Chapter Text
2010
Despite his rage, Hamura holds off on his plan to kill Kuroiwa. He could lay a trap for the little shit, of course—tell him another body needs disposing—but something tells him that the cop would smell it from a mile away. And he can’t exactly march over to the precinct and beat the shit out of him there.
Instead he lies low and licks his wounded pride.
He never mentions it to anyone, of course. How the fuck could he possibly explain that he was drugged, tied up, and forced to jizz by a psychopathic police officer riding his dick? They’d think he was a nutcase, that he’s a pathetic weakling, or worse. Probably all three. And no matter what the conclusion, he’d end up losing what little respect he’s earned.
He’d prefer dying first.
So, because there’s nothing else to be done, he returns to business as usual, carefully directing the family’s men in their various little businesses of various shades of legality. The only difference is that he now issues one very clear directive that he expects them to hold absolutely sacred from here on out: no more killing. Not even by accident. Anyone who takes a life from now on, however unintentionally, is out on the street.
If the men find it odd that Hamura has reversed course in the seriousness with which he takes murder, they don’t say anything, and he’s not about to explain himself. It’s good for them, anyway, to learn to take absolute orders without question, however little they may understand them.
He’s not above having a little fun, though. Or allowing his boys to let off a bit of steam.
Higashi arrives to the office later than usual one day. Hamura, naturally, is on his ass immediately. “Where the fuck’ve you been?”
Higashi freezes and drops his eyes to the floor. “Sorry, sir. I’ve been taking Muay Thai lessons.”
“Muay Thai? You?”
A weak shrug, eyes still downcast. “You keep saying I need to harden up and learn how to fight, so I thought it’d be a good idea.”
Hamura looks him over. He’s tall but slender, and there’s an underfed, malnourished look to him even though he’s now earning far more than he ever brought in as a video store clerk. And despite his clumsy, unsure mannerisms, there’s a certain delicacy to his features that softens him.
Or maybe it’s just the impression of a pathetic, kicked puppy that he couldn’t stop giving if his life depended on it. He follows Kaito around like one, too, all “Aniki” this and “Aniki” that, staring at the big moron as if he holds the sun up in the damn sky.
But Kaito isn’t here yet today. Probably won’t be by until later.
“Right, get to work,” Hamura mutters in dismissal, and Higashi skitters away as fast as his slim legs will take him.
Time for a smoke break, he decides, and it’s on his way to the roof that he happens upon two of the family’s meatheads—and an idea.
“Namikawa. Suzuki. You two are into boxing, right?”
The guys snap to attention. “Yessir.”
“Western?”
They nod.
“Huh. What a coincidence. Higashi was just bragging to me about his Muay Thai skills. I wonder who’d win if you and he faced off?”
He savors the look of incredulity in their eyes as he continues up to the roof and leans against the railing to overlook the back lot. Right on schedule, Higashi emerges with the previous day’s trash to put in the dumpster.
Namikawa and Suzuki are following him.
Hamura can’t hear the words exchanged, but as he lights up, he watches as the two men begin testing out their boxing moves on the younger man. To Hamura’s amazement, Higashi doesn’t fight back at all; he just cowers and tries to shield himself as best he can rather than lift a hand against his superiors.
Just how long can the kid stay obedient? he wonders as he watches. One of Namikawa’s hits lands so hard that the impact is audible, and Higashi yelps and stumbles.
The sound makes something shiver through Hamura’s core, and he leans forward, his eyes trained sharply on the scene below. Another blow and accompanying cry. Another shiver.
Should’ve done that himself. Should be him beating the hell out of that little sissy boy, feeling the crack of his knuckles against soft, yielding skin. Next time he’ll just have to—
That’s when a hulking gorilla of a man stomps into the back lot and ruins things. Kaito, madder than Hamura’s ever seen him, begins beating the absolute tar out of the two goons as Higashi watches, enraptured and—unfortunately—saved.
His fun spoiled, Hamura sighs and flicks his cigarette butt away before heading back downstairs and back to work.
2011
He’s all sharp edges and buzzing bones waiting. No word from Kuroiwa in months, not since that night, until last night. A text message, demanding to meet. And of course, behind that demand lurks a threat that’s louder than Hamura’s ever heard it: or else.
So he waits in the quiet of the empty casino at dawn, long after all the high-rolling guests have been gently ushered out until the next night of debauchery and grifting. The air still smells hazy with perfume and booze and cigar smoke. He paces, then arranges himself on one of the plush couches between the tables for roulette and blackjack, trying to look unconcerned. His gun is hidden in his jacket. He’ll kill the bastard as soon as he walks in. He’ll shoot him dead, right here and now, then dump his body in the bay in a barrel of concrete, just like they used to do to rats like him in the good old days. No fucking problem.
When Kuroiwa finally enters, Hamura can’t tell if he’s expecting to get murdered or not. He walks in with the same air of purpose as usual. He’s carrying a medium-sized leather pouch with him, though; the kind that folds open like a binder. That’s curious.
“So? The fuck you want?” Hamura growls once Kuroiwa stops in front of him. Now that the man is near him again, he recognizes the smell of him: sterile. Man smells like a fucking hospital.
Or a morgue.
“Is that any way to say hello after all this time?”
“I’ve got nothing good to say to you.”
“No. You want to kill me. But I’ve got a couple trainees waiting for my return. Told them that I’m doing an investigation and that if I’m not back by lunchtime, they’re to come in here.”
Hamura snorts. He has no doubt that’s the truth. Those rookies will waste their whole morning sitting there as obediently as a pair of well-trained dogs, knowing the Tokyo Met. “Our tax dollars at work.”
“Now, now. Let’s not lie to ourselves and pretend you’ve ever paid taxes.”
Hamura can’t help a small chuckle. Freak though he may be, the guy’s got a sharp wit. Almost makes him want to forget his anger and wounded pride and just pretend that shit in the hotel room never happened.
“You gonna tell me why you called me out here at this hour?” he asks. His gun can stay in its hiding spot for now. Just until he hears what Kuroiwa wants.
“I have a proposition for you. I offload some material, you sell it for a cut.”
“Some material?”
Kuroiwa hands him the leather pouch. “It’s getting inconvenient.”
Hamura opens it and looks inside. A row of little glass vials, each snugly tucked into a pouch. Each filled to the brim with liquid so clear Hamura almost thinks they’re empty for a moment. “And this is?”
“Lag. The rest of it.”
His heart drops into his stomach at the word. “This some kind of joke?” he snarls.
“Why would it be? You of all people are able to attest to its effects. You had an amazing trip, you can’t deny it.”
“Yeah, until I woke up to you sitting on my dick!”
“Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy that?”
“I’m not like you.”
“You came. Several times.”
Wait, several times? He only remembers the one. “What?” he whispers as his heart sinks into his stomach.
“I may have given you too much. It can cause amnesia in higher quantities. Too bad; you were having fun. Couldn’t stop begging me for more.”
He really is going to fucking kill him. Fill him with a few more holes using hot lead, then fuck those, just to show him what he thinks of that. His hand goes for the gun.
Kuroiwa’s hand catches his chin, turns his face up so they’re only inches apart as the cop leans over him. “Ah-ah. Remember my men outside.”
It’s said with such a cheerful tone and such dead black eyes that Hamura’s conviction flounders in a sudden rush of fear. For a moment, he’s tied up on the bed again and being ridden by an empty husk full of nothing but death while the lights melt together around them.
“The fuck is wrong with this guy?” he finally wonders, and only realizes he said it aloud when the smile fades from Kuroiwa’s lips.
“Do you want in or not? That stuff’s so hard to get right now that I’m sure you could fetch several hundred grand for each vial, if not more.”
That gives him pause. The Matsugane-gumi can’t afford to turn its nose up at that kind of money, not in this town. “And I get a cut? How much?”
“Seventy-thirty.”
“Fifty-fifty.”
It’s Kuroiwa’s turn to scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sixty-forty. That’s the most I’ll give.”
“Fine.” Hamura pulls a vial from the pouch, tilting it toward the light. “How do I even know this is the real shit?”
“Take some.”
He bristles. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t be like that. There’s an eyedropper in there so you can have a reasonable dosage this time. One drop is all it takes.”
“Why the hell should I ever trust you on that?”
Kuroiwa shrugs. “You don’t have to. But there’s no way to be sure of your product without testing it. I’ll take it with you, if it makes you feel better.”
Now there’s a surprise. “You’d do that?”
Another shrug. “I’ve tried it out myself, too. Felt nice, but I prefer having my head completely clear.”
Hamura hesitates, then pulls out the eyedropper and a random vial before handing them to Kuroiwa. “Take it.”
And, to his surprise (and some admiration), Kuroiwa opens the vial, fills the eyedropper, and lets a single droplet fall, crystalline, onto his waiting pink tongue. “Done. Now you.”
Hamura smirks. “Maybe I’ll just wait and see what happens to you.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport. Don’t you remember how good it felt last time?”
To tell the truth, he does. Even with the large blank spaces that the drug left behind, Hamura can still recall how smooth and runny and warm the world had felt. No drug he’s ever tried has given him quite the same liquid, cosmic euphoria.
He takes the eyedropper and holds it up, keeping his eyes on Kuroiwa as he lifts it over his mouth.
A cold, clean drop of nothing hits his tongue. He swallows.
This time, he can sit back and analyze how he feels—now that he knows what’s coming and he hasn’t been given too much by a scheming little asswipe—and he notes that it does indeed take a little time to kick in. While the two of them wait for it to get going, they pull a deck of cards from a nearby blackjack table and begin a game of crazy eights. It’s the first time he’s ever actually hung out with Kuroiwa, and to tell the truth, he’s not sure if he likes it or not. The guy is quick on his feet and more sharp-witted than most of the dipshits Hamura is surrounded with on a daily basis, but he’s also a real know-it-all with a stick up his ass when it comes to certain things, even visibly sulking a bit whenever Hamura manages to empty his hand first. He disguises it well, though; most people wouldn’t even notice unless they knew what to look for.
It's funny, realizing that he does know what to look for.
“We’ve known each other over ten years now, haven’t we?” he asks once he realizes that.
“Fourteen, I believe.”
“No shit. Still feels like we hardly know each other.”
“Oh, I think we’ve gotten to know each other very well, Hamura-san.” Kuroiwa chuckles.
“Shut the fuck up.” Hamura bristles. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that shit even more.
“It’s amazing how your body was able to maintain an erection through multiple orgasms. I suppose that’s the aphrodisiac effect.”
He puts his cards down as his heart skips a beat. “The what.”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t feeling it.”
He lunges over the table at Kuroiwa. Too late. Cards scatter as Kuroiwa slips easily out of his seat and dances backward. That doesn’t stop Hamura, who barrels after him, upsetting chairs on his way. The blood in his veins is already heating up, turning into molten, glowing light. The chairs fall in slow motion—or is he moving faster? Either way, it’s like he can see what Kuroiwa’s going to do before he does it. He can see through him to the roulette table, to the spinning wheel that will land on red the next time it’s used, because everything they touch turns that colour by default.
He can see himself backing Kuroiwa up against the roulette table, too, so he does exactly that to make the past and future match. Or may be Kuroiwa allows himself to be backed up there, because he’s on this shit, too.
“I really oughta kill you while I’ve got the advantage,” he snarls. The warmth of his own breath hits the other man’s skin and bounces back at him. Smells like death. Smells like a back alleyway behind a café.
“Why kill me now when there’s so much else we could do first?” Kuroiwa is practically sitting on the roulette table. He lifts his leg a bit to rub it against the bulge in Hamura’s pants. He has to suppress a grunt of pleasure, but it’s too late. He can already see Kuroiwa bent over the table, face against the felt, moaning as a yakuza slams into him.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Hamura growls. The leg doesn’t stop rubbing against him, so he grinds against it, leaning in to talk directly into Kuroiwa’s ear. “I’m not like you.”
“Oh, no? Show me.”
Hamura shows him. He’s not going to be tied up this time, drifting in and out of consciousness and used. No, this time, he’s the one in control. He’s the one with the molten gold in his blood and the lethal weapon in his pants, and after he turns Kuroiwa around and forces him face-down onto the roulette table, he pulls it free. He’s already diamond-hard, balls aching with the need to come, so he makes quick work of pulling Kuroiwa’s pants and briefs down around his knees, kicking his legs apart and spitting on his puckered hole.
Kuroiwa shouts when Hamura shoves in, but it’s a dead, hollow kind of shout. No real human feeling in it. No passion, no pain. And Hamura needs to hear the pain needs to hear the red needs to hear the blood pounding in his ears and in his heart and pooling between them.
He pulls out and shoves in again, only to hear a soft groan of pleasure. The same thing happens when he does it a third time. He begins to build a punishing rhythm, slamming hard into the near-dry hole of the man beneath him and pushing him down hard against the felt, just like he saw before. Kuroiwa is panting and moaning against the numbers, all the numbers Hamura’s gonna earn with those miraculous little vials of raw lightning, and every number that wheel lands on is gonna be a big fucking winner because from birth it was Hamura Kyohei with his empty stomach and empty pockets and giant rock-hard cock who was destined to be king of this sick little town no matter how much red fills its glittering, reeking streets.
He’s gonna win.
He’s gonna win.
He’s gonna fucking win.
He comes with his lips pulled back, teeth bared and sharp for slaughter. Beneath him, Kuroiwa laughs.