no sugar, no cream; 3/5
Title: No Sugar, No Cream
Pairings/Characters: Nakamaru/Kame
Rating: PG13
Warnings: AU, violence, cursing, mentions of euthanasia
Notes: Before anything else is said, I’d like to say: I know.
Summary: Nakamaru is a small town police officer who transfers to a branch in the city in hopes of making a real difference. He’s partnered to a senior officer whose methods fall outside the law and eventually, Nakamaru finds himself playing the good cop to Kamenashi’s bad cop. He’s determined to make their partnership work, if only to save Kamenashi from himself.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Koki barging into the station one sunny afternoon, sounding as if he had sniffed something in the vault of confiscated drugs, is just a little bit disconcerting. Outside their office, it sounds like a riot has begun and Nakamaru slowly lifts his head from a file on a teacher suspected of sexual assault and glances to the side to see Kamenashi giving him the same confused look.
“Someone sounds happy.”
Kamenashi grins. “Maybe he finally managed to strangle Tegoshi.”
They step out in the middle of Koki’s announcement. There’s a bubble of officers crowding around Koki’s gleeful face and his smile grows even dopier when his eyes land on Nakamaru. Nakamaru has just a seconds notice to stiffen before Koki jumps towards him and drags him to the center of the circle of onlookers with a tight arm wrapped around his neck.
“And here’s the guy who saved me from jumping out of a department store window,” Koki says to everyone and Nakamaru has never felt so weirded out than when Koki plants a fervent kiss on his cheek. He tries to yank away but Koki’s clutch only loosens when Kamenashi laughs and brings attention to the fact that Koki might be choking his saviour.
“Whoops, sorry,” Koki grins, “but I gotta say, Nakamaru, if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be trailing after that primping banshee. A few more days and I’d have hung myself with a feather boa.”
“Er, thanks.” Nakamaru blinks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The Magpie!” Koki shouts and he doesn’t really need to when he’s standing a foot away. “I caught her! Or well, Sakura did. She’s the real star of the show. You should have seen how she took the Magpie down, my baby girl-”
“Wait. You caught her?” Kamenashi interrupts before Koki can begin singing poetry to Sakura’s name. “Where is she? And what does Nakamaru have anything to do with? He was shoe shopping when I went after her.”
“Hey,” Nakamaru says even though he has no idea what he did either.
“Well, you were,” Kamenashi returns but he’s smiling that smile so Nakamaru knows there’s no blame, knows that Kamenashi isn’t good at apologising with words. He’d rather tease and walk up to stroke his arm, soothing a nonexistent bruise.
“That cloth you gave me,” Koki begins only to be cut off by a piercing look from Kamenashi.
“What cloth?”
Nakamaru finds the accusation in Kamenashi’s face amusing. Naturally, he’s the only one allowed to have secret folders and do things on his own while Nakamaru is expected to report back to him on his every move. A part of him wants to bite his tongue and let Kamenashi fester in the frustration of not knowing but it’s hard when Kamenashi is staring at him with a tight grip on his elbow.
Nakamaru tugs it out of his grip with one his more obnoxious smiles. “Not fun is it?” On cue, Kamenashi’s eyes turn into slits and Nakamaru turns to Koki. “You mean the piece the piece of torn fabric I found in the washroom? It helped?”
“Helped? It freakin’ flagged the Magpie better than if she had a ‘hi, I’m about to rob you’ sticker stuck to her forehead.” Koki’s smile is huge. “Whatever perfume she wears, she wears it often. Sakura caught her scent in an instant. We had her surrounded before she could escape from the window and get this-” he jumps in the air with a clap of his hands, “the Magpie. She’s the daughter of Watanabe Ken.”
Nakamaru has no idea who that is but an officer who chokes on his drink at the name enlightens him.
“Watanabe Ken-he owns the entire chain of Starlight Cinemas! He’s the richest man in the city.”
“With a daughter who’s a thief,” Taguchi adds. Nakamaru spots him standing near the outskirts of the crowd. “This is going to make headlines.”
“Where’s she now?” Kamenashi asks.
“At the Tegoshi estate, pleading to her dad who’s pleading to Tegoshi’s to drop the charges. Ueda’s there with Kimura too; they’ll bring her into custody later I’m guessing. I mean, the evidence is pretty self-damning since we caught her in the act.” Koki’s arm returns around his neck and squeezes. “But who cares! The city’s biggest thief and we caught her! It’s time to celebrate! Tonight at The Beatbox-drinks are all on our star newbie here!”
There’s a chorus of cheers from all sides and Nakamaru pulls away to object but Koki cuts him off.
“It’s tradition. The officer who closes his first case buys for all. This way it’s win-win; you get another notch on your belt and we get free booze-right, boys?”
There’s more cheering and once everyone has their turn to pat Nakamaru on the back or give him a fistbump or ruffle his hair, Nakamaru turns to Kamenashi with a tired sigh. “There is no tradition, is there?”
“There is now.”
Kamenashi reaches a hand up to smooth his hair and then mess it up again with his other. He laughs at his handy work and Nakamaru figures it would ruin the mood to point out how Kamenashi has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach him.
“I’ll see you tonight?” Nakamaru asks and it doesn’t escape him how Kamenashi’s muscles go tense for a moment, his eyes darting to the sides before he answers.
“I… can’t, actually. I have plans. Sorry.”
Nakamaru nods, takes a step back. “You don’t think I deserve it, right?” Kamenashi’s face pinches but whatever; if he doesn’t want to congratulate his partner for not being entirely useless for once, then he might as well say it. “I didn’t do much anyway so it’s no big deal or-”
“Don’t be a bigger moron than you already are,” Kamenashi snaps. “Paying attention to the details and making use of whatever you find is what separates a good detective from a crap one.” Kamenashi sighs but Nakamaru notes how the tension doesn’t leave him. “Now, I have to head out but if I don’t make it, you can buy me a drink later.”
Nakamaru nods again. “Have fun, then. With your plans.”
Kamenashi pauses as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. He adjusts the collars with a sharp tug and doesn’t meet Nakamaru’s eyes.
“I will.”
*
The Beatbox is a gaudily packaged bar with bright neon signs and a dim, mellow interior. Nakamaru had been expecting disco lights and a packed crowd but instead there are empty tables and the soft voice of a singer standing at the open mic ensconcing the bar under a soothing spell. “No strippers, sorry to disappoint,” Ueda says to him when he sees Nakamaru blink around.
“No… it’s nice,” Nakamaru decides. It’s surprisingly cozy despite the holes in the barstool seats and the peeling maroon paint of the walls and the scuffed floor. He understands why they chose to come here out of all the bars in the city. The Beatbox is a disguise of itself; comparatively, it’s a safer place for a gang of cops to get piss drunk and let the anxiety melt away. There’s not much to be vigilant about in a bar that’s half empty.
An hour into the night has Koki singing gibberish with bits of English here and there into the mic at the back of the bar. Nakamaru has to look away before the embarrassment drowns him and makes a face when he hears people actually cheer at his slurred rap. Trust the drunk to understand the drunk. While footing the bill for everyone else, Nakamaru doesn’t drink much himself; his first glass of beer is still half full. It’s partly because his alcohol tolerance isn’t so high to begin with but mostly because he can’t fully step out of his uniform.
Plus, he gets a kick out of observing the rest of his colleagues and noting their drunken habits. He watches Taguchi line up the peanuts on the countertop one by one in neat rows of equal numbers, and then harass the bartender for more when the basket runs empty. He has taken up a third of the counter space all on his own with his peanut army.
Ueda, on the other hand, is a more sluggish type of drunk. Nakamaru swivels around to eavesdrop on his conversation with a group of officers Nakamaru is less familiar with and snorts.
“I don’t understand it,” Ueda begins, the alcohol making his eyebrows furrow together and giving him an even broodier edge. His group of listeners wait eagerly for the philosophical revelation to come and another gulp of beer later, it does. “Why leggings? Just… why? Why do they exist? Legs are meant to run and be free.”
“Here, here!” Nakamaru watches them toast and throw back their beers and he can already feel the weight of his wallet drop as they ask for refills. Back at the makeshift stage, Koki continues his mini-concert with a slow number that has Koki pausing to wipe at his own tears half way through.
“This one’s for you, Nakamaru,” Koki calls out thickly and Nakamaru quickly ducks back over his drink before anyone figures out they’re somewhat related.
Another hour passes in much the same vein and just when Nakamaru is wondering how much of a party pooper he’d be considered for leaving his own party early, he turns to see Kamenashi slide in through the entrance of The Beatbox. Kamenashi spots him straight away too because their eyes meet and Kamenashi pauses right in front of the door to send him one of his cheeky salutes.
He walks to the bar slowly with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans and his arms close to his sides. He looks smaller than usual inside his leather jacket and Nakamaru wonders if it’s his few sips of beer that make him see a slight lurch in his steps.
“Everything alright?” he asks when Kamenashi slides onto the stool right beside him.
Kamenashi orders a scotch. “Why wouldn’t I be? Think I don’t know how to handle my time outside the station?”
“No, that’s not-” He’d rather not get into another argument right now, not when Kamenashi cut short on whatever plans he had to get here. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Kamenashi flashes him a small smile. “Free drinks? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Nakamaru waits for the alcohol to unwind the tension stiffening Kamenashi’s shoulders and tightening his grip around the glass of whisky. It takes two and a half glasses before Kamenashi finally slumps over the counter, his head propped up on his elbow.
“Do you have a significant other?” Nakamaru asks, as casually as he can. Kamenashi knows about him but Nakamaru had never had the chance to ask. Kamenashi’s mood swings might be clearer now, easier to anticipate, but his life is still opaque, clouded by work and scowls and exhaustion.
“What, you think I ditched a romantic dinner to come here?” Kamenashi grins before tossing back the remainder of his scotch. Nakamaru doesn’t miss the flicker of a wince when Kamenashi raises his arm to signal the bartender to get him another. He turns back to Nakamaru with a lazy grin. “What do you think?”
Nakamaru swirls the reflection in his own beer and thinks of someone waiting at a table with the food gone cold and an equally cold bed, the worry and the unanswered questions making the minutes stretch.
“I think I’d feel sorry for whoever it is if you did.”
“Well then, you have your answer.” Kamenashi’s laugh is a low rumble and when Nakamaru looks up, he’s watching him with a soft look that’s almost sappy-open and honest and happy to be here sitting next to Nakamaru in an unkempt bar. “There aren’t many people out there who are masochistic enough to put up with me. You might be the last one.”
“Ueda said something along the same lines,” Nakamaru returns with a wry smile and Kamenashi snorts.
“He would.” Kamenashi shuffles for something inside his jacket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. There’s only one left inside the box and Nakamaru is frowning and ready to tell him off for poisoning himself when he already looks like crap-when he notices the ring.
“Where’d you get that?”
“This?” Kamenashi pauses with the unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He pulls the cigarette out and drops it on the bar top. “Koki gave it to me. Relax, it’s the knock-off. He retrieved it when they arrested Anne. But I guess it should be yours, Mr Hotshot Who Just Closed His First High Profile Case. You should keep it as a token.”
Nakamaru stops him before he can take off the ring and hand it over.
“No, you keep it. I don’t think it fits my style,” he smiles when Kamenashi barks a laugh. “I didn’t think it would be yours either.”
Kamenashi shrugs. “It’ll make for great impact.” From the way he runs a thumb over the protruding silver of the skull, Nakamaru guesses he’s not talking about walking into a room and earning oohs and awws, but rather his fist cracking into a jaw.
Nakamaru goes still the instant Kamenashi’s hand lands on top of his own. It’s warm and rough and for a moment, it feels like his brain has fractured by his inability to understand what’s going on. And then Nakamaru recalls that Kamenashi is on his third glass of scotch and since he hardly ever remembers to eat, alcohol is probably the only substance running through his system. The attentive way Kamenashi feels up his hand, running fingers along the bony surface of Nakamaru’s own, makes more sense with that in mind-for the most part.
He’s distracted enough for Nakamaru to swipe his cigarette onto the floor.
“Nakamaru has pretty hands,” Kamenashi mumbles and there’s that unmistakable slur in his voice but it’s still the first time someone has ever called his hands-or anything about him, really-pretty. He’s heard delicate and girly and even wimpy before, but not pretty. They make an odd contrast, he admits, watching Kamenashi trace the veins along his hand with fingers that are short and wide where Nakamaru’s own are long and slender.
There’s a charm in Kamenashi’s that makes the ring that looked out of place on Tegoshi appear to be right at home on his.
“Soft,” Kamenashi murmurs before folding Nakamaru’s hands together and patting them like he’s gotten all the evidence he needs. “These hands can’t kill.”
It’s not as if killing is something to be proud of so Nakamaru doesn’t know why he wants to argue against Kamenashi’s verdict, feeling like he’s let him down somehow. Behind them, Koki screams into the mic and makes them jump on their stools with the start of his rock number.
“He’s still at it…” Nakamaru shakes his head in grudging admiration of Koki’s vocal stamina.
The expression Kamenashi wears is all squint-eyed amusement. “He does this every time. Record it and you’ll have enough blackmail material to last you a solid year.”
Nakamaru perks up. “You come here often?”
“Occasionally. Last year they dragged me out and made me drink twenty eight shots. I puked them all out right where Taguchi’s sitting,” Kamenashi tells him with pride.
“Fun,” Nakamaru says, making a face. “Why twenty eight?”
Kamenashi blinks. “Because I turned twenty eight.”
Nakamaru blinks back. “You’re twenty eight.”
“Yes… and you’re drunk?”
“I’m thirty one.”
“Old.” Kamenashi has the nerve to actually giggle.
Nakamaru wants to scream but can only manage an outraged sputter in the end. “You-you made me salute you! I called you sir.”
Kamenashi’s smirk lasts a second before it slides into something that’s closer to an impish smile. “That was cute.” He finishes his third glass and orders a fourth. “I’m still your senior though.”
*
Somehow, it’s not surprising that Kamenashi turns out to be the worst of the drunks. It’s not that the others are any less embarrassing, but at least they keep to themselves, unlike Kamenashi who won’t stop leaning against his side and blowing into Nakamaru’s ear. Nakamaru nearly falls off his stool in an attempt to get away and he wonders what attracts more attention-the vivid redness in his face of Kamenashi’s squeals of laughter.
There’s a man in a green trench coat sitting in one of the corner booths who’s been watching them for a while and Nakamaru decides it’s time to end the party when Kamenashi tries to climb over the bar top. He hisses in pain when Nakamaru drags him back and Nakamaru pauses to readjust his grip even though he hadn’t been holding tight at all.
“God, you’re such a baby,” is something he’d never imagined saying to Kamenashi and Kamenashi responds by trying to kiss his neck. That’s what loneliness and too much alcohol does to people, Nakamaru thinks grimly as he tugs Kamenashi out the doors of the The Beatbox, it turns people even as stoic as Kamenashi into touch-starved maniacs. That’s the only thing that can explain the hand trying to wrestle its way into the back pocket of Nakamaru’s pants.
The party breaks up in bundles that are packed and driven away in taxis.
“We should do this again sometime,” Taguchi says brightly, swaying on his feet as he piggybacks Koki towards a cab. With his wallet completely emptied out, Nakamaru disagrees.
He ends up manhandling Kamenashi into his car when Kamenashi starts picking a fight with the last cab driver left.
“What’s with you and making enemies everywhere you go?” Nakamaru asks when Kamenashi is buckled safely in his backseat.
Kamenashi crosses his arms. “People suck. What’s with you and your nose?”
Nakamaru sighs. It’s clear that Kamenashi has entered the belligerent phase of his drunken spell and isn’t keen on leaving it behind when he refuses to give Nakamaru his address for the sixth time.
“Are you sure you want to sleep on my couch instead of your super comfortable bed?” Nakamaru tries again.
Kamenashi turns onto his side and gazes out the window with his forehead pressed to the glass. Nakamaru wouldn’t have realised that he spoke if not for the fog of his breath. “’s not safe.”
Nakamaru frowns and inspects the parking lot. It’s dark and quiet, no one in sight. “What’s not safe?”
Kamenashi doesn’t answer and with another sigh, Nakamaru starts the car and begins the drive to his apartment. Luckily, it’s near midnight and his apartment is on the third floor which doesn’t give Kamenashi time to make too much of a scene, although he does manage to get at the elevator buttons and make them get off on the wrong floor twice.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this but you’re actually easier to handle when you’re sober and semi-sane and burning a hole through my head,” Nakamaru mutters before shoving Kamenashi into his apartment.
It’s a modest-sized place with a modest décor-the joined kitchen to the right and his bedroom through a door on the left, pictures of his family strewn all over. There’s a pile of manga sitting on the coffee table, next to an unfinished crossword from the local newspaper. Nakamaru feels a self-conscious prickle when Kamenashi stands in the center of his living room and looks around. He stands out like a sore thumb in his black jacket and dark hair, surrounded by whites and greys. That aura that makes him look ten times bigger than he is fills up the room and makes it difficult to breathe.
“Don’t,” Kamenashi says when he moves to open the window above his kitchen sink.
When Kamenashi turns to face him straight on under the lights of his apartment, Nakamaru finally sees it. Them. The shadows across his face-the baby steps of multiple bruises.
“Kame,” he says, his heart suddenly pounding as he remembers his words in the car. Kame meets his steps and Nakamaru reaches a hand out to inspect his face-just as Kame side steps him and runs to the vase standing in the corner of his living room with open arms. Nakamaru watches him rub his cheek against the white porcelain with a dopey smile across his face. “…Are you kidding me?”
It takes him the better part of an hour to unwrap Kame from the vase and the struggle ends with broken shards all over his wooden floor. With his arms firmly tucked under Kame’s, he drags his drunken partner to the bedroom, away from the broken porcelain, and tosses him onto the bed. Kame drops with a long groan and even with the alcohol slowing his movements, his aim is still sharp because the pillow hits Nakamaru right on the head.
Nakamaru lets it fall to the floor, a sick sensation twisting in his gut. He can’t take his eyes off from where Kame’s shirt has ridden up, the skin stretched across his torso mottled in swollen purples and greenish greys. It looks like someone tried to kick in his ribs. Repeatedly.
It’s not safe.
Nakamaru waits until Kame has fallen asleep, which doesn’t take long, before he drives down to the police station and flicks on the light in their office. The black folder is the thickest file on Kame’s desk and Nakamaru hesitates for only a second before he flips it open.
It’s a quarter past four in the morning when he returns to his apartment. He moves quietly in the dark, his socked feet not making a sound as he checks on Kame who’s snoring softly with the bed sheets tangled around his legs. He turns on the small light above the stove before he sits by the kitchen counter with a glass of ice cold water.
He takes a big gulp and wishes it was vintage brandy instead, something strong enough to knock him out. He gets it now, why Kame doesn’t sleep.
*
Kame rolls out his bed well after dawn when Nakamaru has already made and eaten his share of breakfast. Kame walks across the living room to where he’s sitting on the other side of the kitchen counter and gives him a long look.
“You look like crap. Rough sleep?”
“No sleep, and good morning to you too.” Nakamaru nudges a plate of buttered toast gone cold towards him. “I don’t have a coffee machine but I can warm you some milk.”
Kame stares. “How can you not have a coffee machine? What century do you live in?” He scowls but bites into the toast nevertheless. So they’re not going to talk about how Kame ended up sleeping at his place then. Okay. Nakamaru has another topic he wants to discuss.
He eyes Kame carefully, the shadow of a bruise now colouring his jaw in a sickly purple splotch. Now’s probably not the best time to breach the subject, not when Kame is coffee-deprived and trying to a battle what looks to be a murderous hangover. A night of having the images in the folder replay over and over in front of his eyes makes it hard to swallow it down any longer though.
Whatever he fears from Kame is drowned under the anger of not being told, of not being there by his side to protect.
“So…” he begins, “I went through your folder.”
“That’s nice,” Kame replies, taking another vicious bite and sending a shower of crumbs all over the counter. “Sorry.”
“I know about the Shinigami.”
That makes Kame’s head snap up.
“…What.” His eyebrows are steeped in fury and Nakamaru tries to focus on the dollop of butter dabbed at the corner of his mouth instead. It makes him look more silly and less deadly.
“Before you snap,” Nakamaru rushes to add before Kame lunges at him, “I’d like to remind you that last night you threw up all over my backseat and then broke my vase after trying to make out with it. Plus I let you sleep on my bed.”
Kame opens his mouth as if about to retort but closes it again with a snap. He stares down at his plate for a few minutes before he asks, “Why do you even have a vase…?”
Nakamaru releases an inward sigh of relief but stays alert. There was a reason why he had made a breakfast that didn’t require cutlery; the last thing he wanted to do was hand Kame a weapon before he told him he had taken advantage of Kame’s intoxicated state to snoop through his private documents.
“It was a housewarming gift from my sister.”
“Oh,” Kame says with a regretful tilt to his mouth. “I’ll send her an apology note.”
Nakamaru is suddenly filled with the urge to reach over and smooth Kame’s hair.
He sticks with a wary smile instead. It’s safer. “Let’s just work on you finishing that toast first.”
Later, when Kame is more lucid, he blows up. Predictably. In the end, Nakamaru is forced to unbutton his collar and show the impressive hickey blooming on his neck to contain the explosion.
“Like I fucking care that you finally managed to get your virgin ass laid, you f-”
“That was you,” Nakamaru interrupts. “You can ask Taguchi if you don’t believe me. Or the bartender. You get kind of… touchy when you’re drunk.”
Kame stares at him like a fish thrown on land. Nakamaru buttons up his collar again and gives him time to recover by collecting the manga he had sent flying to the floor in the middle of his rampage. When he’s done, he clears his throat and gestures for Kame to sit down on the couch.
“Now that you’re done swearing at me and everyone that I love, let’s talk about the Shinigami.”
*
Sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride. Knock into a coma, paralyze the muscles, and freeze the heart. The ingredients of a lethal injection and the Shinigami’s choice of weapon. Nakamaru remembers some of the names from the days when he would stay by his dad’s bedside in the hospital.
“Sodium thiopental is a common anesthetic but the combination of all three… they’re used in euthanasia.”
“And to execute capital punishment,” Kame adds with a look of disgust. “It’s an immediate death. That’s why he’s known as the Shinigami. His victims look like they died in their sleep, a natural and supposedly painless way to go. There’s no physical trace unless he uses an injection but there are cases where he poisons the food.”
“Wait-known as? How come there’s no media coverage about him? Nothing in the papers or-”
Kame snorts. “You think they care? The Shinigami only goes after people the city would rather forget. The homeless, the orphans, the disabled. To them, he’s only cleaning the city of the excess, the leeches that live off their tax dollars.”
Nakamaru remembers the pictures, the pallid faces of children with their eyes closed in bliss as their dead bodies lay in the grime of street alleys, forgotten and ignored. Thrown away like garbage. Pictures of a ghost-like figure in a red Noh mask looming over them like a demon.
“Surely we can speak out and-”
“Have one of the smaller newspapers publish your story, right? And then what? The Shinigami has been around for years, Nakamaru. It’s not a question of if they’re aware but if they care.” Kame runs a rough hand through his hair, nearly yanking at the roots. “When he first hit the scene, he had the public terrified. Everyone was paranoid and only ate food from home, only drank what they carried in bottles. But then they realized that the Shinigami followed a pattern-that they were safe if they had a home and a job and were relatively healthy.”
“You were around then?” Nakamaru asks and Kame shakes his head.
“I moved into this city a couple years later. I found about all this when I was sorting through files. I was a newbie like you only I didn’t care so much,” Kame gives a small smile, “and Kimura had to keep me busy some way. He didn’t expect I’d get hung over a case that had collected four years of dust.”
“Four years?” Nakamaru’s eyebrows meet in the center. “If he was still around then how come no one was working on it?”
Kame shakes his head. “You don’t get it. You think people care more about catching the bad guy than reading about the affairs of people richer than them.” Kame sends him a sharp look that’s dulled by a glimpse of desperation, as if he’s begging Nakamaru to understand. “Listen, Nakamaru, people don’t give a rats ass about things that don’t affect them.”
“B-but we’re the police-”
“And who feeds us?” Kame snaps. “Think about it. We’re only here to protect them. To make them feel safe. And if they feel safe with a serial killer running around murdering kids or people without an arm or a leg, then we can’t exactly tell them that they’re walking pieces of trash. We can’t force fear into them-that’s the opposite of what we’re here for. If we spend real money and resources on a case they don’t care for then the police force will be put under fire. The media will ask us why we’re wasting tax dollars on hunting the Shinigami when there are more prominent threats like the fucking nobody who did a hit-and-run in a friendly neighborhood in the nicer half of the city.”
Kame is heaving and Nakamaru watches him blink around, obviously wondering when he had gotten up and started pacing across Nakamaru’s living room. Nakamaru hands him a glass of water which he takes with a grateful nod.
“Did I burst your bubble?” he asks after a swallow. He’s watching Nakamaru carefully, as if he’ll break apart any second under Kame’s tirade of harsh truths.
“I’m a big boy,” Nakamaru returns even though he knows a part of him hasn’t had time to digest it all. He’ll think about it later, when Kame isn’t hovering over him like a mother, waiting for him to crumble.
There’s something that continues to pick at him though. “How come you’re keeping the Shinigami case to yourself? Why won’t you let anyone help?”
Nakamaru can almost see the brick wall pile up between them as Kame’s posture straightens and his eyes flicker away. Nakamaru is too tired for this.
“You give me a bullshit answer and I’ll tell everyone at the station about your infatuation with my vase.”
“You wouldn’t.” Nakamaru keeps his face perfectly schooled and blank and finally Kame lets out a laugh. “I keep underestimating you.”
“Yeah, you should really correct that,” Nakamaru returns and they share a grin. Kame collapses next to him and rolls his neck before he hunches over with that same focused look he wore at the shooting range.
“I wasn’t going to lie to you anyway. I just… don’t want any casualties in the crossfire.”
Nakamaru frowns. “What do you mean? The Shinigami knows you’re after him?”
Kame sends him an amused smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “After a year and a half of tailing him, he’d better. The thing is, though… he’s not working alone.”
“He has accomplices?”
“Nah, he’s a loner for sure but I guess even he needs to be fed. He’s working for someone.”
“Of course,” Nakamaru says, sagging back into the couch. “I figure he has a stellar resume.”
Kame huffs a laugh that falls flat in the silence of the apartment. “You’d be surprised. His stealthy murder tactics must make him a pretty sough-after assassin,” Kame throws him a heavy look before he continues, “because even the Yamaguchi clan is willing to pay for him.”
“What?” Nakamaru sits up right, his spine straightening with a crack that runs down the length of his back. “He’s tied to the yakuza?”
Kame nods grimly. “That’s why I wanted to keep you out of it.”
It gets messy, Ueda had said. Nakamaru didn’t realize how much of an understatement that was until now. A psychotic maniac who leaves no trace when he strikes now under the protection of the largest organised crime syndicate in the city. It’s as far as it gets from his usual conbini thieves and Nakamaru has no real clue what he’s getting into. All he knows is that Kame, who wears bruises like a permanent tattoo all over his small, worn out body, has already planted both feet into the water and stands to face the tide alone.
There’s not much Nakamaru can do but get his own wet alongside him.
*
The interrogation room is at the back of the station, through a separate corridor that winds and sinks below ground level. Kame tells him that it’s all psychological, that the interrogation has already begun as soon as the suspect steps into the dim hallway. “See how there’s no windows? That gets to people. Makes them feel trapped even through there are doors on both ends.”
Nakamaru loosens his collar as they walk, already beginning to feel stuffy. The walls are grey, unpainted cement and there’s a chill that sneaks its way under his clothes. Kame sees him shiver and smirks.
“Never been down here before?”
“Once,” Nakamaru answers, “with Ueda.”
It was during his first few weeks at the station, when Kame left him to fiddle his thumbs alone in the office. Ueda had found him and had offered to bring him along on his way to the interrogation room. “Time to pick through the twisted mind of a rapist,” he had said before he entered the room and left Nakamaru to wait outside saying, “Sorry, but you’ll cramp my style.”
Ueda had looked like Christmas had just come early until he sat opposite to the suspect and all Nakamaru could see through the square plastic window cut through the door was the back of his head. The rapist though-a young man barely out of his teens who claimed he hadn’t known any better-he could see clearly. Nakamaru remembers experiencing the same chill as he saw the suspect’s face slowly drain of colour, his face contorting in on itself before he finally crumpled, crying into the fold of his arms.
Nakamaru couldn’t hear him, but whatever Ueda had done or said-it had worked.
“Ueda’s good,” Kame says with a contrasting frown. “Did you learn anything from him?”
Nakamaru shakes his head. “He looked like he had fun though.”
“That’s a mild way to put it. Ueda gets off on making people piss themselves. He has a talent for it.”
“That’s not disturbing at all.”
Kame smirks. “What would you say if I understood where he’s coming from?”
Nakamaru gives him a flat look. “I’d say I’m not surprised. Maybe a little more afraid, but not surprised.”
Kame’s laugh bounces all the way down the hall and back up again, chasing away some of the chill. Nakamaru smiles to himself as they walk. They have the entire width of the corridor to themselves but Kame’s arm still ends up brushing against his somehow.
They stop in front of one of the doors on the sides. The same door with the plastic window.
“You’ve read up on him, right?” Kame gestures to the door with a tilt of his head and Nakamaru is leaning to peek through the window when he’s pushed back. He catches himself before he stumbles, blinking owlishly at Kame who hisses, “We don’t want him to be prepared for us.”
“Right.” Nakamaru nods. “Sorry.”
“You’ve never taken part in an interrogation, have you.” It’s a conclusion disguised as a question. Nakamaru wants to retort that he’s participated in several but that’s untrue. “Well there’s always something to learn in life,” Kame says with a smile and Nakamaru knows he only says it for his sake. Four months ago Nakamaru would have been called a useless hindrance, but for weeks now… Kame has been returning Nakamaru’s patience with his own. It’s something Nakamaru hadn’t known his partner was capable of but he isn’t blind enough to believe it doesn’t cost him.
Kame is just one man and Nakamaru can’t stand next to him just for the sake of standing next to him-to comfort himself that he’s protecting Kame with his presence alone. He has to be able to match Kame’s pace.
Nakamaru enters a door that’s adjacent to the interrogation room. Inside, there’s a panel of buttons and knobs and the wall that connects to the interrogation room looks like it’s made entirely of glass-a one way window that lets him see Kame enter and take a seat right across their suspect. Funaki Kento, a wiry man in his mid-twenties sporting a long scar across his left cheek. Likely a token from one the skirmishes he regularly takes part in-illegal gun trafficking for the most part.
“His mom’s a mistress to a guy who’s somewhat of a big shot among the yakuza so he’ll be bailed out soon enough,” Kame had told him earlier, “which is why we have to make the most of it and make him talk before we lose him.”
“What makes you so sure he was there?” The file had a note of an alibi stating that Funaki was with his girlfriend during the time the fight between the yakuza and the Chinese tradesman had broke out on the docks. Up to eleven bodies were found lying dead on a merchant ship that had been authorised to sell huangjiu, not armed goods. Seven of them lay peacefully with their eyes closed and a small puncture site on the neck.
“I saw him,” Kame had answered simply, raising a dozen more questions Nakamaru hadn’t had the time to ask. “A scar stretching from the chin and up to the eye isn’t all that common.”
While Nakamaru hasn’t run an interrogation himself before, he knows how it works and it makes him pause when he realises he’s the only observer. Usually there’s at least one other officer to watch over things and make sure the interrogation stays under control. The fact that there is none, that Kame is sitting alone in a room with a dangerous man with even more dangerous connections and a leer that makes all this look like playtime-Nakamaru shifts uncomfortably and stands close to the door that directly opens into the interrogation room.
It turns out that Kame isn’t the one who needs his protection.
The interrogation room is dimly lit with only two tubes of white light shining down in the center, right over the small square table that seats Kame one side and Funaki on the other, his handcuffed wrists lying on the table. Nakamaru can see their profiles clearly, the surprising lack of gravity in Kame’s face leaving him free of any lines. The lights erase the shadows under his eyes and for the first time, Kame looks his age.
Kame leans in his chair with one arm resting on the back, a casual pretense that Funaki is dumb enough to buy.
“Let’s keep this short,” Kame’s voice spills through the speakers, “anything you can tell me about the Shinigami?”
Funaki smiles. His voice is gritty, like he empties more packs of cigarettes a day than even Kame. “Assuming that I could, why the fuck would I?”
“Wrong answer,” Kame drawls and his other hand drums lightly on the table top. Nakamaru catches Funaki’s eyes flicker, easily distracted. “The right answer would have been, Shinigami who?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Funaki replies with another frozen smile and Kame laughs with his head thrown back, his entire neck exposed and within reach. Nakamaru reaches for the door knob when he sees Funaki’s hands tighten into fists.
Nothing happens. Nakamaru drops his hand with his chest pounding.
“Better,” Kame says with a smirk, “but a little too late.”
“I have an alibi.”
“That’s nice. Tell me, how does the contract with the Shinigami work by the way? Your yakuza brethren make sure his wallet is nice and plump and he takes out your trash, that part is simple,” Kame tilts his head, his bangs swaying in front of his eyes, “but what happens when there’s a conflict of interest? Your half-sister-if that’s what you call her; I suppose it gets confusing when your mom’s a mistress, huh?-she’s blind, isn’t she? I heard you’re pretty sweet on her.”
Nakamaru has no idea where Kame got the information because it definitely wasn’t in the file but it’s just the thing Funaki needs to hear to wipe the smile off his face in place of a snarl.
“My father will kill you.”
Nakamaru has heard death threats before, has had a couple hurled at himself before, even, but never the kind that hold a promise of actually being carried out. It’s not the vehemence in Funaki’s words that frightens him; it’s the calmness in his face. The tranquility of someone who knows he’s not alone and has people who he trusts to take care of things for him.
Strangely enough, Kame looks equally calm.
“Ah, but would that be before or after the Shinigami kills his only daughter-and the one good thing you have going on in your life, I believe,” Kame adds with one of his sugary smiles. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the Shinigami’s track record but Hinamori fits right among his usual victims. Young, disabled, defenceless, a ghost to most of society…”
Funaki hunches forward until his torso presses up against the edge of the table. His words are quiet but clear. “I’m not the only one in this room who has someone to lose, detective.”
The way he says detective holds a mocking note to it that Nakamaru doesn’t quite understand, but whatever the message is, Kame hears it. Nakamaru sees it in the way his fingers stop drumming, the way he drops his arm from the chair and leans forward to whisper back, “You tell me where I can find him and Hinamori won’t ever come into danger.”
Their eyes lock tight for a stretching moment before Funaki leans back with a huff of amusement.
“I’m going to make sure you regret ever saying her name.” Funaki is watching Kame through mere slits now, like a snake waiting to strike. “I want to be there when the Shinigami puts your partner to sleep.”
It takes a moment for Nakamaru to register just who partner is referring to and in that moment, Kame has stood up and rounded the table.
“Interrogation over, detective?” Funaki goads just as Kame steps behind his chair and places him in a choke hold.
“Nah, it’s just beginning,” Kame hisses. “Now, we both know your daddy will be sending someone down to release his precious bastard son, but now we have proof of you issuing death threats at an officer as well as an acknowledgement of having ties to the Shinigami.”
“You’re a fuckin’ fool if you think that’ll keep me in here,” Funaki chokes out, his hands clawing at Kame’s forearm.
“But I don’t. I do believe it will extend your stay here though and it’s up to you how pleasant you want it to be. Trust me when I say we can make it very uncomfortable.” Funaki’s neck squeezes in the wedge of Kame’s elbow as Kame tightens his hold. “The Shinigami-what does he look like? Where can we find him?”
Funaki is gasping now, his body beginning to convulse as he struggles to breathe. His legs kick under the table as his face begins to turn blue and Nakamaru remembers what it feels like, the burn and the pain. Funaki couldn’t give an answer even if he wanted to and Kame is too inside himself to know.
Nakamaru is bursting through the door and dragging Kame off him before Funaki can take his last breath.
Despite Kame carrying an array of injuries under his shirt, Nakamaru has to use more force than expected. It’s a struggle that ends with Kame rounding on him and elbowing his chin so that he stumbles back and hits the wall. For a moment, he sees stars and when he blinks them away, Kame is stalking towards Funaki who’s lying on the floor, gagging on the sudden rush of oxygen.
Nakamaru latches onto his arm and throws him into the adjacent room before he can bury his booted foot in Funaki’s stomach. He doesn’t give Kame a chance to start.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he thunders, feeling like it was him who was just choked half to death with the way he can’t seem to breathe properly. “You nearly killed him, Kame!”
Kame is a tight coil of unyielding muscles and anger, so much anger. It burns Nakamaru to meet his eyes.
When Kame finally speaks, his voice is quiet and flat. Damning.
“I knew you couldn’t handle this.”
Nakamaru feels something inside him drop. He knows his wrongs from his rights though and what just happened wasn’t just wrong-it was insane. Kame had just come close to killing the son of a man with power and criminal connections. If he had succeeded, it would have been a death sentence, one that would end with Kame’s dead body being dumped into a river in the middle of the night. Nakamaru doesn’t know how to put his fear into words without letting it swallow everything.
He doesn’t want to think about how easy it was for Kame to come that close to killing someone with his bare hands, either. He doesn’t have room to fear Kame when he’s fearing for him.
“It’s illegal.” It’s all he can manage to say.
Kame is unforgiving.
“Go back to your sheep town if you can’t handle getting your hands dirty.” Kame hasn’t looked at him like that for a long time, like incompetencies and a hindrance are all he sees. “The world doesn’t run by textbook justice, Nakamaru. You’re never going to get anything done if you only go by the law-the law that lets scum like him,” Kame throws a glance at the window and they see Funaki taking shaky breaths, now sitting upright with his back leaning against the table leg, “get away. How many people do you think have been killed because this bastard helped get guns into the wrong hands? All the law really is, is a game of politics. It only matters when it comes to people who are too poor or unimportant.”
“And to people who have sworn to uphold it,” Nakamaru adds into the quiet.
There are things he’s learned in the city he had never known in the small bubble back home. Looking back on it, it feels like his hometown was on a different planet altogether, secluded on some island far away where Nakamaru could feel proud of his badge and say without an ounce of doubt that it was all that he needed to protect people. A part of him feels embarrassed for being so naïve while the other still wants to cling to it. Kame’s truths don’t change the truths he does know.
“Breaking the law will get you thrown in jail and that won’t be a help to anyone either,” Nakamaru tells him softly. For some reason, Kame hears it as a threat and that cuts more than anything.
“And who’s going to rat me out? You?” There’s acid in Kame’s words and Nakamaru reels back at the faintly hidden accusation. He takes a step back and blinks at Kame, trying to figure out if he’s actually serious-as if Nakamaru would ever-
Nakamaru grabs Kame’s wrist before he can exit into the corridor.
“I’m not your enemy. I will never be your enemy.” Nakamaru swallows when Kame looks over his shoulder to meet his eyes. “I’m your partner.”
“Then step out of your father’s bedtime stories before you gets both of us killed.”
Nakamaru pauses and feels himself flinch. It was his own fault for giving Kame an opening, for giving him something that could be thrown back in his face like a black eye.
“Don’t talk about my dad.”
The small cut of Kame’s smile is full of scorn. “Yeah? Then don’t touch me.”
A pause and Nakamaru lets go, dropping Kame’s wrist and watching the small frame of his back disappear through the door.
part iv
Pairings/Characters: Nakamaru/Kame
Rating: PG13
Warnings: AU, violence, cursing, mentions of euthanasia
Notes: Before anything else is said, I’d like to say: I know.
Summary: Nakamaru is a small town police officer who transfers to a branch in the city in hopes of making a real difference. He’s partnered to a senior officer whose methods fall outside the law and eventually, Nakamaru finds himself playing the good cop to Kamenashi’s bad cop. He’s determined to make their partnership work, if only to save Kamenashi from himself.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Koki barging into the station one sunny afternoon, sounding as if he had sniffed something in the vault of confiscated drugs, is just a little bit disconcerting. Outside their office, it sounds like a riot has begun and Nakamaru slowly lifts his head from a file on a teacher suspected of sexual assault and glances to the side to see Kamenashi giving him the same confused look.
“Someone sounds happy.”
Kamenashi grins. “Maybe he finally managed to strangle Tegoshi.”
They step out in the middle of Koki’s announcement. There’s a bubble of officers crowding around Koki’s gleeful face and his smile grows even dopier when his eyes land on Nakamaru. Nakamaru has just a seconds notice to stiffen before Koki jumps towards him and drags him to the center of the circle of onlookers with a tight arm wrapped around his neck.
“And here’s the guy who saved me from jumping out of a department store window,” Koki says to everyone and Nakamaru has never felt so weirded out than when Koki plants a fervent kiss on his cheek. He tries to yank away but Koki’s clutch only loosens when Kamenashi laughs and brings attention to the fact that Koki might be choking his saviour.
“Whoops, sorry,” Koki grins, “but I gotta say, Nakamaru, if it wasn’t for you, I’d still be trailing after that primping banshee. A few more days and I’d have hung myself with a feather boa.”
“Er, thanks.” Nakamaru blinks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The Magpie!” Koki shouts and he doesn’t really need to when he’s standing a foot away. “I caught her! Or well, Sakura did. She’s the real star of the show. You should have seen how she took the Magpie down, my baby girl-”
“Wait. You caught her?” Kamenashi interrupts before Koki can begin singing poetry to Sakura’s name. “Where is she? And what does Nakamaru have anything to do with? He was shoe shopping when I went after her.”
“Hey,” Nakamaru says even though he has no idea what he did either.
“Well, you were,” Kamenashi returns but he’s smiling that smile so Nakamaru knows there’s no blame, knows that Kamenashi isn’t good at apologising with words. He’d rather tease and walk up to stroke his arm, soothing a nonexistent bruise.
“That cloth you gave me,” Koki begins only to be cut off by a piercing look from Kamenashi.
“What cloth?”
Nakamaru finds the accusation in Kamenashi’s face amusing. Naturally, he’s the only one allowed to have secret folders and do things on his own while Nakamaru is expected to report back to him on his every move. A part of him wants to bite his tongue and let Kamenashi fester in the frustration of not knowing but it’s hard when Kamenashi is staring at him with a tight grip on his elbow.
Nakamaru tugs it out of his grip with one his more obnoxious smiles. “Not fun is it?” On cue, Kamenashi’s eyes turn into slits and Nakamaru turns to Koki. “You mean the piece the piece of torn fabric I found in the washroom? It helped?”
“Helped? It freakin’ flagged the Magpie better than if she had a ‘hi, I’m about to rob you’ sticker stuck to her forehead.” Koki’s smile is huge. “Whatever perfume she wears, she wears it often. Sakura caught her scent in an instant. We had her surrounded before she could escape from the window and get this-” he jumps in the air with a clap of his hands, “the Magpie. She’s the daughter of Watanabe Ken.”
Nakamaru has no idea who that is but an officer who chokes on his drink at the name enlightens him.
“Watanabe Ken-he owns the entire chain of Starlight Cinemas! He’s the richest man in the city.”
“With a daughter who’s a thief,” Taguchi adds. Nakamaru spots him standing near the outskirts of the crowd. “This is going to make headlines.”
“Where’s she now?” Kamenashi asks.
“At the Tegoshi estate, pleading to her dad who’s pleading to Tegoshi’s to drop the charges. Ueda’s there with Kimura too; they’ll bring her into custody later I’m guessing. I mean, the evidence is pretty self-damning since we caught her in the act.” Koki’s arm returns around his neck and squeezes. “But who cares! The city’s biggest thief and we caught her! It’s time to celebrate! Tonight at The Beatbox-drinks are all on our star newbie here!”
There’s a chorus of cheers from all sides and Nakamaru pulls away to object but Koki cuts him off.
“It’s tradition. The officer who closes his first case buys for all. This way it’s win-win; you get another notch on your belt and we get free booze-right, boys?”
There’s more cheering and once everyone has their turn to pat Nakamaru on the back or give him a fistbump or ruffle his hair, Nakamaru turns to Kamenashi with a tired sigh. “There is no tradition, is there?”
“There is now.”
Kamenashi reaches a hand up to smooth his hair and then mess it up again with his other. He laughs at his handy work and Nakamaru figures it would ruin the mood to point out how Kamenashi has to stand on the tips of his toes to reach him.
“I’ll see you tonight?” Nakamaru asks and it doesn’t escape him how Kamenashi’s muscles go tense for a moment, his eyes darting to the sides before he answers.
“I… can’t, actually. I have plans. Sorry.”
Nakamaru nods, takes a step back. “You don’t think I deserve it, right?” Kamenashi’s face pinches but whatever; if he doesn’t want to congratulate his partner for not being entirely useless for once, then he might as well say it. “I didn’t do much anyway so it’s no big deal or-”
“Don’t be a bigger moron than you already are,” Kamenashi snaps. “Paying attention to the details and making use of whatever you find is what separates a good detective from a crap one.” Kamenashi sighs but Nakamaru notes how the tension doesn’t leave him. “Now, I have to head out but if I don’t make it, you can buy me a drink later.”
Nakamaru nods again. “Have fun, then. With your plans.”
Kamenashi pauses as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. He adjusts the collars with a sharp tug and doesn’t meet Nakamaru’s eyes.
“I will.”
*
The Beatbox is a gaudily packaged bar with bright neon signs and a dim, mellow interior. Nakamaru had been expecting disco lights and a packed crowd but instead there are empty tables and the soft voice of a singer standing at the open mic ensconcing the bar under a soothing spell. “No strippers, sorry to disappoint,” Ueda says to him when he sees Nakamaru blink around.
“No… it’s nice,” Nakamaru decides. It’s surprisingly cozy despite the holes in the barstool seats and the peeling maroon paint of the walls and the scuffed floor. He understands why they chose to come here out of all the bars in the city. The Beatbox is a disguise of itself; comparatively, it’s a safer place for a gang of cops to get piss drunk and let the anxiety melt away. There’s not much to be vigilant about in a bar that’s half empty.
An hour into the night has Koki singing gibberish with bits of English here and there into the mic at the back of the bar. Nakamaru has to look away before the embarrassment drowns him and makes a face when he hears people actually cheer at his slurred rap. Trust the drunk to understand the drunk. While footing the bill for everyone else, Nakamaru doesn’t drink much himself; his first glass of beer is still half full. It’s partly because his alcohol tolerance isn’t so high to begin with but mostly because he can’t fully step out of his uniform.
Plus, he gets a kick out of observing the rest of his colleagues and noting their drunken habits. He watches Taguchi line up the peanuts on the countertop one by one in neat rows of equal numbers, and then harass the bartender for more when the basket runs empty. He has taken up a third of the counter space all on his own with his peanut army.
Ueda, on the other hand, is a more sluggish type of drunk. Nakamaru swivels around to eavesdrop on his conversation with a group of officers Nakamaru is less familiar with and snorts.
“I don’t understand it,” Ueda begins, the alcohol making his eyebrows furrow together and giving him an even broodier edge. His group of listeners wait eagerly for the philosophical revelation to come and another gulp of beer later, it does. “Why leggings? Just… why? Why do they exist? Legs are meant to run and be free.”
“Here, here!” Nakamaru watches them toast and throw back their beers and he can already feel the weight of his wallet drop as they ask for refills. Back at the makeshift stage, Koki continues his mini-concert with a slow number that has Koki pausing to wipe at his own tears half way through.
“This one’s for you, Nakamaru,” Koki calls out thickly and Nakamaru quickly ducks back over his drink before anyone figures out they’re somewhat related.
Another hour passes in much the same vein and just when Nakamaru is wondering how much of a party pooper he’d be considered for leaving his own party early, he turns to see Kamenashi slide in through the entrance of The Beatbox. Kamenashi spots him straight away too because their eyes meet and Kamenashi pauses right in front of the door to send him one of his cheeky salutes.
He walks to the bar slowly with his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans and his arms close to his sides. He looks smaller than usual inside his leather jacket and Nakamaru wonders if it’s his few sips of beer that make him see a slight lurch in his steps.
“Everything alright?” he asks when Kamenashi slides onto the stool right beside him.
Kamenashi orders a scotch. “Why wouldn’t I be? Think I don’t know how to handle my time outside the station?”
“No, that’s not-” He’d rather not get into another argument right now, not when Kamenashi cut short on whatever plans he had to get here. “I’m glad you could make it.”
Kamenashi flashes him a small smile. “Free drinks? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Nakamaru waits for the alcohol to unwind the tension stiffening Kamenashi’s shoulders and tightening his grip around the glass of whisky. It takes two and a half glasses before Kamenashi finally slumps over the counter, his head propped up on his elbow.
“Do you have a significant other?” Nakamaru asks, as casually as he can. Kamenashi knows about him but Nakamaru had never had the chance to ask. Kamenashi’s mood swings might be clearer now, easier to anticipate, but his life is still opaque, clouded by work and scowls and exhaustion.
“What, you think I ditched a romantic dinner to come here?” Kamenashi grins before tossing back the remainder of his scotch. Nakamaru doesn’t miss the flicker of a wince when Kamenashi raises his arm to signal the bartender to get him another. He turns back to Nakamaru with a lazy grin. “What do you think?”
Nakamaru swirls the reflection in his own beer and thinks of someone waiting at a table with the food gone cold and an equally cold bed, the worry and the unanswered questions making the minutes stretch.
“I think I’d feel sorry for whoever it is if you did.”
“Well then, you have your answer.” Kamenashi’s laugh is a low rumble and when Nakamaru looks up, he’s watching him with a soft look that’s almost sappy-open and honest and happy to be here sitting next to Nakamaru in an unkempt bar. “There aren’t many people out there who are masochistic enough to put up with me. You might be the last one.”
“Ueda said something along the same lines,” Nakamaru returns with a wry smile and Kamenashi snorts.
“He would.” Kamenashi shuffles for something inside his jacket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. There’s only one left inside the box and Nakamaru is frowning and ready to tell him off for poisoning himself when he already looks like crap-when he notices the ring.
“Where’d you get that?”
“This?” Kamenashi pauses with the unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He pulls the cigarette out and drops it on the bar top. “Koki gave it to me. Relax, it’s the knock-off. He retrieved it when they arrested Anne. But I guess it should be yours, Mr Hotshot Who Just Closed His First High Profile Case. You should keep it as a token.”
Nakamaru stops him before he can take off the ring and hand it over.
“No, you keep it. I don’t think it fits my style,” he smiles when Kamenashi barks a laugh. “I didn’t think it would be yours either.”
Kamenashi shrugs. “It’ll make for great impact.” From the way he runs a thumb over the protruding silver of the skull, Nakamaru guesses he’s not talking about walking into a room and earning oohs and awws, but rather his fist cracking into a jaw.
Nakamaru goes still the instant Kamenashi’s hand lands on top of his own. It’s warm and rough and for a moment, it feels like his brain has fractured by his inability to understand what’s going on. And then Nakamaru recalls that Kamenashi is on his third glass of scotch and since he hardly ever remembers to eat, alcohol is probably the only substance running through his system. The attentive way Kamenashi feels up his hand, running fingers along the bony surface of Nakamaru’s own, makes more sense with that in mind-for the most part.
He’s distracted enough for Nakamaru to swipe his cigarette onto the floor.
“Nakamaru has pretty hands,” Kamenashi mumbles and there’s that unmistakable slur in his voice but it’s still the first time someone has ever called his hands-or anything about him, really-pretty. He’s heard delicate and girly and even wimpy before, but not pretty. They make an odd contrast, he admits, watching Kamenashi trace the veins along his hand with fingers that are short and wide where Nakamaru’s own are long and slender.
There’s a charm in Kamenashi’s that makes the ring that looked out of place on Tegoshi appear to be right at home on his.
“Soft,” Kamenashi murmurs before folding Nakamaru’s hands together and patting them like he’s gotten all the evidence he needs. “These hands can’t kill.”
It’s not as if killing is something to be proud of so Nakamaru doesn’t know why he wants to argue against Kamenashi’s verdict, feeling like he’s let him down somehow. Behind them, Koki screams into the mic and makes them jump on their stools with the start of his rock number.
“He’s still at it…” Nakamaru shakes his head in grudging admiration of Koki’s vocal stamina.
The expression Kamenashi wears is all squint-eyed amusement. “He does this every time. Record it and you’ll have enough blackmail material to last you a solid year.”
Nakamaru perks up. “You come here often?”
“Occasionally. Last year they dragged me out and made me drink twenty eight shots. I puked them all out right where Taguchi’s sitting,” Kamenashi tells him with pride.
“Fun,” Nakamaru says, making a face. “Why twenty eight?”
Kamenashi blinks. “Because I turned twenty eight.”
Nakamaru blinks back. “You’re twenty eight.”
“Yes… and you’re drunk?”
“I’m thirty one.”
“Old.” Kamenashi has the nerve to actually giggle.
Nakamaru wants to scream but can only manage an outraged sputter in the end. “You-you made me salute you! I called you sir.”
Kamenashi’s smirk lasts a second before it slides into something that’s closer to an impish smile. “That was cute.” He finishes his third glass and orders a fourth. “I’m still your senior though.”
*
Somehow, it’s not surprising that Kamenashi turns out to be the worst of the drunks. It’s not that the others are any less embarrassing, but at least they keep to themselves, unlike Kamenashi who won’t stop leaning against his side and blowing into Nakamaru’s ear. Nakamaru nearly falls off his stool in an attempt to get away and he wonders what attracts more attention-the vivid redness in his face of Kamenashi’s squeals of laughter.
There’s a man in a green trench coat sitting in one of the corner booths who’s been watching them for a while and Nakamaru decides it’s time to end the party when Kamenashi tries to climb over the bar top. He hisses in pain when Nakamaru drags him back and Nakamaru pauses to readjust his grip even though he hadn’t been holding tight at all.
“God, you’re such a baby,” is something he’d never imagined saying to Kamenashi and Kamenashi responds by trying to kiss his neck. That’s what loneliness and too much alcohol does to people, Nakamaru thinks grimly as he tugs Kamenashi out the doors of the The Beatbox, it turns people even as stoic as Kamenashi into touch-starved maniacs. That’s the only thing that can explain the hand trying to wrestle its way into the back pocket of Nakamaru’s pants.
The party breaks up in bundles that are packed and driven away in taxis.
“We should do this again sometime,” Taguchi says brightly, swaying on his feet as he piggybacks Koki towards a cab. With his wallet completely emptied out, Nakamaru disagrees.
He ends up manhandling Kamenashi into his car when Kamenashi starts picking a fight with the last cab driver left.
“What’s with you and making enemies everywhere you go?” Nakamaru asks when Kamenashi is buckled safely in his backseat.
Kamenashi crosses his arms. “People suck. What’s with you and your nose?”
Nakamaru sighs. It’s clear that Kamenashi has entered the belligerent phase of his drunken spell and isn’t keen on leaving it behind when he refuses to give Nakamaru his address for the sixth time.
“Are you sure you want to sleep on my couch instead of your super comfortable bed?” Nakamaru tries again.
Kamenashi turns onto his side and gazes out the window with his forehead pressed to the glass. Nakamaru wouldn’t have realised that he spoke if not for the fog of his breath. “’s not safe.”
Nakamaru frowns and inspects the parking lot. It’s dark and quiet, no one in sight. “What’s not safe?”
Kamenashi doesn’t answer and with another sigh, Nakamaru starts the car and begins the drive to his apartment. Luckily, it’s near midnight and his apartment is on the third floor which doesn’t give Kamenashi time to make too much of a scene, although he does manage to get at the elevator buttons and make them get off on the wrong floor twice.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this but you’re actually easier to handle when you’re sober and semi-sane and burning a hole through my head,” Nakamaru mutters before shoving Kamenashi into his apartment.
It’s a modest-sized place with a modest décor-the joined kitchen to the right and his bedroom through a door on the left, pictures of his family strewn all over. There’s a pile of manga sitting on the coffee table, next to an unfinished crossword from the local newspaper. Nakamaru feels a self-conscious prickle when Kamenashi stands in the center of his living room and looks around. He stands out like a sore thumb in his black jacket and dark hair, surrounded by whites and greys. That aura that makes him look ten times bigger than he is fills up the room and makes it difficult to breathe.
“Don’t,” Kamenashi says when he moves to open the window above his kitchen sink.
When Kamenashi turns to face him straight on under the lights of his apartment, Nakamaru finally sees it. Them. The shadows across his face-the baby steps of multiple bruises.
“Kame,” he says, his heart suddenly pounding as he remembers his words in the car. Kame meets his steps and Nakamaru reaches a hand out to inspect his face-just as Kame side steps him and runs to the vase standing in the corner of his living room with open arms. Nakamaru watches him rub his cheek against the white porcelain with a dopey smile across his face. “…Are you kidding me?”
It takes him the better part of an hour to unwrap Kame from the vase and the struggle ends with broken shards all over his wooden floor. With his arms firmly tucked under Kame’s, he drags his drunken partner to the bedroom, away from the broken porcelain, and tosses him onto the bed. Kame drops with a long groan and even with the alcohol slowing his movements, his aim is still sharp because the pillow hits Nakamaru right on the head.
Nakamaru lets it fall to the floor, a sick sensation twisting in his gut. He can’t take his eyes off from where Kame’s shirt has ridden up, the skin stretched across his torso mottled in swollen purples and greenish greys. It looks like someone tried to kick in his ribs. Repeatedly.
It’s not safe.
Nakamaru waits until Kame has fallen asleep, which doesn’t take long, before he drives down to the police station and flicks on the light in their office. The black folder is the thickest file on Kame’s desk and Nakamaru hesitates for only a second before he flips it open.
It’s a quarter past four in the morning when he returns to his apartment. He moves quietly in the dark, his socked feet not making a sound as he checks on Kame who’s snoring softly with the bed sheets tangled around his legs. He turns on the small light above the stove before he sits by the kitchen counter with a glass of ice cold water.
He takes a big gulp and wishes it was vintage brandy instead, something strong enough to knock him out. He gets it now, why Kame doesn’t sleep.
*
Kame rolls out his bed well after dawn when Nakamaru has already made and eaten his share of breakfast. Kame walks across the living room to where he’s sitting on the other side of the kitchen counter and gives him a long look.
“You look like crap. Rough sleep?”
“No sleep, and good morning to you too.” Nakamaru nudges a plate of buttered toast gone cold towards him. “I don’t have a coffee machine but I can warm you some milk.”
Kame stares. “How can you not have a coffee machine? What century do you live in?” He scowls but bites into the toast nevertheless. So they’re not going to talk about how Kame ended up sleeping at his place then. Okay. Nakamaru has another topic he wants to discuss.
He eyes Kame carefully, the shadow of a bruise now colouring his jaw in a sickly purple splotch. Now’s probably not the best time to breach the subject, not when Kame is coffee-deprived and trying to a battle what looks to be a murderous hangover. A night of having the images in the folder replay over and over in front of his eyes makes it hard to swallow it down any longer though.
Whatever he fears from Kame is drowned under the anger of not being told, of not being there by his side to protect.
“So…” he begins, “I went through your folder.”
“That’s nice,” Kame replies, taking another vicious bite and sending a shower of crumbs all over the counter. “Sorry.”
“I know about the Shinigami.”
That makes Kame’s head snap up.
“…What.” His eyebrows are steeped in fury and Nakamaru tries to focus on the dollop of butter dabbed at the corner of his mouth instead. It makes him look more silly and less deadly.
“Before you snap,” Nakamaru rushes to add before Kame lunges at him, “I’d like to remind you that last night you threw up all over my backseat and then broke my vase after trying to make out with it. Plus I let you sleep on my bed.”
Kame opens his mouth as if about to retort but closes it again with a snap. He stares down at his plate for a few minutes before he asks, “Why do you even have a vase…?”
Nakamaru releases an inward sigh of relief but stays alert. There was a reason why he had made a breakfast that didn’t require cutlery; the last thing he wanted to do was hand Kame a weapon before he told him he had taken advantage of Kame’s intoxicated state to snoop through his private documents.
“It was a housewarming gift from my sister.”
“Oh,” Kame says with a regretful tilt to his mouth. “I’ll send her an apology note.”
Nakamaru is suddenly filled with the urge to reach over and smooth Kame’s hair.
He sticks with a wary smile instead. It’s safer. “Let’s just work on you finishing that toast first.”
Later, when Kame is more lucid, he blows up. Predictably. In the end, Nakamaru is forced to unbutton his collar and show the impressive hickey blooming on his neck to contain the explosion.
“Like I fucking care that you finally managed to get your virgin ass laid, you f-”
“That was you,” Nakamaru interrupts. “You can ask Taguchi if you don’t believe me. Or the bartender. You get kind of… touchy when you’re drunk.”
Kame stares at him like a fish thrown on land. Nakamaru buttons up his collar again and gives him time to recover by collecting the manga he had sent flying to the floor in the middle of his rampage. When he’s done, he clears his throat and gestures for Kame to sit down on the couch.
“Now that you’re done swearing at me and everyone that I love, let’s talk about the Shinigami.”
*
Sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride. Knock into a coma, paralyze the muscles, and freeze the heart. The ingredients of a lethal injection and the Shinigami’s choice of weapon. Nakamaru remembers some of the names from the days when he would stay by his dad’s bedside in the hospital.
“Sodium thiopental is a common anesthetic but the combination of all three… they’re used in euthanasia.”
“And to execute capital punishment,” Kame adds with a look of disgust. “It’s an immediate death. That’s why he’s known as the Shinigami. His victims look like they died in their sleep, a natural and supposedly painless way to go. There’s no physical trace unless he uses an injection but there are cases where he poisons the food.”
“Wait-known as? How come there’s no media coverage about him? Nothing in the papers or-”
Kame snorts. “You think they care? The Shinigami only goes after people the city would rather forget. The homeless, the orphans, the disabled. To them, he’s only cleaning the city of the excess, the leeches that live off their tax dollars.”
Nakamaru remembers the pictures, the pallid faces of children with their eyes closed in bliss as their dead bodies lay in the grime of street alleys, forgotten and ignored. Thrown away like garbage. Pictures of a ghost-like figure in a red Noh mask looming over them like a demon.
“Surely we can speak out and-”
“Have one of the smaller newspapers publish your story, right? And then what? The Shinigami has been around for years, Nakamaru. It’s not a question of if they’re aware but if they care.” Kame runs a rough hand through his hair, nearly yanking at the roots. “When he first hit the scene, he had the public terrified. Everyone was paranoid and only ate food from home, only drank what they carried in bottles. But then they realized that the Shinigami followed a pattern-that they were safe if they had a home and a job and were relatively healthy.”
“You were around then?” Nakamaru asks and Kame shakes his head.
“I moved into this city a couple years later. I found about all this when I was sorting through files. I was a newbie like you only I didn’t care so much,” Kame gives a small smile, “and Kimura had to keep me busy some way. He didn’t expect I’d get hung over a case that had collected four years of dust.”
“Four years?” Nakamaru’s eyebrows meet in the center. “If he was still around then how come no one was working on it?”
Kame shakes his head. “You don’t get it. You think people care more about catching the bad guy than reading about the affairs of people richer than them.” Kame sends him a sharp look that’s dulled by a glimpse of desperation, as if he’s begging Nakamaru to understand. “Listen, Nakamaru, people don’t give a rats ass about things that don’t affect them.”
“B-but we’re the police-”
“And who feeds us?” Kame snaps. “Think about it. We’re only here to protect them. To make them feel safe. And if they feel safe with a serial killer running around murdering kids or people without an arm or a leg, then we can’t exactly tell them that they’re walking pieces of trash. We can’t force fear into them-that’s the opposite of what we’re here for. If we spend real money and resources on a case they don’t care for then the police force will be put under fire. The media will ask us why we’re wasting tax dollars on hunting the Shinigami when there are more prominent threats like the fucking nobody who did a hit-and-run in a friendly neighborhood in the nicer half of the city.”
Kame is heaving and Nakamaru watches him blink around, obviously wondering when he had gotten up and started pacing across Nakamaru’s living room. Nakamaru hands him a glass of water which he takes with a grateful nod.
“Did I burst your bubble?” he asks after a swallow. He’s watching Nakamaru carefully, as if he’ll break apart any second under Kame’s tirade of harsh truths.
“I’m a big boy,” Nakamaru returns even though he knows a part of him hasn’t had time to digest it all. He’ll think about it later, when Kame isn’t hovering over him like a mother, waiting for him to crumble.
There’s something that continues to pick at him though. “How come you’re keeping the Shinigami case to yourself? Why won’t you let anyone help?”
Nakamaru can almost see the brick wall pile up between them as Kame’s posture straightens and his eyes flicker away. Nakamaru is too tired for this.
“You give me a bullshit answer and I’ll tell everyone at the station about your infatuation with my vase.”
“You wouldn’t.” Nakamaru keeps his face perfectly schooled and blank and finally Kame lets out a laugh. “I keep underestimating you.”
“Yeah, you should really correct that,” Nakamaru returns and they share a grin. Kame collapses next to him and rolls his neck before he hunches over with that same focused look he wore at the shooting range.
“I wasn’t going to lie to you anyway. I just… don’t want any casualties in the crossfire.”
Nakamaru frowns. “What do you mean? The Shinigami knows you’re after him?”
Kame sends him an amused smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “After a year and a half of tailing him, he’d better. The thing is, though… he’s not working alone.”
“He has accomplices?”
“Nah, he’s a loner for sure but I guess even he needs to be fed. He’s working for someone.”
“Of course,” Nakamaru says, sagging back into the couch. “I figure he has a stellar resume.”
Kame huffs a laugh that falls flat in the silence of the apartment. “You’d be surprised. His stealthy murder tactics must make him a pretty sough-after assassin,” Kame throws him a heavy look before he continues, “because even the Yamaguchi clan is willing to pay for him.”
“What?” Nakamaru sits up right, his spine straightening with a crack that runs down the length of his back. “He’s tied to the yakuza?”
Kame nods grimly. “That’s why I wanted to keep you out of it.”
It gets messy, Ueda had said. Nakamaru didn’t realize how much of an understatement that was until now. A psychotic maniac who leaves no trace when he strikes now under the protection of the largest organised crime syndicate in the city. It’s as far as it gets from his usual conbini thieves and Nakamaru has no real clue what he’s getting into. All he knows is that Kame, who wears bruises like a permanent tattoo all over his small, worn out body, has already planted both feet into the water and stands to face the tide alone.
There’s not much Nakamaru can do but get his own wet alongside him.
*
The interrogation room is at the back of the station, through a separate corridor that winds and sinks below ground level. Kame tells him that it’s all psychological, that the interrogation has already begun as soon as the suspect steps into the dim hallway. “See how there’s no windows? That gets to people. Makes them feel trapped even through there are doors on both ends.”
Nakamaru loosens his collar as they walk, already beginning to feel stuffy. The walls are grey, unpainted cement and there’s a chill that sneaks its way under his clothes. Kame sees him shiver and smirks.
“Never been down here before?”
“Once,” Nakamaru answers, “with Ueda.”
It was during his first few weeks at the station, when Kame left him to fiddle his thumbs alone in the office. Ueda had found him and had offered to bring him along on his way to the interrogation room. “Time to pick through the twisted mind of a rapist,” he had said before he entered the room and left Nakamaru to wait outside saying, “Sorry, but you’ll cramp my style.”
Ueda had looked like Christmas had just come early until he sat opposite to the suspect and all Nakamaru could see through the square plastic window cut through the door was the back of his head. The rapist though-a young man barely out of his teens who claimed he hadn’t known any better-he could see clearly. Nakamaru remembers experiencing the same chill as he saw the suspect’s face slowly drain of colour, his face contorting in on itself before he finally crumpled, crying into the fold of his arms.
Nakamaru couldn’t hear him, but whatever Ueda had done or said-it had worked.
“Ueda’s good,” Kame says with a contrasting frown. “Did you learn anything from him?”
Nakamaru shakes his head. “He looked like he had fun though.”
“That’s a mild way to put it. Ueda gets off on making people piss themselves. He has a talent for it.”
“That’s not disturbing at all.”
Kame smirks. “What would you say if I understood where he’s coming from?”
Nakamaru gives him a flat look. “I’d say I’m not surprised. Maybe a little more afraid, but not surprised.”
Kame’s laugh bounces all the way down the hall and back up again, chasing away some of the chill. Nakamaru smiles to himself as they walk. They have the entire width of the corridor to themselves but Kame’s arm still ends up brushing against his somehow.
They stop in front of one of the doors on the sides. The same door with the plastic window.
“You’ve read up on him, right?” Kame gestures to the door with a tilt of his head and Nakamaru is leaning to peek through the window when he’s pushed back. He catches himself before he stumbles, blinking owlishly at Kame who hisses, “We don’t want him to be prepared for us.”
“Right.” Nakamaru nods. “Sorry.”
“You’ve never taken part in an interrogation, have you.” It’s a conclusion disguised as a question. Nakamaru wants to retort that he’s participated in several but that’s untrue. “Well there’s always something to learn in life,” Kame says with a smile and Nakamaru knows he only says it for his sake. Four months ago Nakamaru would have been called a useless hindrance, but for weeks now… Kame has been returning Nakamaru’s patience with his own. It’s something Nakamaru hadn’t known his partner was capable of but he isn’t blind enough to believe it doesn’t cost him.
Kame is just one man and Nakamaru can’t stand next to him just for the sake of standing next to him-to comfort himself that he’s protecting Kame with his presence alone. He has to be able to match Kame’s pace.
Nakamaru enters a door that’s adjacent to the interrogation room. Inside, there’s a panel of buttons and knobs and the wall that connects to the interrogation room looks like it’s made entirely of glass-a one way window that lets him see Kame enter and take a seat right across their suspect. Funaki Kento, a wiry man in his mid-twenties sporting a long scar across his left cheek. Likely a token from one the skirmishes he regularly takes part in-illegal gun trafficking for the most part.
“His mom’s a mistress to a guy who’s somewhat of a big shot among the yakuza so he’ll be bailed out soon enough,” Kame had told him earlier, “which is why we have to make the most of it and make him talk before we lose him.”
“What makes you so sure he was there?” The file had a note of an alibi stating that Funaki was with his girlfriend during the time the fight between the yakuza and the Chinese tradesman had broke out on the docks. Up to eleven bodies were found lying dead on a merchant ship that had been authorised to sell huangjiu, not armed goods. Seven of them lay peacefully with their eyes closed and a small puncture site on the neck.
“I saw him,” Kame had answered simply, raising a dozen more questions Nakamaru hadn’t had the time to ask. “A scar stretching from the chin and up to the eye isn’t all that common.”
While Nakamaru hasn’t run an interrogation himself before, he knows how it works and it makes him pause when he realises he’s the only observer. Usually there’s at least one other officer to watch over things and make sure the interrogation stays under control. The fact that there is none, that Kame is sitting alone in a room with a dangerous man with even more dangerous connections and a leer that makes all this look like playtime-Nakamaru shifts uncomfortably and stands close to the door that directly opens into the interrogation room.
It turns out that Kame isn’t the one who needs his protection.
The interrogation room is dimly lit with only two tubes of white light shining down in the center, right over the small square table that seats Kame one side and Funaki on the other, his handcuffed wrists lying on the table. Nakamaru can see their profiles clearly, the surprising lack of gravity in Kame’s face leaving him free of any lines. The lights erase the shadows under his eyes and for the first time, Kame looks his age.
Kame leans in his chair with one arm resting on the back, a casual pretense that Funaki is dumb enough to buy.
“Let’s keep this short,” Kame’s voice spills through the speakers, “anything you can tell me about the Shinigami?”
Funaki smiles. His voice is gritty, like he empties more packs of cigarettes a day than even Kame. “Assuming that I could, why the fuck would I?”
“Wrong answer,” Kame drawls and his other hand drums lightly on the table top. Nakamaru catches Funaki’s eyes flicker, easily distracted. “The right answer would have been, Shinigami who?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Funaki replies with another frozen smile and Kame laughs with his head thrown back, his entire neck exposed and within reach. Nakamaru reaches for the door knob when he sees Funaki’s hands tighten into fists.
Nothing happens. Nakamaru drops his hand with his chest pounding.
“Better,” Kame says with a smirk, “but a little too late.”
“I have an alibi.”
“That’s nice. Tell me, how does the contract with the Shinigami work by the way? Your yakuza brethren make sure his wallet is nice and plump and he takes out your trash, that part is simple,” Kame tilts his head, his bangs swaying in front of his eyes, “but what happens when there’s a conflict of interest? Your half-sister-if that’s what you call her; I suppose it gets confusing when your mom’s a mistress, huh?-she’s blind, isn’t she? I heard you’re pretty sweet on her.”
Nakamaru has no idea where Kame got the information because it definitely wasn’t in the file but it’s just the thing Funaki needs to hear to wipe the smile off his face in place of a snarl.
“My father will kill you.”
Nakamaru has heard death threats before, has had a couple hurled at himself before, even, but never the kind that hold a promise of actually being carried out. It’s not the vehemence in Funaki’s words that frightens him; it’s the calmness in his face. The tranquility of someone who knows he’s not alone and has people who he trusts to take care of things for him.
Strangely enough, Kame looks equally calm.
“Ah, but would that be before or after the Shinigami kills his only daughter-and the one good thing you have going on in your life, I believe,” Kame adds with one of his sugary smiles. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of the Shinigami’s track record but Hinamori fits right among his usual victims. Young, disabled, defenceless, a ghost to most of society…”
Funaki hunches forward until his torso presses up against the edge of the table. His words are quiet but clear. “I’m not the only one in this room who has someone to lose, detective.”
The way he says detective holds a mocking note to it that Nakamaru doesn’t quite understand, but whatever the message is, Kame hears it. Nakamaru sees it in the way his fingers stop drumming, the way he drops his arm from the chair and leans forward to whisper back, “You tell me where I can find him and Hinamori won’t ever come into danger.”
Their eyes lock tight for a stretching moment before Funaki leans back with a huff of amusement.
“I’m going to make sure you regret ever saying her name.” Funaki is watching Kame through mere slits now, like a snake waiting to strike. “I want to be there when the Shinigami puts your partner to sleep.”
It takes a moment for Nakamaru to register just who partner is referring to and in that moment, Kame has stood up and rounded the table.
“Interrogation over, detective?” Funaki goads just as Kame steps behind his chair and places him in a choke hold.
“Nah, it’s just beginning,” Kame hisses. “Now, we both know your daddy will be sending someone down to release his precious bastard son, but now we have proof of you issuing death threats at an officer as well as an acknowledgement of having ties to the Shinigami.”
“You’re a fuckin’ fool if you think that’ll keep me in here,” Funaki chokes out, his hands clawing at Kame’s forearm.
“But I don’t. I do believe it will extend your stay here though and it’s up to you how pleasant you want it to be. Trust me when I say we can make it very uncomfortable.” Funaki’s neck squeezes in the wedge of Kame’s elbow as Kame tightens his hold. “The Shinigami-what does he look like? Where can we find him?”
Funaki is gasping now, his body beginning to convulse as he struggles to breathe. His legs kick under the table as his face begins to turn blue and Nakamaru remembers what it feels like, the burn and the pain. Funaki couldn’t give an answer even if he wanted to and Kame is too inside himself to know.
Nakamaru is bursting through the door and dragging Kame off him before Funaki can take his last breath.
Despite Kame carrying an array of injuries under his shirt, Nakamaru has to use more force than expected. It’s a struggle that ends with Kame rounding on him and elbowing his chin so that he stumbles back and hits the wall. For a moment, he sees stars and when he blinks them away, Kame is stalking towards Funaki who’s lying on the floor, gagging on the sudden rush of oxygen.
Nakamaru latches onto his arm and throws him into the adjacent room before he can bury his booted foot in Funaki’s stomach. He doesn’t give Kame a chance to start.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he thunders, feeling like it was him who was just choked half to death with the way he can’t seem to breathe properly. “You nearly killed him, Kame!”
Kame is a tight coil of unyielding muscles and anger, so much anger. It burns Nakamaru to meet his eyes.
When Kame finally speaks, his voice is quiet and flat. Damning.
“I knew you couldn’t handle this.”
Nakamaru feels something inside him drop. He knows his wrongs from his rights though and what just happened wasn’t just wrong-it was insane. Kame had just come close to killing the son of a man with power and criminal connections. If he had succeeded, it would have been a death sentence, one that would end with Kame’s dead body being dumped into a river in the middle of the night. Nakamaru doesn’t know how to put his fear into words without letting it swallow everything.
He doesn’t want to think about how easy it was for Kame to come that close to killing someone with his bare hands, either. He doesn’t have room to fear Kame when he’s fearing for him.
“It’s illegal.” It’s all he can manage to say.
Kame is unforgiving.
“Go back to your sheep town if you can’t handle getting your hands dirty.” Kame hasn’t looked at him like that for a long time, like incompetencies and a hindrance are all he sees. “The world doesn’t run by textbook justice, Nakamaru. You’re never going to get anything done if you only go by the law-the law that lets scum like him,” Kame throws a glance at the window and they see Funaki taking shaky breaths, now sitting upright with his back leaning against the table leg, “get away. How many people do you think have been killed because this bastard helped get guns into the wrong hands? All the law really is, is a game of politics. It only matters when it comes to people who are too poor or unimportant.”
“And to people who have sworn to uphold it,” Nakamaru adds into the quiet.
There are things he’s learned in the city he had never known in the small bubble back home. Looking back on it, it feels like his hometown was on a different planet altogether, secluded on some island far away where Nakamaru could feel proud of his badge and say without an ounce of doubt that it was all that he needed to protect people. A part of him feels embarrassed for being so naïve while the other still wants to cling to it. Kame’s truths don’t change the truths he does know.
“Breaking the law will get you thrown in jail and that won’t be a help to anyone either,” Nakamaru tells him softly. For some reason, Kame hears it as a threat and that cuts more than anything.
“And who’s going to rat me out? You?” There’s acid in Kame’s words and Nakamaru reels back at the faintly hidden accusation. He takes a step back and blinks at Kame, trying to figure out if he’s actually serious-as if Nakamaru would ever-
Nakamaru grabs Kame’s wrist before he can exit into the corridor.
“I’m not your enemy. I will never be your enemy.” Nakamaru swallows when Kame looks over his shoulder to meet his eyes. “I’m your partner.”
“Then step out of your father’s bedtime stories before you gets both of us killed.”
Nakamaru pauses and feels himself flinch. It was his own fault for giving Kame an opening, for giving him something that could be thrown back in his face like a black eye.
“Don’t talk about my dad.”
The small cut of Kame’s smile is full of scorn. “Yeah? Then don’t touch me.”
A pause and Nakamaru lets go, dropping Kame’s wrist and watching the small frame of his back disappear through the door.
part iv