Up in Smoke: A Heisei Kumi fanfic (35/36)
Author: ryosukekoibito
Pairing: Hikato, Chiitaro, Ariyama
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Graphic Violence, Minor Character Death, Strong Language, Explicit Sex, Major Character Death, Murder
Genre: Slice of life/Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone.
Summary: After months of peace an attack leaves the Heisei Kumi reeling, and when an old enemy returns to the area reclaiming that peace starts to feel impossible.
A/N: The next installment in my Heisei Kumi AU, this one starts in the last days of December 2016 and continues on into 2017. If you'd like to read the other stories in this AU, please check out my masterlist. All Heisei Kumi fics have 平成組 next to their titles, to mark them as part of the AU! Okay, I know it's been way too long. I'm sorry. This is one of my all time favorite chapters, so I hope it makes up for it a little. It's very violent, so be warned. Also a lot of juniors make appearances!
Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34
Keito felt the bullet leave his gun, felt the kickback in his arm as almost instantaneously the Wakaba bastard let go of Nasu and fell to his knees. Keito ran toward them, relieved to see Nasu Yuto pulling himself to a sitting position, taking in big, gasping breaths, his chest heaving. Keito yelled for him to go, to run, and the Wakaba guy turned his head to see who had shot him, blood seeping through his pants, running in wet trails down his leg. Keito shot at him again, and the man slumped, body hitting the street. Keito moved closer to see that he had been hit in the shoulder, his blood beginning to pool on the pavement. Keito walked near, trying to identify the man, but he didn’t recognize his face.
There were still gunshots ringing through the alley, deafening, and Keito couldn’t help the shiver of fear that ran through him as he wondered just how many Wakaba there were left alive. As soon as Keito was close enough he yelled at the Wakaba man, his gun trained on his face.
“How many of you are there?!” The man was pale, his face scrunched up in pain, and he didn’t respond to Keito’s question, his chest rising and falling rapidly, breathing shallow. Keito kicked at him, and the guy grabbed at Keito’s leg with clawing hands, tugging harshly and pulling him off balance, sending him to his knees sprawled on top of the Wakaba bastard. Keito yelped in surprise and shoved at the man, one hand still gripping his gun. He screamed in pain, but his wounds didn’t stop him from reaching up for Keito’s throat with bloody hands, wet fingers wrapping themselves around Keito’s neck as Keito tried to get his bearings.
Keito felt the hands contracting, constricting his breathing, and he felt a fresh wave of panic hit him like a brick wall. He leveled his pistol at the man and fired, not caring where he hit him. With a cry the hands fell away, and Keito threw himself backward, putting distance between them before he scrambled to his feet, chest heaving, the man’s blood on his neck and chest, and staining the knees of his jeans. This third bullet seemed to have hit the same shoulder the second had, and the Wakaba guy made no effort to get to his feet. Keito took a few gulping breaths, trying to think clearly, the adrenaline in his system making him feel restless.
He trained his gun on the Wakaba man’s face, and he whimpered wetly, his blood staining the pavement around him as his eyes fluttered shut, as if expecting the inevitable.
“Where’s Ichinojo? Is he alive?!” Keito asked, voice hard with anger and hatred. The man said nothing, and when Keito kicked him this time he didn’t respond, his body lolling heavily on the ground, no resistance, nothing but weight. Keito stared at him for a long moment before realizing almost numbly that the man was dead. Keito looked down at him for a second, lowering his gun, surprised by the empty nothingness he felt at that realization. But then there was the high pitched shriek of a boy screaming in pain, and his attention was immediately diverted. He turned his head, looking away.
It was Inoue Mizuki, and he was lying on the ground, his hand clutching at his leg, blood running in big drops and thick trails down his skin, coating his hands in red. Keito moved to help him, looking for the cause of his injury, but there weren’t any Wakaba near the boy. He seemed to be pretty out of the way honestly, and Keito was bewildered, rushing over and crouching down over the teen, asking if he could see what had happened. To see the injury that the boy was covering with his hands. Mizuki shook his head and whimpered, tears rolling thick and hot down his cheeks, panic in his eyes, and Keito stuffed his gun into the waistband of his jeans, before reaching down and scooping the boy up, hauling him into the air, pulling him to his chest.
Mizuki let out another scream of pain, but no one seemed to notice, with the sounds of gunfire and yells ringing through the air. Keito cursed, walking steadily around the back of a building, where he found a group of boys hiding, crouched down low to the ground. Keito set Inoue down next to those boys, and they immediately moved to crowd around him, Keito getting back down on his knees and prying at the kid’s hands, physically pulling them away from his leg, trying to see what exactly had happened. The boys around them just hovered, wide eyed, little noises of panic and fear falling from trembling mouths until Keito barked for someone to hold Inoue still, as he was fighting Keito, telling him to just let him be, leave him alone.
It was only once there were multiple pairs of hands holding him still that Mizuki’s hands could be removed from his own leg, and Keito got a chance to see the deep track of flesh that had been ripped away, a stray bullet obviously having torn through his calf, a clean strip of skin and muscle scooped away, revealing wet, red muscle and a hint of white bone underneath, everything bathed in blood. Keito sat back on his knees, pulling the white tank top he was wearing up over his head and wrapping it around Mizuki’s calf. As he worked he asked the crowd of boys
“What happened? When did the Wakaba show up?” His quarry was met with silence. Mizuki squeezed his eyes shut and screwed his face up and Keito tied the ends of his tank top together, Mizuki slumping against the side of the building, a new pair of hands coming to meet Keito’s own, putting pressure on the wound.
“I don’t know, Prince.” One boy finally said, his voice trembling. “It felt like a long time before you showed up, but-“
“It probably was only about fifteen minutes.” Another kid offered. The first boy nodded. Keito felt a lump rise in his throat. All of those boys dead in fifteen minutes.
“We were just going about normal stuff, when they showed up from over there.” He pointed in the general direction of Wakaba territory.
“We-we didn’t have time to react.” A third boy offered. “They just started shooting. Whoever was closest was killed. There was no chance to defend ourselves. At first people were coming out of their buildings to see what was going on. Most who tried to fight were shot. Eventually...we just ran and hid.”
“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die like Inoue-kun!” A small boy said, and Mizuki cracked his eyes open at that, looking at the boy, and Keito said quickly
“Inoue isn’t going to die.” He looked the boys over. Most of these kids seemed to be relatively blood free. It was relieving, and for a moment the knot in Keito’s chest relaxed a little, only for it to tighten up moments later when there was the crack of gunfire, cutting through the conversation. “How many Wakaba were there?” He asked quickly, pushing himself to his feet and wiping more blood into his jeans before pulling his gun out of his waistband. He looked it over, checking that it was cocked, thinking about the bullets left in the magazine grimly, as a kid said
“At least ten I think? Ten...to fifteen. I’m so sorry Prince-I didn’t think to count.” Keito nodded, his heart pounding in his ears, and he thought over just how many must be left. He’d seen three die, so that hopefully only left seven or so to go. That would mean that he and his housemates were still outnumbered, but with any luck some of the underlings would manage to take down at least one Wakaba member. In the distance he heard Daiki’s signature roar of rage, and it pushed him to action, turning to the kids one last time as he said sternly
“You boys stay safe. Don’t try to help. All I want from you is to just not die. Understood?”
“Yes, Prince.” Fell meekly from worry-bitten lips. About half of the boys had responded, words subservience, nods of understanding meeting his gaze. The other half just looked up at him, eyes wide with a blank fear. Keito swallowed the lump of paralyzing worry in his throat that this was the last time he’d see any of these kids breathing, and he ran out around the building, back toward the frey. In the time that he had been with Inoue more boys had fallen to the pavement, dead or hurt or unconscious. After Keito glanced down and found himself looking into the horrifyingly blank stare of Uchimura Sota, he tried not to look at the bodies in the street. Looking wouldn’t help him now. He could look once it was all over.
He moved toward the loudest sounds, a gunshot going off immediately to his left that diverted his attention from what Keito thought was Daiki fighting up ahead, and found himself stumbling over a body and rounding a corner to find another group of underlings huddled behind a building. This time however he was met with the sight of Kyomoto Taiga standing shoulder to shoulder with Matsumura Hokuto, an unfamiliar gun in Taiga’s hand, their faces sprayed in blood, Seto Koji’s body at their feet. Behind them Jesse was crouched over a very bloody and unsettlingly still Kouchi, but the other two in their usual group weren’t with them, and the absence of Shintaro and Juri made Keito uneasy.
“Where are the others?” He asked, his heart pounding in his throat. The words drew all three of the conscious underlings’ attentions, Their heads whipping up sharply, eyes big and wide.
“Stone Prince!” Taiga said, startled, his grip still tight on the gun in his hand. It was Hokuto however that gave him the answer he needed, raising a bloody, trembling hand and pointing off up ahead, saying quietly
“That Wakaba bastard. Shintaro, he-” His voice was weak and rough with fear, and Keito didn’t wait to hear any more, just nodding and pushing past Hokuto, walking right by Jesse, his eyes finding Kouchi’s chest despite himself, a note of relief hitting him when he noticed that the other man was still breathing. He could still hear the sounds of fighting, could feel something inside his chest pulling him toward the noise like a magnet, and he pressed on, through the buildings, mostly just finding young men and small boys trying to get away, to find safety. The once frequent sounds of gunshots ringing the air had become sporadic, and Keito found that when there was the sound of a shot going off it never seemed to come from the same place as another. And as minutes passed with no sight of Shintaro or Juri he found himself wandering the streets, looking for a fight.
He found Chinen first. Chinen was lying on the ground, his gun nowhere to be found, nose bleeding, bruises on his throat and fists, his arms and chest absolutely covered in blood, a switchblade clasped in his hand. His eyes were nearly closed, but his chest was rising and falling rapidly, and next to him lay a man Keito didn’t recognize, but he knew the man had to be a Wakaba, due to the grotesque burns on the man’s arms, big blisters-like the ones on Hikaru’s hands-puckered up from shiny red skin. The Wakaba man had been stabbed at least ten times, and from the look of things Chinen had gotten on top of him, stabbed him until he had been sure the man was dead, before rolling off of him, lying there on the pavement, no strength left to move.
Keito bent to see Chinen, to check if he was okay, but when he got close Chinen seemed to register him, and the smaller man pushed at him weakly with one hand and croaked out in a rough whisper
“Daiki.” He gestured to his right, and Keito tried to insist that Chinen be seen to, but Chinen kept pushing at him, shoving him away, and eventually Keito gave in. It didn’t take him long to find Daiki. He was covered in blood, his back up against a wall, a knife sticking out of his side, a dead man at his own feet as another assailant advanced on him. The sight made Keito’s insides freeze, and he didn’t do anything for a moment, until Daiki roared in pain and frustration, and that sound broke Keito out of his panic. He shoved his gun into the waistband of his jeans and instead pulled out his butterfly knife, flicking it open with a snap of his wrist and running, leaping at the Wakaba man, throwing himself onto the enemy’s back, sinking his blade into the first bit of flesh he could reach.
The guy screamed in shock and pain, and he whirled on Keito, punching over his shoulder as he moved. His fist sunk into Keito’s throat before he was even facing Keito properly, a lucky shot that knocked Keito to the ground and left him gasping for air as pain bloomed hotly from where he’d been hit. Keito’s blade was clutched in his fist, and as a result it was torn from the man’s body, and Keito slashed out at him as he fought to breathe, one hand pushing at the pavement, trying to get himself to his feet, while the other brandished the knife wildly. It didn’t really deter the Wakaba man however, and he kicked out at Keito with his boots, hitting him in the stomach a few times.
Keito curled into a ball on impulse, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, forcing himself to look for a weakness, as he fought to breathe. Behind the Wakaba man he saw Daiki fall to his knees, both hands red with his own blood as he clutched at the knife that was still stuck in his side. He wouldn’t be able to fight anymore. It was just Keito and Hikaru left. If Hikaru was even still alive. And it was that realization that really forced Keito to act, the realization that by sheer circumstance he was maybe the only one left that could end this fucking war.
It was at that moment that the Wakaba man got closer and Keito reached out, moving as fast as he could, and he grabbed the Wakaba man’s leg as it kicked out at him once more, and he shoved his knife into the calf, feeling the blade hit bone as he sunk it in as far as it could go. He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet and punching the man in the face, before kicking at his injured leg, the man’s hand curling around Keito’s shoulder as he fell to the street, the force of him taking Keito down with him. Keito cursed, wildly scrambling, panic filling his lungs as he tried to get his bearings.
The man kneed him in the chest, and punched him in the side of his head, Keito’s vision going out for a few moments as his skull was bashed into the pavement. He tasted blood on his tongue, and his head pounded with pain, eyes unable to focus. The enemy was half on top of him, one fist curling into Keito’s long hair with a fierce determination, and he slammed Keito’s head into the street once more. But Keito groped for his gun as he tried to pry himself away from the Wakaba man, the tang of blood filling his nostrils as he pointed the gun at the man’s chest and pulled the trigger, hoping desperately that it would be enough.
He shot the man four times in rapid succession, his breaths coming in short bursts, his whole body trembling, exhausted from the fear. Exhausted from the realization at how close he had come to getting his head bashed in. He fought the urge to vomit as he rolled away from his assailant, trying to focus on Daiki, to get his world to stop spinning. Trying to get his breathing under control. This wasn’t over. He still had to help Daiki. He had to find Hikaru. He had to make sure that Ichinojo was dead; and if he wasn’t he had to kill him. He blinked a few times, trying to pull himself together, before pushing himself to his hands and knees and crawling over to Daiki, his head still spinning too much for anything more, blood running hotly down his temple.
The older man was still slumped against the wall, his hands clutching at his side, his body trembling. He was covered in blood, but when Keito came closer he looked up at him, and he said
“Sorry I couldn’t help. Used my last bullet on this bastard.” He nodded at the corpse lying next to him on the ground. “Fucking piece of shit.” Keito shook his head, immediately regretting that decision as a wave of nausea washed over him, and he sat up on his knees, hands hovering over Daiki’s body, wanting to help but not able to decide how to best go about it. Seeing that Daiki grimaced, his hands pressing a little more firmly at the wound in his side, fingers holding the blade in place as he spoke. “I’ll be fine Keito. Did you see Chinen? We got separated.” His voice held a barely contained fear, and Keito rushed to assure him, the words coming out as fast as he could make them, voice rough from his bruised throat
“I did. He’s alive. Too hurt to fight though. Killed a guy.” Keito gestured back toward the direction he’d come, and Daiki nodded, relief visible on his face. Keito opened his mouth to ask if Daiki knew anything about Hikaru when an underling boy came sprinting around a corner, wild panic in his movements, and Keito didn’t have time to react before there was the sharp crack of gunfire, and the boy fell to the pavement, body limp. The small respite they’d stolen was ripped away, and Keito felt his heart pounding in his chest, eyes wide and mind blank as he turned to see Wakaba Ichinojo bearing down on them, gun pointed right at the underling boy as he pulled the trigger.
In wild panic Keito reached for his own gun, only to realize that he’d left it two meters away, resting on the pavement by the Wakaba man he’d shot. His knife was there too, still embedded in the man’s leg, and Keito couldn’t help the choked, panicked understanding that this was it. This was how he was going to die. But then Ichinojo pulled the trigger of his pistol again, and nothing happened, and Keito realized with a jolt of relief that the other man was out of ammunition, and his heart soared in his chest. He dove for his gun, despite Ichinojo being closer to it, and the Wakaba man seemed to realize halfway through the action just what it was Keito was doing, and he threw his own pistol to the pavement and cursed, kicking out at Keito, foot connecting with Keito’s shoulder, shoving him back.
Keito pushed himself to his feet, lunging forward and throwing a punch at Ichinojo’s face, feeling the bastard’s nose break under his knuckles, and Ichinojo stumbled back, hand coming up automatically to the injury. But when Keito advanced on him Ichinojo kicked out, his heel hitting Keito square in the chin, Keito’s head snapping sharply back, pain wracking down his spine. He fell flat on his back, and he noticed his gun right at Ichinojo’s feet, and he threw himself at it again, knowing that this fight wouldn’t be won with fists. It would be won with bullets. But Ichinojo kicked the weapon away, and he stomped harshly on Keito’s head, smashing it into the pavement once more.
Keito let out a yelp of pain, Ichinojo cursing wildly, and Keito kicked up, one foot catching Ichinojo by the knee, and he forced him down, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears as he pushed himself up, throwing his body on top of Ichinojo’s. He could barely see, his vision spotty, but he threw punch after punch, as Ichinojo’s hands struggled on Keito’s blood slicked chest, trying to get him off. He could feel fresh blood on his hands, could smell it in the air, when Ichinojo managed to shove one knee out from under him, and he fell so he was on his hands over the Wakaba bastard.
Ichinojo quickly managed to wrestle Keito to the ground, and behind him he could hear Daiki screaming, but he couldn’t make out any words. All he could do was struggle as Ichinojo pinned him to the pavement and reached out over Keito’s head. Keito didn’t realize until it was too late that Ichinojo had grabbed his butterfly knife out of the dead Wakaba’s calf. Keito’s hands came up to protect his face and throat on reflex, his blade catching on his fingers in stinging waves of pain. Ichinojo punched him in the face, and followed up by whipping Keito’s blade across his chest, while Keito fought to maintain consciousness, feeling his body failing him.
Ichinojo adjusted his grip on the knife, lunging to stab Keito properly when a leather shoe kicked him in the side of the head, pushing him off of Keito and onto the pavement, and above him Keito heard Hikaru mutter, his voice pure rage
“Fucking cockroach just won’t fucking die.” Keito forced himself to look up, his eyes locking on Hikaru’s figure standing over him, the man he loved bloody, but on his feet and alive, his face contorted with rage, his left hand outstretched, one of his glocks grasped in red stained, bandaged fingers. He stepped over Keito, his eyes locked on Ichinojo’s face, and Ichinojo froze as the muzzle of Hikaru’s gun came to rest against his forehead. Ichinojo stared up at Hikaru with just as much loathing and bloodthirst as Hikaru had in his own face, and he growled out, his mouth red with his own blood
“Cockroach? You think you’re any better than me? You’re not. You’ve killed just as many. Tortured just as many. You brought this destruction upon yourself. Asked for this.” Hikaru snorted, unmoving. “We’re just the same.” Ichinojo insisted. “Don’t act like it isn’t true.” Hikaru let out a long exhale, everything still, and then he replied
“I can think of one difference between the two of us. I don’t have a hole in my head.” And with a crack, Ichinojo slumped to the pavement. Dead. There was a long silence, everything quiet, no one moving, before Hikaru threw his pistol to the pavement and fell to his knees at Keito’s side, voice high with fear
“Keito, it’s over. It’s over, okay? You’re going to be fine.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Keito, and Keito reached out for him, his trembling fingers meeting Hikaru’s own, and he felt Hikaru’s grip strong on his hand as he choked out
“You’re right. It’s over.” He fought to keep conscious, but he wanted to assure Hikaru, to let him know that he had done it. He had ended it. The war was over. The Wakaba were gone. And it was as the blackness finally crept in that he murmured, “We’re going to be just fine.”
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