chips, spilling them over the side.

The fridge opens behind her and she hears the sound of glass clinking followed by the hiss of a bottle opening. She can’t stand the silence any longer.

“Hey. Did I say anything…weird to you last night?”

“Just the usual shit drunk people say and don’t mean,” he says, sounding bored.

“Well, I think I…” she inhales sharply. Don’t put it off; just say it. “I told you that I like you.”

“Yeah. Don't worry about it.”

“You—you heard me say it?” she asks uncertainly.

“Yep,” he yawns.

“And you—”

“It’s not like it’s a big deal, girly. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“Oh.”

She frowns to herself, scooping dough balls onto a cookie sheet. So, he heard her and he thinks it’s not a big deal. That it’s something she said just because she had been drinking. Her hands slow. She might have been tipsy but that doesn’t mean she would lie to him and besides that: she confessed and he’s not at least a little taken aback by it?

From where he set his phone down on the counter, she sees an unnamed contact pop up on his notifications. There it is. She slides the tray into the oven a little aggressively, letting the door slam shut. That’s why he doesn’t care. Is it the same girl as before? Someone new he met last night when she wasn’t around?

She begins to lick the spatula clean, biting off bits of raw cookie dough and chocolate chips.

“You’re gonna get sick.”

He grabs his phone, swiping a thumb across the screen as he takes another swig of his beer.

Like you care.

“Is that your girlfriend? Is she going to come by again?”

She continues to nibble moodily at the spatula, looking away from him. He chuckles.

“Why? Are you jealous?”

He says it so smugly, so cruelly. She can’t stand it. She tosses the half-licked spatula into the sink full of soapy water. It splashes her and she groans, snatching a cloth to wipe the mess from her pajamas.

“No. Go ahead. Maybe you should take the night off to see her! I’m not going to be in any danger here. I’ll just sit around and wait for someone to come back and tell me what to do or tell me that my feelings are just meaningless drunk words.” It’s at this point the traitorous tears spring to her eyes and her voice goes wobbly. “I can’t believe I don’t affect you at all. I’m a woman too, you know. Why did you hold me if you don’t care about me? Do you really not—“

Abruptly, he spins her around to face him, hoisting her up onto the counter in one breathless movement.

He grabs her jaw, pulling her mouth roughly to his. A muffled oh gets lost somewhere between her lips and his. It isn’t like the innocent, passionless kiss she shared with Shinsuke—this sets off a spark of something powerfully addictive, rippling down to the rest of her body, driving away every thought. The hand at her jaw softens, moving to cup her face in his palms.

It’s a sweet, slow-building, slowly growing thing unfurling its leaves between them. It’s probably been there this whole time, waiting to be watered and tended to. Nothing else matters, nothing else feels as right and as good as his lips on hers.

The hand on her face disappears and reappears on her legs—twin movements sliding down the sides of her thighs, spreading her legs to slot himself firmly between them.

Her lips part, allowing him the access his tongue is demanding against the soft seam, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. Having no real experience she can only follow his lead and her own instincts. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat when her tongue tentatively meets his, causing a flutter of delight in her heart. He tastes like heat and honey and something so indescribably him—how will she ever fully satisfy that craving?

They break apart after a minute, both breathing heavy and uneven. She searches his face, lost in a rose-colored daze. It’s a little like being drunk. Or in a trance. It’s Eve after her first bite of something deliciously forbidden, something sweet held for so long out of reach and triumphantly snatched.

More brazen than she thought herself capable, she curls her fingers into the collar of his shirt, pulling him to her again. She’s always been like that. Always craving something more, something sweeter—the whole cake if she can have it.

He returns her kiss, but it’s frustratingly restrained like he’s struggling to keep hold of himself. She frowns at him.

Don’t hold back now.

Every time he pulls away she leans forward to chase his mouth again, too greedy to care or wonder why he keeps doing it. If he wanted to, he could push her away. He could tell her to stop, but he doesn't. It’s like she knows she has to keep at it: that eventually the wall he has up between them will crack like sugar and melt beneath her tongue. She just needs to keep pressing persistent little kisses to his mouth until he crumbles.

And he does.

He becomes more urgent, sloppy, his tongue tasting hers, moving to her throat, slick and sharp against her pulse while she pants softly, clutching onto his shoulders—the graze and bite of his teeth making her gasp. His ragged breathing triggers a frenzy inside of her for more and more. Her eyes flutter shut, becoming lost to it, arching forward, needing to be so much closer than she is.

She wraps her arms around his neck, ankles hooking behind him, anchoring him against her. That’s when she feels him: hot and hard through his sweats, rubbing through the thin material of her shorts at the apex of her spread thighs—a concentrated bolt of electricity that elicits a startled moan.

He goes still, staring down at her through hooded eyes. Alarm shoots through her. For the first time, she wonders if she’s poked around the cave of an animal she can’t yet tame. He grabs her waist, dragging her body against his with exaggerated slowness. She shudders, another involuntary whimper escaping. His eyes shut and she watches his throat move as he swallows.

“Fuu.”

He says her name like a reprimand, like a warning he knows she’ll be too stubborn to heed.

Something is burning.

The bitter smell of smoke suddenly fills her nose. She forgot to set a timer for the cookies. They break apart and she hops off the counter, in her frazzled state unable to locate the oven mitt. Mugen finds it before her, brushing past to open the oven and throw the sheet onto the stove top, waving away the smoke and cursing. He’s uncharacteristically clumsy, knocking over his drink in the process.

“Shit—“

“I’ll get it,” she says quietly, grabbing a towel to sop up the foamy mess.

Now feeling a slow return to her senses, she looks up at him, surprised to see the faint flush of red showing through his dark complexion. Has she ever seen him blush before? Him, of all people? When their eyes meet, he swallows again, looking almost alarmed, shy. It’s so endearing, that she can’t help but smile.

At this, he backs away, looking flustered.

“Sorry,” he mutters and leaves before she can say anything else.

She helps herself to one of the only cookies on the sheet not completely blackened. Even burnt, it still tastes sweet.

Chapter Text

“Welcome, Governor Kasumi.”

“Takeda-san. It’s good to see you again.”

“Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope your trip wasn’t too taxing.”

“Not at all…”

Fuu zones in and out of the banal back and forth about the warm weather and her father’s upcoming reelection. She’s directed to sit beside Jin while his parents and her father sit across from each other at a low table. The room is lovely; traditional style with sweet-smelling tatami and open shoji screens affording them a breathtaking view of a picturesque courtyard.

When her father asked Jin to schedule a meeting with his family, she didn’t think it would be so quick. She also didn’t know her father could be released so soon. From his evasive explanation on the ride over, he likely temporarily bribed his way out of the hospital to speed up the engagement process.

Jin pours tea for her but otherwise adds nothing to their parents’ conversation. He drums his fingers against the table, his sharp eyes obliquely taking in the scene.

Fuu reaches for the cup in front of her, attempting to slip back into the role she was made for: the governor’s good and submissive daughter, but It’s like slipping into a pair of shoes she’s outgrown. Nothing fits right. She’s fidgety, unable to get comfortable in the stifling company. Too much has changed to go back to who she was before. For one, a good and submissive daughter doesn’t make out with her bodyguard in the kitchen.

The memory sends a flash of heat rushing to her face causing her to choke. She sets it down, spilling more in the process. Muttering apologies, she reaches for a stack of napkins in the center of the table to sop up the mess with shaking hands.

Jin’s mother gives a subtle nod and someone arrives to mop up the rest of the tea, relieving Fuu of her soggy lump of napkins. His mother is intimidatingly flawless possessing the eerie perfection of a porcelain doll. She’s also a gracious host, smoothing over Fuu’s blunder so that it barely makes a dent in the conversation.

Fuu sits back. How did she do this before? Was it easier? It was lonely being invisible, but being dragged into the spotlight is another kind of torture.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Jin’s father declares, nodding to his son. “You should take Fuu on a tour of the grounds.”

While Jin’s mother appears to be made from porcelain, his father is carved from driftwood. A long-healed scar bisects his face diagonally from brow to lip. It has a striking effect. He must have been a looker in his youth. Jin seems to favor his mother’s cold perfection more.

With this dismissal, the two of them stand. Fuu hesitates a moment, silently pleading with her father to look at her and understand that it isn’t too late. They don’t have to go through with this. His shoulders are straight, lined face resolute as he accepts another cup of tea with a smile. She doesn’t move until she feels Jin’s gentle hand at her back, urging her from the room.

He leads her through a pavilion overlooking the courtyard shaded by spindly pines and curving maples. This far into the mountains, they’re spared from the worst of the summer heat. Jin explains that the property has been in his family for hundreds of years. He points out a dilapidated building on the edge of the property overlooking the pond they stop at and says that it used to be a restaurant before falling out of disuse during World War II. She shudders. It’s like something out of an old ghost story.

They stand there for a moment longer in the relative quiet of rustling leaves and birdsong. Had it been any other time under any other circumstances, it would be lovely. But with the two of them alone, it feels like a rehearsal for her future.

“I think this is the part where we’re supposed to get to know each other better,” she says, sounding dull. “We can try to find something in common so we’re not miserable for the rest of our lives.”

Right now, their parents are discussing the terms of their engagement. She inhales a sharp breath, holding it in her chest. Her life is being decided over a cup of tea while she’s just stuck waiting.

She bends to scoop up a handful of rocks and hurls it into the pond as hard as she can. A few bounce off the barks of trees while the rest break the perfect surface into dozens of rippling concentric circles. A few nesting birds give indignant squawks, taking flight.

“It’s fine if you don’t say anything because it just proves how stupid this whole thing is.”

“I recently passed the bar exam,” he finally offers.

She pauses in the middle of picking up another handful of pebbles, letting them slip through her fingers.

She almost forgot he was studying to be a lawyer. He’d been in school a while. When he wasn’t helping her with her schoolwork, she saw him pouring over complicated textbooks on law with titles so long that she’d lose interest before reading the whole thing. “Oh. That’s—that’s great, Jin. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

She smacks the dirt from her hands. She’s being a moody brat. That’s what Mugen would say. Actually, he would probably use more colorful language. She never used to be this way. She used to be better at holding it all in, but it isn’t a part of her that’s easy to seal shut again. Still, Jin doesn’t deserve all of her ire; it isn't entirely his fault. He’s just doing the right thing and behaving like a good son.

“What made you want to be a lawyer?” she asks.

He looks out over the grounds, measuring his words carefully.

“Since I decided against going directly into the family business, I needed to become useful to them in other ways. It seemed like the best fit.”

The family business. The words are austere. A solid wooden frame around a picture containing…nothing.

She watches a spider scramble up the side of a mossy tōrō lantern. One thing is obvious: this amount of wealth comes at a cost. The security. The enormous estate tucked into the private mountains. The mixture of reverence and fear in every face they passed upon entering. Her father may be Tokyo’s Governor, but even part of him is beholden to Jin’s family.

Jin adjusts his glasses, an almost imperceptible frown creasing his smooth face.

“You have nothing to worry about, but the less you know, the better.”

It’s a vague statement, but unlike the vagueness of his family’s business, she understands exactly what he means. It isn’t just the less she knows, it's the less she is—the less she becomes. Then, maybe all of those secrets will erode at her until she’s as pretty and smooth as porcelain herself. They’ll place her on a shelf so that someday it will be her on the other side of the table dictating her child’s life.

“I realize this isn’t an ideal situation,” Jin lectures, keeping his voice apologetic yet firm. “But I will do everything in my power to give you the life you want.”

Fuu crouches down and tears the only unruly weed not meticulously plucked by a gardener from between the stepping stones, wincing when its spines stab into the pads of her fingers. The kind of life she wants can’t be handed over; it can only be taken.

Mugen receives a text early that morning from the Governor giving him the day off. As soon as he heard them leave, he made his way back to Mukuro’s apartment and collapsed onto the old couch in the garage—he didn’t bother telling anyone, preferring instead to be alone somewhere familiar.

He turns on the mini split AC and pulls the old comforter Koza had draped over the back of the couch and covers himself. The faint fumes of spilled gas and oil probably aren’t good for his brain, but there’s comfort in that smell. It’s as far from Fuu’s vanilla-strawberry-sweet scent as you can get.

He shudders. It’s like an infection spreading through him. She’s like the fucking flu. Even with the distance, his sleep-deprived mind latches back onto her. Her tears, her taste, her smell, the way she sounded gasping in his mouth, the wet heat waiting between her legs. Worst of all: the way she wanted him in return. That alone had him hightailing it out of there like he was the trembling virgin. It’s one thing to be hungry, but another to be devoured in return.

So much for keeping one foot out the door. He’s just continuing his casual slide towards destruction.

I’m so fuckin’ stupid…

Gentle hands prod him awake. He turns and groans. Hours must have passed. Sleeping on the couch didn’t do his back any favors. His vision blurs as his eyes open and for a second he thinks it’s Fuu standing over him. He blinks and rubs his eyes until Koza materializes. Her eyebrows knit together in concern.

“Are you okay? You’re making noises in your sleep.”

He sits up, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “What time is it?”

He pats the blanket, searching for his phone. Koza taps his shoulder, holding it out to him.

“It was on the floor, sorry.”

He takes it from her, seeing the handful of missed calls and messages.

“Mukuro here?” he asks, yawning.

“No. I think he stayed out late again.” She sits on the other side of the couch, hugging an old crocheted throw pillow to her chest.

It almost feels like old times. Koza used to sit and watch him work on his bike when she got home from school. It annoyed him at first, but after a while, he learned to tune her presence out. She didn’t add much to the conversation when Murkuro was there, but she wasn’t bad. Just quiet. Sometimes he’d notice her looking at him with this expression on her face—wistful and sad. It’s only now that he realizes what it was. Fuu gave him the same one during her drunken confession. What does it say about him that he keeps attracting sad little girls?

“You could have come upstairs,” she says gently, plucking gray threads from the frayed pillow.

“Woulda’ been a bad idea,” he mutters, throwing the blanket off of him. “All I need is Shiren showing up to nag me for not having enough dirt for his shitty boss.”

“He’s been really determined lately,” she agrees.

“Yeah.” Determined to make things worse. Part of Mugen’s soul is probably icing over from the numbness of keeping everything down. Will the pot of money at the end of this bleak rainbow make up for the nameless driver and Shinsuke? No. But he can at least try to prevent any more names from popping up on that list.

Koza searches his face. “It’s getting harder for you to bear, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing,” he exhales, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubs his face. Usually, any sort of acknowledgment of weakness makes him defensive, but for some reason, talking to someone who knows helps. He stares down at his hands. “He’s being too reckless. Always demanding shit I don’t have. Not like I’m not tryin’ I’m there all the fucking time.”

“Mugen,” she says hesitantly, “What if he wants you to stay there for a long time—a really long time?”

He hadn’t considered how long he’d be at this. Koza is right: what if nothing is ever enough? What if it stretches from months to years? A long con game with Mugen sinking deeper and deeper into muddy water with no way back to the surface. Every piece of information he gives becomes another rock in his pocket. A fresh kind of misery sinks into his stomach.

“We could leave,” she whispers and seizes his forearm, smiling through a wildly pained expression. “We could go back home—back to the ocean. Just me and you. We could go tonight—right now if you wanted!”

Slowly, he turns to look at her. It’s as if he’s seeing her clearly for the first time. The fervor in her eyes, the strength in her desperate grasp. The lifeline she’s trying to throw isn't for him at all.

The garage door rolls open, sending a dusty wave of summer afternoon heat flooding into the space. Koza jumps back, leaving behind the ghostly imprint of her fingers on his arm.

“Well,” Shiren cries, sauntering inside. “That explains why you didn’t answer my calls. You got bored with one pretty girl, so now you’re here to bother another?”

“He’s not bothering me,” Koza mutters in a brittle voice.

Mugen gets to his feet. Here we go. “The old man gave me the day off.”

“Just because you got the day off with the old man, doesn’t mean you got one with my boss.”

My boss. Mugen is so sick of hearing him say that—like he’s waving around an ofuda. Whoever this guy is, he’s not Mugen’s boss. Neither is Shiren—no matter how many tacky suits he buys or how many asses he’s kissed to be able to afford them.

“Why’d he give you the day off?” he asks curiously.

“He took Fuu and left.”

“Where?” Shiren asks as he plops down taking Mugen’s place on the couch. “He's still supposed to be in the hospital.”

“Fuck if I know.”

Shiren’s face tightens with annoyance.

“You should know.”

“He just had a heart attack,” Mugen says defensively. “Maybe she’s taking him to an appointment or something? Give me a break.”

Shiren’s eyes narrow to slits.

“You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”

Mugen ignores him, bending to swipe his keys from the ground.

“You don’t actually give a shit that he had a heart attack,” Shiren laughs, tossing his arm over the back of the couch. “Don’t scare me like that. You almost had me believing you grew a conscience.”

“What’s your boss's end goal?” Mugen hedges, keys digging into his clenched palm. “Blackmail him for better taxes or some shit?”

Shiren sits up straight, delighted by the question.

“I’m glad you asked. I always thought you should show more initiative.” He clears his throat and continues. “The governor, like all politicians, is in a lot of pockets, but not the pockets he should be in because Kasumi thinks he’s above it. He’s still on his whole anti-crime tirade, which makes it difficult when smuggling in contraband. That’s a lucrative business, by the way. When you finish up with the governor, I think you should look into it.”

“I don’t need career advice,” he responds flatly.

Shiren raises his eyebrows as if surprised Mugen isn’t flattered by the suggestion he move from backstabbing bodyguard to drug smuggler. “Suit yourself. Anyway, some people think it’s time for him to step aside. He might be anti-crime, but that doesn’t mean he’s not into something illegal. The governor thinks he’s too smart to be put in his place, but he hired you, so he’s not that smart, is he?”

On that, they agree. The old man is a shit judge of character. Must be genetic. The rest of his explanation sounds like a lot of hot air.

“I just wanna know there’s going to be an end to this bullshit.”

“Oh, there’s an end in sight, but if I tell you too much, there’s a chance you’d let it slip.”

Just like when he didn’t tell Mugen there would be a car gunning for Fuu. “Because it worked so well before?”

“It did,” Shiren answers calmly, greed gleaming in his eyes. “Now you have the governor’s pretty daughter in your pocket. Look, he gave you the day off, which means that he took her somewhere safe enough that he was confident he wouldn’t need you. You want this to be over? Start by finding where they went and why.”

Another stone for his pocket. Mugen snatches his helmet from the workbench before straddling his bike and cranking it to life. An odd sensation prickles at the back of his neck causing him to pause before flipping his visor down. He never answered Koza. It’s not like she was being realistic; he’s sunk too far now.

He glances back at her, not quite understanding what it means when her eyes aren’t trained on him anymore, but on Shiren.

Fuu’s father made her promise that she’d wait until Mugen returned the following day before going out anywhere. It was an easy promise to keep seeing that she only wanted to be around Mugen anyway. She just hoped he wasn’t really taking the whole night off too. She kept busy doing chores since Shino had been given a few days off as well. For that at least she’s grateful. She doesn’t want to face her friend just yet, even though Jin has probably already broken the news to her. He’s not the type to let something like that linger unnecessarily. It would be cruel.

Before they parted that afternoon, he pressed a quick lifeless kiss to her cheek. Not expecting it, Fuu turned at the last second so that his lips hit the corner of her mouth instead. It wasn’t driven by a sudden rush of affection or passion, it was for the benefit of their respective families watching with subdued satisfaction by the display. That kiss sealed her fate.

“Where did you go today?”

She nearly jumps out of her skin, turning to see Mugen framed in the doorway to his room. Her pulse gives a fluttery skip. She didn’t hear him come in.

“You’re home! I was just putting these away for you.” She gestures to the laundry basket. He kicks it aside carelessly as he enters.

She groans, bending to scoop up the clothes that tumbled out.

“Hey! These are clean,” she scolds.

“You didn’t answer me: where were you?”

She stands back up, swiping a strand of hair from her face. If she didn’t know him so well, she might be frightened by the cold mask he wears. His face is unusually grave. It was the kind of expression that probably frightened strangers, but for her, it was just a source of confusion: where is all of that intensity stemming from?

“My dad got a break from the hospital. We…we spent the day together. That’s all.”

She cringes at her inept attempt at lying. It’s technically true. She did spend the day with him…among other people. She doesn’t like lying to Mugen. He’s the one person she’d like to confide in most, but the idea of him knowing would make it real. She isn’t ready to live in that reality just yet.

He holds her gaze a second longer before nodding to himself, evidently satisfied with her answer.

“I missed you.”

Untethered from the words, she holds her breath until her lungs ache, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. His flint-colored eyes are intense on hers.

“You know I’d be fuckin’ stupid to do anything with you.”

The aching breath she held stutters out, leaving her deflated. Her throat constricts painfully and she gives a stiff nod, ready to crawl back to her room.

Contrary to his words he takes a slow step forward and pulls her to his chest, resting his head on top of hers. She freezes, trying to remember how to draw oxygen into her lungs. She waits for him to explain himself, but he doesn’t.

“Um, if you can't, why are you doing it now?”

“Guess I’m fuckin’ stupid.”

A surge of happy relief fills her back up again. “That’s okay. I think I’m stupid too.”

He doesn’t argue this, but he does look strangely miserable when she pulls back to look at him. Her smile fades.

“I know you could get in trouble,” she continues, guessing the reason behind his misery. “So, we can keep it a secret…if you want.”

Jin’s words return to her: the less you know, the better. In this case, it’s protection for both of them—even if it is mostly self-serving.

“Keep what a secret?”

Her mouth opens, but she fails to produce any words.

He tilts his head. “Sneaking into my room?”

“I wasn’t sneaking in,” she mumbles. “But…but yeah. Stuff like that.”

“That’s not a big deal. It’s your house,” he says. “You can go wherever the hell you want. You have to do something to make it secret-worthy.”

Her face heats at his line of thinking. Of course, he’s right. She’s still so new at all of this and it isn’t exactly a normal situation. She clears from her mind the fact that he’s her bodyguard and that she’s technically engaged. Under normal circumstances he’d be her boyfriend, right? You only kiss guys in your kitchen if they’re your boyfriend. Even though that particular kiss quickly spiraled out of control. That isn’t to say she didn’t enjoy the spiral. In fact, that’s exactly what she’s craving.

“I…want to do things with you,” she says shyly, now avoiding looking at him at all costs.

“Like what?” he murmurs. “Show me.”

Stubborn infuriating jerk. She smolders under his expectant gaze, trying to gather the courage to put her money where her mouth is. She inhales slowly, stretching on her tiptoes, and presses her mouth to his. Like their first kiss, it’s a slow slide into unfamiliar territory. Her hands are balled into fists at her side before she decides to rest them on his shoulders instead. She’s clumsy and unsure, attempting moves to a dance she doesn’t know.

But Mugen does.

He coaxes her lips to part for his tongue. It’s a match strike into gasoline, which is fitting considering she can smell it on him, just faintly. She almost wants to pull back and ask where he was today, but he chooses that moment to break apart and pose a question of his own:

“Your old man gone?”

Still a little dazed from the kiss, she nods absently.

“Good. Come on.”

She lets him lead her from his room to the restroom across the hall. Once inside he turns the faucet on the shower. He turns back, tugging his shirt over his head. Her stomach somersaults.

“Isn’t this a little fast?” she asks dizzily.

“That’s the only speed I know, girly.”

Flustered and trying not to openly gawk at his bare chest, she stammers out: “B-but why in here?”

“Cause I wanna get you dirty.” He grins wolfishly and adds: “And for another reason, but I'll wait to tell you that when I think you’ll be less mad at me.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously, crossing her arms over her chest.

He pauses, uncertainty passing over his features.

“Look, I’m not gonna make you do anything, so if you don’t—”

“It’s not that!” she says quickly. “It’s…It’s just embarrassing if you’re looking right at me.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Are you kidding me? You’ll try to jump out of a fucking car, but me seeing you naked is a big deal?”

“Yes, you idiot!” she says hotly, slapping his chest. “That’s completely different!”

He catches her hand, holding it over his heart. His pulse knocks against her fingers. She swallows. Yes, much scarier. In fact, she’ll jump from the car now, thanks.

He turns her around and pulls her flush against his chest.

“There, you brat. I’m not lookin’ right at you.”

It’s actually the same, but she likes how gentle his voice is—even with the name-calling. He helps pull her sleep shirt over her head, letting it fall to the side. She bends hesitantly, letting her shorts drop to her ankles, and kicks them aside. He briefly grazes her shoulder with his mouth. One bra strap slips down her arm and then the other. She feels his thumb and forefinger snap the hooks open against her spine, letting it fall.

Panic begins to swell again. It truly is 0-60 with him. As much as she wants this—wants him, she doesn’t want her inexperience to cause her to say or do something stupid. What if he doesn’t like what she looks like?

His hands are warm against her body, glancing over her stomach. Even with the hot clouds of steam billowing from the shower she shivers, goosebumps erupting across her skin. When he cups her breasts, she can’t help but blurt her thoughts aloud.

“Sorry, they’re not that big!”

He pauses. “You think I give a shit about that?”

Yes, she thinks sourly. He’s made plenty of comments about girls' racks before. At the time she found it annoying; now it’s another source of insecurity she has to contend with.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmurs, languorously kneading her breasts before rolling her nipples between his fingers, giving each a not-so-gentle tug. Her mouth falls open with a startled cry. It’s a wonderfully dizzying sensation, tied directly to a spot between her legs that feels as though it has its own heartbeat. He does it over and over until her legs nearly buckle beneath her.

He snaps the elastic to her panties. “Take these off.”

“But—“

He turns her around and her arms fly to cover her chest.

Unperturbed by her shyness, he maintains eye contact with her as he takes off the rest of his clothing—swiftly popping open the button and fly of his jeans. She gets a glimpse of his cocky smirk before she looks away in alarm. He grabs her hand, forcing her to palm him through his boxers.

“Is that enough proof that I like what I see?”

She squeals, momentarily forgetting to cover her chest again.

“Mugen!”

He gives her an unapologetic grin. “You’re actin’ like it’s not obvious.”

She frowns, looking at him reproachfully.

“You once told me that I had nothing you wanted.” The memory still stings her ego. It wasn’t long after he first got hired. Things have changed since then, sure. But even with the physical proof still blazing bright in her mind, it’s difficult to set those fears aside. “Sorry if it’s still a little hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea.”

“If you wanna wrap around something hard—”

Her eyes flash with outrage. She picks up her discarded clothes, ready to get dressed again at record speed.

“Wait.” He briefly hangs his head with a sigh. When he looks up, his expression is repentant.

“When I said that about you, I was lying.”

Her lips thin and she suppresses a sigh. “It’s fine. You don’t have to say that to make me feel better—”

“I’m not lying,” he says firmly. “Not about that, I mean. I’m not sayin’ I wouldn’t lie, cheat, or steal—I’d do worse to end up standing here, trust me. I want you. Even back then I did. Not that that’s the only thing I want, but,” he pauses, as if he’s confusing himself. He swallows thickly, his eyes going slightly unfocused. “Shit. Listen, it’s really hard for me to think straight when your tits are out.”

Before she can reply, he removes the last of his clothing and steps inside the shower, waiting beneath the spray of water for her to make up her mind. As confident as he’s playing it, he really does seem worried she’ll chicken out. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Vulgar language aside, it is endearing watching him struggle to say the right thing.

She takes a steadying breath, sliding the last bit of fabric down her legs, and joins him. Almost immediately she yelps, trying to hop away.

“Gah, Mugen, it’s way too hot!” she sputters.

“Yeah, I have that effect.”

She turns to face him, lips twisted in a pout. He breaks into a laugh, a deep one that rumbles through his chest and eventually, she joins him. It helps dispel some of the heavy tension. He gives her a fleeting lopsided smile and tugs her hair from its ponytail to let it fall over her shoulders.

“I’m going to look like a drowned rat,” she complains and she swears that beneath the hiss of the shower, she hears him say a cute one.

He looks so different with his hair wet. When it’s not in the same unruly mess on top of his head sticking out every which way, it’s much longer. Dark strands cling to the hollows of his cheeks. She gets lost memorizing his face; from tiny shaving nicks and stubble to something as impermanent as a single drop of water balancing at the end of one of his eyelashes. He blinks and the drop slides down his face like a tear. She lifts a hand to capture it with her thumb.

A slow smile blooms across her face. “You’re kinda handsome.”

His eyes pierce hers with the same intensity as before, only now they flicker with something else—something vulnerable. Unnecessarily, he licks his lips before kissing her again. Her skin is already flushed rosy from the water but it spreads further to her face when she feels him against her stomach. She pulls back with a breathless huff.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits.

His gaze becomes a tangible thing—a touch she feels it drop from her mouth down to the rest of her body. “Let me do everything.”

She watches curiously as he grabs her body wash from the niche in the wall, pouring some into the palm of his hand. Her heart rate accelerates when she realizes what he intends to do. He works his hands into a lather before spreading it across her body. Over her arms, her shoulders, her stomach, encircling her waist and sliding back up to her chest. Paired with the hot water streaming over them, it’s almost like a massage—if the masseuse was a pervert. Not that she minds at all. She leans against him and closes her eyes, letting out the occasional contented sigh.

His hands glide down her backside and over her thighs. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh of her hips and pulls her tighter to reach between her legs. She stiffens, muttering weak protests.

“I wanna see how wet you are.”

Just as she opens her mouth to respond that they both are, he sinks a finger inside of her.

“Mugen!”

He chuckles darkly, his breathing heavier than before. “What? You don’t like it?”

“I—”

She doesn’t have words for how it feels; at first foreign and strange, but slowly becoming a cause for her to squirm impatiently. He does an almost leisurely exploration of her, spreading her, tracing light circles and strokes that cause her thighs to twitch. His other hand rises to her chest, tweaking a nipple at the same time. She moans, instinctively attempting to ground herself to his palm. Oh. She does like it.

She’s tried touching herself before, but could never quite find the right technique. That nice feeling never lasted. It was like the quick flick of a lighter: all sparks, no flame. Shame sometimes chased it away or she would simply get bored trying to figure out what exactly she liked. It was always a frustrating exercise that took her nowhere and left her feeling dissatisfied. Distantly, she thinks it unfair that Mugen would get it right away—that he’s able to effortlessly find and tease every sensitive spot on her until she’s literally melting into his hands.

Soon her body is undulating against his, and his heavy breaths join hers, swirling in the steam. “Just like that,” he encourages with a harsh whisper. “Fuck, you’re so—” But whatever she is drops away with a grunt. He’s practically rutting against her slippery body as he fingers her. She likes that too. She likes that he sounds nearly as lost as she is. It’s nice; not being alone.

Too soon she feels what used to seem like an insurmountable wave begin to crest and crash.

Fuu slumps weakly against Mugen’s chest. Feeling her come is enough to drive him insane. He thought taking it “slow” since she’s a virgin would make it easier on them both. He thought he could maintain his cool, but he can’t. Even though he knows he sounds pathetic, he practically begs her: “Touch me.”

Her flushed profile glances up at him over her shoulder. He thrusts against her hip impatiently until she reaches down and takes him in hand.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah—harder,” he sucks in a distracted breath, thrusting into her fist. “Oh fuck—“

She slips to her knees. “Does this feel better?”

It’s an innocent question, but the sight of her on her knees pumping his cock with both hands wrecks him. He short circuits; an electric jolt of pleasure shooting up from the base of his spine. He comes with a stifled groan, hands splaying against the shower tile as the edges of his vision white out.

It takes several long seconds for him to come back down from the high. In that time, Fuu gets to her feet again and he catches her discreetly rinsing off.

She mumbles shyly, “I guess I see why you wanted to do this in the shower...”

Post-nut clarity usually hits him in a way that makes him cold, craving space, but now he feels a surge of affection for her. Like he needs her more than before. One of those stupid urges suddenly overcomes him; the kind that makes him feel like a lovesick dog. He kisses her forehead and whispers.

“You’re really gonna hate me someday.”

There may have been a time she would have believed him. Like in the very beginning when she had the exact right idea about him. But now she just smiles dreamily, already standing on tip-toes again to give him another wet kiss.

He shouldn’t accept it, he has no right to. She can’t absolve him of his crimes without knowing what they are, and how they’ve affected her life. Every hand she holds out to him will hurt her later but he still takes it because what else does he have? He’s just a reckless driver enjoying the ride before the brakes give out, careening towards his end. They both are.

Later, he waits until he’s sure she’s asleep before he slips soundlessly into her bedroom. Fuu is curled on her side in a haphazard nest of blankets, legs drawn up from the sheets, one hand resting beneath her face. Like a chipmunk. He pokes her cheek, smiling to himself when she frowns in her sleep, swatting him away.

Her bedside table is cluttered with bobby pins, tubes of chapstick and scrunchies. He takes one of the thin pink ones and snaps it around his wrist. A half-written grocery list grabs his attention.

-Oden

-Konnyaku

-Low Sodium broth

-Roasted sweet potato

-Nothing fried!!!

He slides it aside to find her phone beneath it. Guilt bubbles like battery acid in his stomach, corrosive and violent. He unplugs it from the charger and swipes it open–no password required because she’s just that blindly trusting of the people around her.

He scrolls through her last few texts. Some with her father and the housekeeper, some with Shinsuke. He ignores the dull stab in his chest this last one brings. It quickly becomes a heavily one-sided conversation—her messages forever unanswered. A new notification slides down. The name Takeda Jin slashes across the top of the screen along with a bright ding.

He holds his breath, head snapping in her direction to see if she heard it. She’s still fast asleep, chest rising and falling evenly. He looks back down and opens the message.

Jin: I apologize if I made you uncomfortable today. I know this process won’t be easy, but I hope in time you learn to trust me. Your father and I will both make the transition as smooth as possible. I will keep you safe. I promise.

Blood roars in his ears. Even though he knows he doesn’t have any right to feel it, there is a sharp pinprick of betrayal that begins to ooze from his chest. That’s where she was today. With him. It’s a sour revelation that twists like a pitchfork in his gut. He sets her phone back down.

He remembers something from the hospital; he walked in on a conversation between those two. She wouldn’t tell him what it was about, but she looked upset. He also remembers that she didn’t want to be with Jin, she wanted to be with him. It’s only that thought that keeps the rest of the unfettered jealousy at bay as he goes outside to make a call. This time, he doesn’t care if his name ends up on list, in fact he’d welcome it.

“I don’t know where they went,” Mugen says tightly, keeping his voice low. “But I know who they were with.”

“Who?”

Through clenched teeth he spits the name.

“Takeda Jin.”

Chapter Text

Fuu’s father returned to his office that morning. Even though his doctor cautioned against it. Even though Fuu complained. Loudly. She’s not sure what’s gotten into her lately. His heart attack wiped away her previous timid deference toward him that had slowly stretched over the years. The distance between the two simply snapped back together like a rubber band. Maybe it’s just that he seems more human now. No longer infallible. She doesn’t see a ruthless politician clawing towards the top; she sees her aging father overworking himself.

Though he ignored her protests, he begrudgingly accepted the bento she made for him. He grimly eyed the cute strawberry-patterned box packed with heart-healthy snacks. She pressed a matching thermos filled with green tea into his hands and crossed her arms, daring him to complain.

“No stopping for any fried food either!” she said warningly. “I’m going to call your secretary this afternoon and make sure she reminds you to check your blood pressure.”

Her father bristled, turning to Mugen who had wandered into the kitchen.

“I hope she’s not this bossy with you.”

Mugen snorted, opening the fridge. “Imagine havin’ to be with her all day.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. It could always be worse...”

Solemnly, he raised his tea thermos to Mugen who raised his energy drink in return.

Fuu gawked at the pair of them. “Don’t you two gang up on me. That’s not fair!”

Her father’s eyes twinkled and Mugen smirked.

It occurs to her now, a few hours later, how strange it was to have the two of them in the same room together. She wonders if she should have brought up the marriage thing again. That would mean telling Mugen…but maybe he could be her ally.

“Only a few days remain until the general election. Governor Kasumi has taken a notable break in campaigning while several of his opponents seem inclined to maintain steam. Speculations that recent health troubles have exacerbated the incumbent’s—“

She mashes her finger on the remote to change the channel. From beside her, Mugen grunts, his long body sprawled across the couch.

“I was watchin’ that.”

“I seriously doubt you are into politics.”

“Sure I am,” he says through a yawn as he stretches. “Ask me who the governor is.”

She’s still staring at the screen distractedly. “Idiot.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, the heat from his breath suddenly on her neck as he leans closer. “Quit actin’ like this idiot didn’t blow your mind last night.”

Warmth rises to her face and she glances nervously behind her. “Shino is in the kitchen!” she hisses.

He flashes her a lopsided grin. “Good idea. You wanna invite her to be our third?”

“You pig!”

She smacks him away as his hands continue to creep up her arm to pull her towards him. They grapple playfully and she laughs. Even if he is a raging pervert…she secretly likes it. If they were in a normal relationship, she would need to fight back a little and act like she’s not as enthusiastic as he is. Girls always have to pretend to not want something as badly as a man does. Not that it matters with someone like him. He told her that fast is all he knows and she wonders what it would be like to meet him at that breakneck speed.

She catches his wrists in triumph, panting as she holds him away from her. A lazy smile spreads across his face. The realization that he’s letting her win sends a sweet, tingling thrill through her body. She holds him there for a second, meeting his eyes as her thumbs press into his pulse. If they were alone, she could press his hands to her body, she could make him touch her in all the ways she shouldn’t. She could be as recklessly unabashed as he is. Maybe she’s the pervert after all.

She pauses, noticing that around one of his wrists is a pink hair tie. One of hers. 

“It’s going to rain soon.”

At Shino’s voice, Fuu releases her grasp on Mugen and scoots away.

Shino continues, a smile twitching on her lips. “Do you mind helping me bring in the laundry?”

Fuu jumps to her feet. “Sure!”

The second she steps through the sliding door, she feels a heavy pressure building in the air. Pewter clouds roll in overhead along with the warning growl of thunder. Thanks to the humidity, everything is still a little damp. Fuu unfastens sheets billowing in the wind from a line strung across the back patio, heaping them into the basket while Shino works quietly beside her.

“I spoke with Jin.”

Fuu’s hands pause in the middle of yanking down a pillowcase. Shino’s elegant profile becomes partially obscured by a sheet fluttering in the wind.

“I hope you don’t think it's selfish of me,” she continues. “but I hope to convince him that he’s making a mistake.”

“I feel the same!” Fuu cries, abandoning the pillowcase and seizing hold of Shino’s hands. “Do you really think you can convince him?”

Shino’s face sinks in worry. “I don’t know.”

“It’s my dad who can’t get this stupid Omiai idea out of his head!” Fuu says vehemently. “I won’t do it. I can’t. Not when I…”

She trails off. Even if Shino hadn’t caught her flirting with him, she would have found out eventually. Fuu’s never been good at hiding her feelings. They flash across her face like a big bright neon sign.

Shino smiles softly. “I’m happy for you.”

“Well, I’d be happier if this wasn’t happening,” Fuu mumbles, yanking down another pillowcase. “And anyway, Jin does not like me!” she says, striking an umpire's safe pose. “Not like that. He’s being forced into this, I know it. My dad is losing his mind.”

“Your father is a good man,” Shino says reasonably, pulling down the last pair of sheets just as sharp drops of rain begin pelting them. “Regret will force you to go to great measures to keep from repeating the past.”

If her father wasn’t the governor, Fuu’s boss likely wouldn’t tolerate her sudden absence nearly as well. She endured his lecture on calling in and suppressed the desire to throw in his face that she’d try to think more clearly next time her father ended up in the emergency room, but decided not to test his patience. He was already cranky because Shinsuke hadn’t come in either, leaving them shorthanded.

His complaints seem especially minor now that the place is practically deserted. She’s spent most of the evening running a broom aimlessly up and down the aisles, her mind alternating between fuzzy thoughts of Mugen and her worries about how to break off the engagement.

She sets down a drink and a plate of appetizers before their only customer—a lone woman in a navy-colored tank top. As Fuu turns to leave, the customer raises her hand.

“Just a moment!”

“Yes ma’am?”

The woman reaches into her bag and fishes out a badge. “I’m Detective Yatsuha Imano, would you mind joining me?”

Fuu blinks as the detective gestures to the other side of the table. A detective? Fuu’s familiar with the police through her father’s job and this woman doesn’t fit the part. Her sleek hair is up in an effortless ponytail and the worn-leather jacket slung over the back of the chair beside her doesn’t exactly scream officer. She looks too…cool. After an awkward pause, Fuu sits down.

“Would you like some?” the detective asks, pushing her plate of gyoza toward Fuu.

Never one to turn down food, Fuu helps herself to one. “So, what is this about?” she asks through a mouthful.

“Your coworker Shinsuke is missing.”

Fuu’s chewing slows as she absorbs this news. The food in her mouth turns into mush. She swallows hard and repeats: “Missing?”

“Yes. His mother filed a missing person report. Are the two of you close?”

It’s a tricky question made trickier by Mugen’s presence. He’s spent most of her shift hanging around in an empty booth, head buried in his phone but now his neck is straight.

“A little. We went to school together and he got me this job.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Fuu squirms guiltily, eyes cast down at the greasy gyoza, suddenly completely unappetizing. Mugen doesn’t know that she snuck out to see Shinsuke. Her father’s hospitalization, among other things, wiped the night entirely from her mind.

“I…I don’t know,” she says, trying to keep the obvious distress from her voice. “At work?”

“So you last saw him,” Yatsuha says through a bite of food, holding a crimson-manicured hand over her mouth as she scrolls through her phone. “On the…ah, here it is. The 22nd of June?”

Fuu blinks at her work schedule pulled up on the detective’s phone.

“I usually see him at work,” she answers cagily, eyes flicking briefly to Mugen.

Yatsuha glances back at him.

“I see your guard dog is keeping a close watch,” she says mildly. “I can throw him a bone if he’s making you nervous.”

“I think I should get back to work,” Fuu says with a strained smile. “Please let me know if you need anything else.”

She gives a quick bow, hurrying back towards the kitchen. Shinsuke is missing. He’s missing and she just lied to a detective! She should tell Mugen. No, she should turn around and tell that detective the truth. Neither prospect is entirely appealing.

She’d like to talk to Mugen about it first at least, but for the second time that night, someone calls to her.

“Excuse me?”

Without invitation, Mugen slides in across from the detective. He helps himself to her remaining gyoza before reaching across the table to wash it down with a swig from her beer.

Despite this overt show of rudeness, the detective’s smile slowly widens at the display. She leans forward, resting her chin on her interwoven fingers.

“Ooh. I love it when they’re cocky,” she purrs. “I can tell you’re going to be a lot of fun.”

Fuu turns to see a girl around her age standing near the entrance. She’s vaguely familiar and when she introduces herself, she realizes why.

“My name is Koza. Do you have a minute? I really need to talk to you.”

Thankfully, the restaurant is slow so she doesn’t feel too guilty sneaking off. She glances back at Mugen, frowning when she sees him talking with the detective. “Um, yeah, sure. Let’s go outside.”

Sometime between arriving at work and now the rain began to pour in earnest, sending thick streams of water from rooftop corners. The storm cleared the streets. Only a few people are out carrying the cheap plastic umbrellas purchased from the convenience store down the street. Those even less fortunate, but determined to get their drinking in, hold bags overhead as they dart into neighboring izakaya.

They stay close to the building, shielded beneath the eaves. Fuu edges closer, avoiding the splash of a man on a bike as he zips past.

“I bet he doesn’t talk about me,” Koza says. Her voice has such a faint quality to it. Just a gentle hush above the rain. “Or his family.”

“No,” Fuu admits, thinking about the one time she attempted to ask Mugen about his family. He got angry and shut her down completely. “He’s really private about that stuff.”

Koza nods. “I don’t blame him. The past is painful.”

There’s something so breakable about this girl. Maybe it’s her perpetually downcast expression. Or how she holds herself like a mortally wounded animal on the verge of collapse. It dampens some of the jealousy Fuu once felt upon seeing her name on Mugen’s phone.

“We grew up in the Okinawa Prefecture,” Koza begins. “In Itoman. Our families lived in the same apartment complex. It was close to the beach. Small, but I liked it because I could see a sliver of the ocean from the bathroom window. Our fathers were fishermen—Mugen was raised by his. I don’t know what happened to his mom, but it didn’t matter. He was always at our apartment anyway. Eating our leftovers. Sleeping on the couch.” She smiles gently, lost in a memory that Fuu feels an ache of longing to understand.

“The company that employed our parents eventually went bankrupt. They decided to move us here. It was hard. We were poor in Itoman, but it was so much worse in the city. My stepfather eventually left. I wasn’t sad about it. He was horrible to me and my mom. Mugen’s father left not long after. I don’t think he was sad to watch him leave either. I think they got tired of taking care of us. I know I’ve always been a burden.” She looks down and pauses to collect herself. “But when my mom passed away, Mugen looked after me. He made sure I stayed in school. He took odd jobs to keep the rent paid. He can be harsh and blunt…but he’s always been nice to me.”

On the night he took her out on his motorcycle, Mugen did tell her that he basically raised himself.

Koza takes a shuddering breath. “But my stepbrother, Mukuro—he’s horrible. I hate him. He always comes home drunk or high. He steals all of my money. He’s just as mean and violent as his father was. The things he’s done—” She closes her eyes, her soft brows contracting as she whispers: “I wish he was dead.”

This admission strikes Fuu as a little extreme. Especially coming from such a fragile-looking girl. Fuu is an only child herself so she may not be the best judge of what’s normal for siblings.

“I guess with a brother like that I can’t blame you,” Fuu murmurs fairly. “but you don’t have to stay with him, do you? You can find a way out on your own.”

Koza’s fingers dig into the hem of her shirt, wringing it nervously. It’s oversized. Maybe even one of Mugen’s hand-me-downs. “You’re wrong. I’m too weak for that. There’s no way I could survive without someone to lean on.” She gives Fuu a strange look. “Don’t you feel that way? You’re relying on him now too.”

This last statement feels like an accusation.

“I don’t think I would be who I am without needing to lean on a few people,” Fuu agrees quietly. She thinks about Mugen. What she doesn’t know about him. What he doesn’t know about her. She can’t help but want to reach out to him across growing the chasm and have him reach for her in return. “I want to become someone other people can rely on.”

Koza’s digests this for a moment, squinting into the rain.

“I’m sorry, Fuu.”

“What for?”

“I’m the one who encouraged Mugen to take this job.”

Fuu waits for her to clarify further, but she doesn’t. Instead, her face becomes vacant.

“Tell Mugen that Mukuro is becoming unstable. The money Mugen is making isn't enough to satisfy him.” She steps out into the rain-slicked street.

“Wait!” Fuu cries. “Let me grab you my umbrella first.”

Drops of rain fall like tears down her face. “Tell him what I said.”

Fuu watches her retreat, head bowed against the downpour. With all the rain, she hadn’t noticed Jin's approach. She turns to see him watching Koza disappear behind her, his brows furrowed.

The second he saw the badge, he knew.

Dread curdled in his stomach. Fuu is a shitty liar. When she flicked her big eyes at him like a guilty puppy, he knew they were fucked. And if he could see it, so could the detective. This bitch thinks talking to him will be fun? Fine. They’ll talk.

“If you want, I can show you how fun I am.”

“I don’t know if your waitress would like that very much.”

“Forget that brat,” he dismisses smoothly. “After we’re done here, you should let me take you out.”

The detective's pouty lips purse around a coy smile. She’s attracted to him. He can feel it. Everyone gets a craving for the taboo sometimes and what’s more taboo to a cop than a guy like him?

“I was watching you,” she says. “You seem pretty protective of her. Are you worried she’s gotten into some trouble?”

Only the trouble he’s gotten her into.

“I’ll do ya’ a favor and rat her out right now,” he says easily. “She’s lyin’ to you. I watched her sneak over to that kid’s place.”

Yatsuha’s brows raise. “Shinsuke’s? Is that so? Why would she lie about that?”

“She thinks I’ll tell Daddy.“

“And you won’t?”

He shrugs. “As long as she makes it home in one piece, what do I care where she runs off to?”

“The plot thickens,” Yatsuha says dramatically. “Governor Kasumi’s daughter sneaks out and has an illicit fling with a missing line cook and then lies about it to her bodyguard and the police. It’s too bad I’m not a journalist. This is good stuff.”

“It wasn’t a fling,” he says, picking up the empty glass before him and gesturing to another waitress for a refill.

“Please,” she chuckles knowingly. “Have you ever worked in a restaurant before? Everyone is always screwing everyone else.”

A waitress sets a pair of bottles before them.

“Trust me, she’s not screwing anyone in this dump,” he insists, twisting the cap off a second bottle. And she never will.

As if responding to his thoughts, Yatsuha smiles innocently. “Does the idea of her screwing someone else bother you?”

And here he was giving Fuu shit for being too obvious.

He takes a slow sip as if considering the idea. “Yeah, it bothers me. It’s like thinkin’ about your little sister or somethin’…it’s weird.”

He doesn’t know where Fuu’s gone off to but it’s for the best she doesn’t hear him saying this shit or she’d get the wrong idea. He doesn’t want this woman. He just wants to get her out of there. Throw her off the scent. Sure, had this little scenario happened before he took this job, he probably would have tried his hand at screwing a cop. Just for the novelty of it. A chance to literally stick it to them.

Now he’s faced with a more troubling dilemma: if it means throwing her off of Fuu, would he still do it?

Yatsuha reaches across the table and takes his drink like he took hers earlier. Her tongue darts out to lick a drop before taking a sip. He tenses, watching her. She lowers the bottle and traces her finger around the rim suggestively. “So, what’s your story, handsome?”

“Go out with me tonight and find out,” he challenges.

She throws her head back with a sparkling laugh.

“You are good! Classic deflection. Let me guess: next, you’re going to give me a line about using handcuffs to get my blood pumping?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Handcuffing guys get you off?”

“Oh, please. Subvert my expectations! If we’re going to roleplay, you be the detective and I’ll be the criminal.”

He chuckles tightly through his teeth. “One thing about me, babe: I ain’t ever gonna play the fuckin’ cop.”

“Hmm, you’re right. We should both stick to what we’re most familiar with.” She’s still smiling, but he senses the sharp edge of something being unsheathed in her voice. “You say you don’t care about her, but you still felt the need to follow her to Shinsuke’s home, didn’t you?”

“And? That’s my job.”

“I just think it’s interesting. I find you interesting, Mugen,” she says with another light laugh. “The governor's daughter has a bodyguard with a record. So unusual.” She pauses for effect and even though he’s shown no outward signs, she must know that he doesn’t like how much she knows about him.

“I see why you’re so dedicated to your job. I bet you get a rush when you take her home in the governor’s fancy government car. When you sleep in his nice home. Nice neighborhood. You used to steal. I read in one report that you were pretty good at it. You only got caught because you put your trust in one of your less clever friends. It reminded me of Shinsuke. You see, he’s got a record too, but not nearly as prolific as yours. He was a pickpocket and—maybe this is silly—I got to thinking…when something so nice is within your grasp, I bet you wouldn’t let it go without a fight, would you?”

Mugen regards her through the careful mask of indifference fixed on his face.

“You done profiling me?” he asks, sounding bored.

She smiles. “Not even close.”

And because distracting this bitch isn’t enough of a pain in the ass: he spots Fuu and Jin through the foggy glass at the door. Jin’s hand rests on her shoulder. Mugen’s irritation spikes. He tries to keep his attention split between them and the detective, but she catches the change immediately.

“Would you look at that,” Yatsuha chuckles lightly when she follows his gaze. “I bet she is just a handful for you.”

The detective grabs her jacket and stands. She bends to write something on the back of a business card, using two fingers to slide it across the table before him.

“If you have any more information, let me know. Maybe next time I’ll let you show me that good time you were promising.”

She leaves, passing Fuu and Jin as she opens the door. They enter and continue a hushed conversation just out of earshot of Mugen. Silently, he watches the two of them. He hates it. He hates that they make sense. He hates that Jin is dignified; wealthy and upstanding. He hates that even though he’s touched her, felt inside of her, seen her naked, watched her come…he still feels so far beneath her.

He has one fist crushing the business card, while the other chokes the neck of the bottle before him. A boy is dead because of his jealousy. That detective was right; he wouldn’t risk someone taking what he’s already claimed for himself. It’s not in his nature to concede.

He knew it was a bad idea to get mixed up with her, but he’s never been one to deny himself what he wants. Especially when it’s a bad idea. Not when so much of his life has been spent stubbornly digging beneath other people’s low expectations. It was a lesson he learned as a kid when nosy adults would follow him around grocery stores snatching his wrists to pry open his palms, forcing him to turn out his empty pockets. They judged him for the things he couldn’t control: his second-hand clothes, his complexion, his open (and justified) distrust of authority. They thought he was stealing candy, so he started stealing wallets. When he was fifteen and the first girl to let him touch her accused him of flirting with her friend, he made a liar of her when he went and fucked her friend instead. It felt good to sink lower. You think I’m bad? Fine. I’ll be worse. He was born dirty and he’ll probably die dirtier still.

It was only when he started stealing motorcycles that something small shifted and challenged his nature. Instead of stealing and selling them, he started repairing them. Word spread and people started coming to him to have their bikes fixed. Most of the time they weren’t anything he’d bother to steal anyway. Rusty pieces of junk loved by people poorer than him. He didn’t charge a lot and truthfully he didn’t do it for the money. He was good at it. Replacing brittle clutch cables and unclogging fuel pipes. He liked it when he could spend an entire afternoon taking one apart to put it back together again. What a rush to leave something better than he found it. What a rush to find his hands could do more than just take.

But nothing has challenged him more than the governor’s daughter. She looks over at him from across the restaurant. Everything else fades but her. He doesn’t see Jin, he doesn’t see their surroundings. Just her pretty face twisted in concern, a soft divot forming between her brows. She’s not a machine he can repair. She’s not something he can pocket.

He doesn’t have to think of a way to become worse for her. He’s already chiseling his way through rock bottom.

Chapter Text

Stepping into the rain is like entering a monster's giant, wet mouth. Thick, damp air, mixed with the oil discarded by nearby restaurants, results in a nauseating cocktail that sours Koza’s stomach. Not that she had much of an appetite to begin with. Cars hiss by, sending murky gray water sloshing over her sandaled feet as she darts back down the street to where a dark blue sedan waits at the curb and swiftly slides into the backseat.

“How’d it go?”

She shivers as she buckles her seatbelt, the icy blast of air conditioning chilling her soaked skin. “Fine.”

Mukuro cranes his neck to look back at her. She spots the single nick she left on the back of his skull when she helped him shave his head the previous day. He turned and slapped her across the face when the razor slipped.

“What took you so damn long?”

She reaches to shut the vent on the back of the center console, keeping her voice light. “I had to make it convincing.”

The headrest bounces when he knocks his head against it in irritation. “Shoulda’ had me do it.”

“You would have scared her,” Shiren admonishes with a laugh, adding to Koza through the rearview mirror, "I know you did great. You always do.”

As the car takes off, Koza wonders what it’s like to be brimming with that sort of conviction, what barriers crumble beneath it? Shiren talks like he’s in the know on everything, and if he doesn’t know something, he has connections to someone who does. Connections—something she takes immense comfort in.

She didn’t always cling to him, but that’s how life goes; when you notice your ship is filling with water, you leap from one to another and another as many as it takes until you make it to land. There’s no room for shame, Shiren tells her. He whispers it to her in the dark, holding her close, petting her gently even when she doesn’t want to be touched because that touch is vital to her survival. The same hands that dig into the flesh of her hips, leaving finger-shaped bruises, also hold the keys to freedom. Afterward, he croons into the shell of her ear, saying that shame is for people who are already safe and dry.

People like Fuu.

But Fuu is the only thorn of doubt poking through Koza’s resolve and their recent conversation does not make it any easier. If only the governor’s daughter were as easy to hate as she is to envy. Shiren says there’s no neat way to unravel the web you’re tangled in without cutting a few strings. He says this as he unclasps the hooks on her bra, or when he snaps the button on his jeans, or when he’s pressing into the crown of her head with his fingertips, easing her to her knees. Fuu just happens to be connected to a few of those strings. It might not be fair, but that’s how it is.

Koza watches prismatic drops of rain race down the window. Her teeth chatter as her limbs curl in on themselves away from the chilled air permeating her skin. I’m not doing the right thing, but I’m doing what’s right for me. But Mugen... A solid lump forms in her throat. Mugen is—

“He’s definitely screwing her.”

“You think so?” Shiren says doubtfully, drumming his fingers absently against the steering wheel. “I don’t really see the appeal.”

Mukuro gives a crude laugh. “Trust me. I know Mugen. The only reason he’s stickin’ so close is ‘cause he gets to stick it in her.”

Koza hates it when he talks like this, but she can never ask him to stop. There’s no point. When she shows her true feelings, Mukuro is like a shark, drawn to the blood of her discomfort. Nothing pleases him more than when she’s squirming.

Shiren shakes his head, chuckling as though Mukuro’s words are a harmless little joke. Koza knows better. She sinks deeper into her seat, waiting for the shivering to subside as she watches the back of Shiren’s head.

Any port in a storm.

Having spent most of her life as if she were suspended in time, Fuu feels an abrupt sense of movement coursing through her, as though the thread once holding her has snapped. Or maybe the thread was a fuse sending sparks to bite at her heels.

Mugen. Koza. The cop. Shinsuke. She pulls her phone from her pocket and looks over the last texts they exchanged, but nothing in those messages gives her any hope or clue of where he’s gone.

“Who was that girl?”

She forgot Jin was there.

“A friend of Mugen’s,” she says distractedly, tearing her eyes away, tucking her phone back into her pocket. “Why are you here?”

It comes out a little ruder than she means, but she can’t help it. Not when the undeniable source of her lit fuse rises sinuously like smoke from his seat across the restaurant. Mugen. They need to talk about this. About so many things. She needs to give him Koza’s warning. She needs to ask him what she should do. She doesn’t need Jin there, making an already complicated situation even worse.

Jin turns his grim gaze toward Mugen. It’s only when he’s within earshot that he answers.

“Governor Kasumi requested to speak with you,” he says. “I’m to stay here while Fuu finishes her shift, and drive her home after.”

Fuu expects Mugen to argue. It seems like Jin does too because he squares his shoulders like he’s ready for the confrontation or at least a snarky comment, but Mugen walks past without sparing either of them a look. Like Koza, he strides into the downpour without thought. Fuu watches him until the rain swallows him up, gnawing her bottom lip in worry.

“Fuu,” Jin begins.

A noisy couple enters, cutting off whatever sermon Jin was about to deliver. They’re talking loudly, setting their dripping umbrellas by the entrance. Fuu hoists a strained smile before snatching a pair of menus, only too grateful for the opportunity to escape.

Her old man looks like shit.

That's Mugen's first thought upon entering the governor’s home office. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his collar is wrinkled. His tie hangs loosely around his neck as though pulled off in frustration. Even his desk is in disarray with stacks of paperwork and ink pens scattered across it.

His second thought is that he’s lost his mind.

The two don’t talk much in person, both favoring the occasional text. So, Mugen knows something is up. This little impromptu meeting could have something to do with the police sniffing around or maybe the governor finally caught wind of Mugen trying to fuck his daughter literally and figurativley. But if that were the case, Kasumi probably wouldn’t be sliding a can of beer across his desk towards Mugen while opening one of his own.

“Indulge me. I always thought if I had a son,” Kasumi explains with a wry smile, “after a long day, I would share a drink with him like this.”

Mugen doesn’t relate to that sentiment. He never shared any drinks with his old man. Wouldn’t even if he could have. When his dad drank, he got mean as hell, and his fists sought to break. Things, people, it didn’t matter. If there’s any justice in the world, his dad is cold in the ground or reduced to a bag of unclaimed ashes. He cracks open the can. Yeah, he’ll drink to that thought.

“Probly’ a good idea to keep girly from drinking for now,” he says darkly. The one time he’s seen her drunk makes him think she’s better off abstaining. She’s not a mean drunk. Worse: she gets clumsy, sappy, sentimental. She’s enough of a handful sober.

The governor chuckles fondly as he examines his can of Suntory. “Girly.”

A prickling warmth creeps up the back of Mugen’s neck, and he takes a hasty sip to cover his discomfort. The governor smiles warmly.

“She would disapprove of me drinking since my hospital stay...Best to keep this between us, eh?”

“Yeah. Won’t tell her.”

Awkwardly, they drink together. At least, Mugen feels awkward. Kasumi almost appears at ease now, sitting back in his chair, seemingly lost in thought. He must have opened a window before Mugen showed up because warm air filters in, tinged with the subtle sweetness that always follows a summer storm. A warm breeze causes a few of the papers on his desk to flutter beneath a gold paperweight.

Along with the wind and distant traffic, a lone cricket chirps faintly. It’s almost nice. Like he’s nostalgic for something he never got. Too easy to get lulled into complacency. Mugen rests his elbows on the desk, fingers leaving the can to find the fuzzy pink hair tie he took from Fuu still around his wrist. As he snaps the elastic against his skin, there’s a corresponding impatient squeeze in his chest.

“Listen, I like a free drink and all—”

“The day my wife was murdered, a crow became trapped in the lobby of my workplace.”

Mugen’s jaw snaps shut.

“I saw it pecking at the glass in the atrium. Someone was trying to herd it through the doors with a broom. It wasn’t until I opened the door myself that it finally escaped, and as I watched it fly away, something told me it was an omen.” Kasumi stares down at his desk, fingers resting around his drink, his head tilting to the side. “And when my daughter went to lay flowers at her mother’s grave, I lost sight of her crossing the street and just for the briefest moment, I thought I saw that same streak of black, the flash of a wing. It brought me back all those years before. I saw her suffering a fate I was doomed to repeat, helpless to stop, but…”

“But there I was,” Mugen finishes bitterly.

The governor raises his drink, his voice strained in emotion. “But there you were.”

It’s gratitude Mugen doesn’t deserve. He never wondered who Fuu was carrying flowers for that day. It didn’t matter to him, and if he had known, what would it have changed? Nothing then, but now the weight of knowing presses like the cruel edge of a blade against his neck.

“Why are you tellin’ me this?” he asks gruffly.

In answer, Kasumi pulls out a thick, white envelope and slides it neatly across the desk. Mugen stares at it blankly.

“I understand finding honest work can be challenging given your background, so I’ve included letters of recommendation along with the money. I’m happy to provide anything else you need to ensure this transition goes smoothly.”

Transition. Mugen stares at the envelope with something like the sound of wings flapping in his ears. “You firing me?”

“I wanted to keep you by her side for as long as possible,” his watery eyes stray to Mugen’s wrist. “but I was overruled.”

“Who the hell overrules you?”

Kasumi gives him one final, brittle smile. “You don’t get to my position without making a few enemies. If you’re smart about it, you try to make a few allies along the way, too.” He opens his mouth as though he’d like to say something different. He sighs, draining the rest of his drink. “I did ask the Takeda family to consider keeping you on, but they felt it was unnecessary. I’m sorry. After this week's election, you’ll need to look elsewhere for work.”

Even in his stunned state, morbid curiosity gets the better of him. Sure enough, the search results are saturated with photos of the governor’s late wife—Tokyo Governor’s Wife Stabbed in Politically Motivated Assassination. A single stab wound straight through the heart. There are so many photos and blurry videos of the aftermath. It isn’t just the sight of her bleeding out that sticks with Mugen; it’s the people around her, ranging from horrified to simply puzzled. No one knows how to react when an innocent woman is stabbed to death in broad daylight.

And then there’s Fuu.

Her grief is re-packaged into a spectacle and replayed for higher ratings. Dozens of photos of her standing dutifully beside her father while he gives impassioned speeches, her small hands clasped before her. The same warm brown eyes he’s looked into dozens of times left vacant and dry. There are years of articles about her carrying flowers to her mother’s grave, each year crossing that same intersection until, one year, a crow flies across her path.

He’s on his motorcycle, tearing out of Kasumi’s driveway before he knows what he’s doing, like he can escape the barrage of images, the knowledge that he’s just one more disappointment in her life. One more person using her. He grits his teeth, cutting through a back alley. Senile, superstitious old fool. It’s not the governor’s fault, but it feels good to be pissed. What the fuck is he supposed to do with all of that? He feels like Kasumi’s crow. Like every time he sees the sky, he smashes into a window.

By the time he reaches his old apartment, a new plan is taking shape. The simplest one he can manage. He opens the front door, and judging by the TV blaring, Mukuro is home and probably won’t even notice he’s there.

Mugen slips into the cramped bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. Back when he lived there, Mukuro had a bad habit of stealing his shit: money, weed, anything valuable or sellable. So Mugen would keep his stash between the frosted glass window and the screen. He pulls the window along the broken track and stows the governor's envelope along with some of his cash before carefully pulling it shut. He stands back to make sure it’s not too noticeable.

He’ll tell Koza to get it later. It isn’t the fantastical amount Mukuro and Shiren promised when he started the job, but it’s enough to give her a chance at least. Somewhere better. Maybe get her a job like Fuu.

Mukuro is lying on the couch in the living room. Empty energy drinks and beer bottles clutter the top of the old coffee table. Koza’s Metro card lies beside the remnants of a thin strip of coke. Mugen reaches for the remote and turns off the TV.

“When’d you get here?” Mukuro yawns. “Shouldn’t you be watching what's-her-name?”

“Kasumi fired me.”

Mukuro all but falls from the couch, briefly grasping the coffee table for leverage, knocking down a few empty cans in the process. “Tonight?”

“I got until he’s elected, which reminds me: what the fuck do you want me to do about that since that was the whole point to me takin’ this job.”

Mukuro lets out a long breath. “Shiiit.”

He needs to unfuck at least some of the mess before he gets the hell out of there. He’ll need more money to travel, and Koza will need more than what he’s hidden tonight because, like it or not, he still feels responsible for her. That just leaves Fuu. Ironically, she's the easiest part: she'll be just fine when he’s out of her life.

“Okay. Okay. What if we take Kasumi’s daughter for ransom?” Mukuro asks, beginning to pace. “Shiren’s boss pays, then Kasumi pays the ransom. That’s double the money!”

The bills must be stacking up so high behind Mukuro’s eyes that he can’t see how stupid that idea is.

“No.”

“You’re with her all the time! How hard would it be to just,” he gestures vaguely, “take her somewhere, rough her up a little, snap some pics, threaten him to drop out or else. Solves everyone’s problems.”

Mugen’s fists spasm at his side. Trying to rein in his temper is rapidly taking a toll after the day he’s had. It’s been too much—one thing after another, biting him down to the quick. He doesn’t appreciate the predatory gleam in Mukuro’s eyes when he mentions roughing her up. It’ll be a cold day in hell.

“If you’re worried about gettin’ caught, you can just wear a mask or something,” Mukuro says, incorrectly guessing the reason for Mugen’s hesitation.

It’s always like this with him. Just chuck Mugen in front of the speeding car, who cares how he gets out of the way?

“No,” he repeats flatly. “Fuu stays outta this.”

Mukuro’s frenzied pacing abruptly stops, and he rounds on him. For once, his eyes are weirdly unclouded, as if he’s seeing Mugen clearly for the first time in his life. His lips pull back in a snarl.

“Oh, bull-shit.” He shoves Mugen for emphasis. “Don’t tell me you grew a fucking conscience because you and me—we’re the same damn breed. Quit actin’ like we’re not.”

Mugen’s chest heaves as the blood roars in his ears. They aren’t the same, because he doesn’t want to be like him. He never has. Even as kids, they only ever stuck close for survival. They got older and it was fine, for a while, to fuck around, get high, have no direction, but when Mugen looks at him now, the prospect that they’re anything alike repulses him. Mukuro with his track marks and dull eyes and penchant for hurting people.

“A cop showed up at her job asking about her coworker. Did Shiren ever tell you what happened to him?”

Mukuro spits contemptuously. “Doesn’t matter. You gonna piss your pants every time the heat gets cranked? Just do your job.”

“I’ve been doing my job,” Mugen growls at him. “What have you been doing? Maybe you should put your ass on the line for once.”

“You don’t know what I do behind the scenes.”

“Yeah, shoot up and jerk off. You don’t do shit.”

“Man, what is with you?” Mukuro groans. “Is she really that good at suckin’ your cock?”

Mugen's fist connects with Mukuro's temple. He’s taken off guard, but it’s not enough to keep him down. Like Mugen, the fight never leaves Mukuro. In an instant, he’s hurling himself forward, teeth bared. Mugen’s back crashes into Koza’s bedroom door. He feels it crack and buckle behind him before Mukuro’s fist glances across his cheek. They slam into the wall after wall, causing the few yellowed photos hanging to shatter on the ground.

It’s like when they were kids: just a pair of rabid strays snapping at one another, making a mess of everything around them. From the outside, they probably do look the same. Even as his next hit splits Mukuro’s lip, he knows he’s right. He’s just giving in to the violence that swims in his blood. Mugen’s father knew how to break things. Turns out his son is just as good at it.

Shiren is there before either of them can land another blow. He seizes the back of Mukuro’s shirt by the fistful, dragging him away. Mugen slips backward against the wall, knocking off a smattering of crumbling plaster. He spots Koza frozen by the front door, a hand held to her mouth. How many times has she witnessed something like this? In her eyes, how different is he from the man who scared him shitless as a kid?

Mukuro tears his shirt from Shiren’s grasp and stumbles to his feet. He jams an accusatory finger at Mugen. “He said I don’t do anything!”

Mugen almost laughs as he rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck. What a fuckin’ baby.

“And he caught feelings for Kasumi’s daughter.”

Shiren gives Mugen a hard stare. “If you told her—”

“I haven’t told her shit,” Mugen spits, glaring at the triumphant grin now splitting Mukuro’s bloodstained mouth. “I’m telling you, both of you: find another way to get him to drop out, 'cause you’re not touchin’ her—and not cause I got any feelings,” he adds, realizing how defensive he sounds. “I got cops comin’ by her job—how long before they connect me to her co-worker? To the guy you let die in the crash?” If the police ever took Mugen in, neither of them would have his back. It would be his word over theirs, and Mugen knows those two cowards would roll the bus over him for less. He looks at Shiren. “Kasumi wants me out by the election. I’m done. I wanna get paid and I wanna get the fuck out of here.”

A tense silence falls over them. It’s been a while since they’ve had a throw down like that. His eyes sweep the room. Mukuro still looks murderous, holding the edge of his shirt to his bleeding lip. Mugen notices Koza’s outfit for the first time. She’s wearing a tube top and black skirt that rises way too high on her skinny legs. The fact that she came in with Shiren makes his blood boil.

“Alright. I get it. We’ve been unfair,” Shiren says finally, keeping his oily voice even. “Mugen doesn’t know the work you do, Mukuro. My fault. I should have been more forthcoming with that information. Mugen: I’ll set up a meeting with my boss tomorrow. You can ask him for payment yourself. How does that sound?”

Mugen checks his phone for the time. It sounds too good to be true, but he jerks his head in assent. It’s not like he has a better option. No time for another calm discussion because Fuu will be home soon. He swipes a hoodie from the floor and stuffs it into Koza’s hands as he leaves, hissing to her under his breath.

“Put some fuckin’ clothes on.”

Fuu finishes her shift feeling off, like an indescribable dark cloud looms near. It’s an uneasy feeling, one that she tries to tuck away behind every other problem filling her mind. She glanced over her shoulder several times throughout her shift, looking through the condensation fogging up the restaurant's windows as though one of the indistinct figures passing would be staring back.

When she returns home, Mugen is waiting for her outside. She made Jin drop her off a little ways down the street. If her father told Mugen about the engagement, the last thing she needed was for Jin to march her to the door. How bad would that look?

Mugen is smoking, sitting on the stairs leading to the front door. He blows smoke to the side through pursed lips, watching her intently. She swallows her worry and exhaustion, letting her bag slip from her shoulder as she stands before him, waiting.

But for some reason, the first words out of his mouth aren’t about Jin at all.

“Why didn't you tell me about your mom?”

She takes a sharp breath. Humid air sits heavy in her lungs, aggravated by the acrid smoke wafting over to her. In the distance, a low growl of thunder warns that round two of the storm is on its way.

“You didn’t need to know.”

His mouth flattens. “Why the hell not?”

“Because…” She struggles to find the right words to express it. “It’s just…I know bad things have happened to you, and I don’t need to know what they are to know that you didn’t deserve it. It wouldn’t change how I feel about you.” Her voice goes soft. She thinks about how he took care of Koza, how he practically raised himself, and how, in his own rough, angry way, it’s almost like he feels betrayed that she didn’t confide in him. “You’re more than that. Just like my mom is more than a tool someone can use to hurt me or a shield for me to use when someone doesn’t understand me.”

Mugen continues regarding her silently until she groans. 

“Why does this have to be so complicated?” she mumbles, taking a few shy steps forward, keeping her eyes on her dirty sneakers. “I like you. Why can’t that be enough? Why is everything so messed up?”

He takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Won’t always be like this, girly. I’ll be out of your hair this week.”

Moonlight finds relief through passing clouds, illuminating a fresh bruise on his cheek. She also notices the hand holding his cigarette has scrapes across the knuckles. 

“Don’t tell me…did he find out?” She can’t imagine her father doing anything like that even if he was angry.

Mugen chuckles humorlessly. “You think he’d let me anywhere near you if he did?”

Fuu’s face goes warm as she stammers. “Well, he might if he knew how you felt about me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

It’s an idea, a daydream, she turned it over in her mind all night at work: she could tell her father about her feelings for Mugen. He might get mad at first, even furious, but he would come to terms with it, she knows he would. She knows deep down that all he wants is for her to be safe and happy. All the engagement stuff could just sort of…go away. He trusts Mugen enough to keep her safe, so why wouldn’t he trust him with her heart, too?

“There you go again gettin’ the wrong idea about me.”

She blinks. “But we…” She nearly goes up in flames at the recollection, unable to complete the sentence. There’s a similar flicker of heat across his face, as though he’s reliving it too. The way his hands  skimmed expertly across her body. The way he sounded, breathing so heavy and harsh when she touched him in return. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. Even with all the stress and uncertainty, she just wants him to close the distance between them again.

The next words out of his mouth all but snuff out that desire.

“And you think just because we fooled around once, it meant somethin’ to me? Did ya think we were gonna ride off into the sunset?”

“No,” she mumbles, though her voice pitches high with uncertainty.

“Then maybe you can learn a lesson from this,” he says, getting to his feet and stamping out his cigarette. “Next time you throw yourself at a guy, make sure you actually matter to him, because sometimes, girly: it’s just a job.”

Her heart takes an icy plunge into her stomach. He’s glowering at her, but something about it doesn’t feel right. There’s too much heat in his cold glare for it to be real—too much tension. Something is telling her, for whatever reason, he’s trying to piss her off.

“You’re really good at being mean,” she snaps, closing the distance herself. “You’re really, really good at being a huge asshole. Are you happy?”

“No,” he mutters.

“Well, good!” She yells back. “That makes two of us!”

She takes a deep breath, attempting to keep her voice patient and level.

“Just tell me what happened. Did he fire you?”

“You won’t need me anymore. You’ll be someone else's problem. That’s all that matters.”

Always someone else's problem. The voice in Fuu’s head isn’t cruel; it’s practical. Dispassionate. She’s been shuffled between hands her whole life, and this is no different. Still, she can’t bring herself to ask if her father mentioned the engagement; too scared to make everything worse than it already is.

“Who did this?” she asks softly, reaching a hand to touch the angry red mark on his cheekbone. Her fingertips barely graze his skin before he turns his jaw, roughly leaning away from her.

“None of your damn business.”

Is it just a job? Another question she can’t ask because right now, she knows he wouldn’t be honest. She pulls back, eyes searching his hardened features. The door is shut, the walls are up, and Fuu is on the outside. Any other time, she wouldn’t be too proud to demand to be let back in, but right now, she feels hurt and small. Right now, it’s all she can do to walk past him and slam the door behind her.

Don’t go to bed angry. Fuu’s mother used to tell her that. What about going to bed hurt? Confused? Lonely? A dozen emotions churning in her that will certainly fight against a peaceful night's sleep, worse than anger ever could.

Fuu changes into her PJs, letting her work clothes drop to a heap on the floor. She pulls the elastic from her hair before turning off the lights and crawling into bed, lying on top of the covers. Through the window, she watches the storm rolling nearer. Lightning carves jagged light across the night sky, filling her room with a quick succession of brilliant flashes before plunging her back into darkness.

Somewhere during that time, she hears Mugen come back inside. She listens to his footsteps and wonders if it’s her sad little imagination when they briefly hesitate outside her door before the door across the hall opens and shuts.

Her phone buzzes on the bedside table, and she considers ignoring it. It might be Mugen, possibly apologizing for being an enormous jerk, though that’s not really like him. If he did want to say sorry, he’d make noise, stomp across the hall, barge in. He’d make an excuse to talk to her—he’d say sorry without actually saying it, and all things considered, she really needs to hear him say it right now.

She reaches listlessly for her phone, squinting at the sudden brightness.

Shinsuke: Hey.

Fuu shoots up from bed, her heart pounding in her throat. A wave of dizzying relief crashes over her as she scrambles to respond.

Fuu: Hey! Are you okay??

Shinsuke: I am for now, but I don’t know how long I can keep hiding.

Fuu: Hiding??? Your mother is worried sick she filed a missing persons report! You need to go home. Where are you?

Shinsuke: I can't say. I need you to promise you’ll keep this conversation a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Not the police, your dad, no one.

Fuu: Okay. I promise.

Shinsuke: I don’t want him to come after you next.

Fuu: Who?

Shinsuke: Your bodyguard.

Fuu stares at the text and almost huffs out a laugh at the idea, it’s so ridiculous…but something in her stomach hitches uncomfortably. Like that strange foreboding feeling she had earlier. More messages pop up.

Shinsuke: He hurt me, Fuu. He threatened my mother.

Shinsuke: He’s not who you think he is. You need to be careful around him. He’s got some bad connections.

Bad connections. Maybe the guy Koza warned her about, Mukuro, is one of them. A shameful, nagging feeling tugs at her. She never told Mugen about that.

Shinsuke: Are you there?

The screen goes dark. More importantly, she doesn’t believe Mugen would do any of the things Shinsuke is saying. He can be brutal, yes, but never unprovoked. She watched him snap a man’s finger backward because he harassed her. He would have stomped one of her classmates into the pavement too, but it was for her.

It’s just a job.

Her phone buzzes again, illuminating her stricken face.

Shinsuke: I can prove it.

Shinsuke: Meet me tomorrow.