Yohji accepted a lit cigarette as he stepped through the neon bands that circled the tight hallway. Miscellaneous lackeys hovered in alcoves and around corners, watching him. Some of them knew him by name now, others knew him by hat. They all knew his confidence. No one but the foolhardy would walk into Kotoku’s domain without even the gift of a boy.
He opened the final door without stopping, causing bodyguards to leap back or risk bloody noses. Crawford followed smartly, expensive shoes tapping in time with Yohji’s softer steps. They stopped with Crawford just behind Yohji’s left shoulder, where any good apprentice or bodyguard traditionally stood, especially if they were right handed, and Yohji tipped his hat with a disarming grin.
“Kotoku-san! It’s been far too long.”
“Always so western,” Kotoku frowned at him. “What is wrong with a simple ‘good day’ and a polite bow these days? Everyone is so western.”
“It’s what all the cool kids are doing,” Yohji grinned, helping himself to a plush blue velvet egg chair. Crawford stood behind him. Bluff and blag it, exaggerate and animate. If he looked like he knew what he was doing, maybe no one would guess he didn’t, any more than he had previously. Appearance was everything. Experience counted for little.
A boy barely adolescent sidled over to Yohji’s chair. He reached out and ran his fingers through fine hair, neither accepting nor refusing Kotoku’s loan. To do one would be presumptuous, the other rude.
“No doubt you want to talk,” the portly businessman waved a hand. “Always talk.”
“Always,” Yohji grinned. “How could I sit in silence here?”
“As long as you are silent out there,” Kotoku said threateningly.
“Naturally,” Yohji said, feigning boredom. He missed his coat and its lining of whiskey and bourbon bottles, but he’d had to leave that in Crawford’s car. The bouncers would never have let him in with that much alcohol.
“So, what is it today?” the slaver asked, switching to an incongruously fluent English, considering his apparent love of ‘tradition’. Later, Crawford would learn that Yohji spoke it even better, but for now the young man played down his talent.
“Ransomers,” Yohji rolled his eyes.
“Can’t you ever ask me about anything interesting?” the older man whined peevishly.
“Oh, it gets better,” Yohji smiled, like a snake. “We’re talking about a ransom attempt that happened about a decade ago.”
“You think I have reason to remember that far back?” Kotoku laughed.
“When we’re talking about Takatori Mamoru, I don’t think there’s a person of age in this country who doesn’t remember.”
“Mamoru...” Kotoku’s eyes lit up. “I’d wondered what you were doing with Crawford-san.”
“Pretty little accessory, isn’t he?” Yohji grinned, reaching one hand back to tug down the mesh shirt and brush the firm skin of Crawford’s abdomen.
“But who involved you?” Kotoku mused.
“Someone in the family,” Yohji said. “This isn’t getting back to the head of the family, my friend, not if you value your life and the lives of your boys. Oh yes, and mine and his,” Yohji gestured lazily to Crawford and his self.
“What do you know so far?” Kotoku asked.
It took a lot of self-control to keep form shouting ‘ah-hah’ out loud. Instead, Yohji just smiled very very smugly. “Why don’t you tell me what you know, Kotoku-san? After all, you’ve already implied there’s more to know than what the general public know.”
“I don’t know the kidnappers,” Kotoku said calmly. “What other cards do you think I’m holding?”
“The rescuer.”
There was a tense silence.
“It wouldn’t mean anything to you,” Kotoku said carefully.
“It might to me,” Crawford leant over Yohji’s shoulder.
“Kritiker.”
“Weiss?” Crawford asked hungrily.
Kotoku laughed incredulously. “You think those boys are that old?”
“Their alternative job certainly didn’t look it,” Yohji said.
“Oh, so you’ve encountered them?” Kotoku smiled. “Well, now you have something to trade.”
“Trade?” Yohji asked. “You’ve told me enough. Kritiker lifted the boy.”
“You don’t know who
“You don’t, in fact, know anything else of use to us,” Yohji said.
“I know you’ve got no other chance of getting out alive from here,” Kotoku smirked, “other than by telling me what I want to know.”
The boy who’d been nestled against Yohji’s hand pulled away carefully. Yohji let his hand drop into his lap. Crawford had straightened up, tucking hands behind his back. The guards at the back of the room could see him brush the butt of his gun, and they drew their own. Any movement now would have to be fast, and would probably result in their deaths any way.
“You offered your information free of charge,” Yohji sighed. “You always did, to me. I thought I was special.” He pouted playfully.
Kotoku shrugged. “You were, but you grew up.”
Crawford stiffened. His eyes flicked back and forth between the two individuals.
“I could have a hundred women here testifying I’m still a pretty face,” Yohji grinned. It was hard to keep it there, and suspected it looked as fake as it felt. These were memories he didn’t care to dig up, though he was as happy as Kotoku to play them up for Crawford’s benefit. Maybe he didn’t realise it, but he was the most important man in the room. He was their connection to the Takatoris, their most knowledgeable source on Kritiker, the best-trained killer in the room. Kotoku wanted Crawford to think him ruthless, to frighten him, while Yohji was playing for absolute support. Crawford had connections to this man anyway, and he had all the information Yohji had to bargain with.
Suddenly, Yohji felt a wash of real confidence run over him. Kotoku was playing the wrong game. Crawford didn’t intimidate easily, couldn’t be intimated at all. Kotoku wanted to appear cold, ruthless, and more than a little sadistic. He wanted Yohji to look weak and dependant.
“Kotoku, friend, you hurt me,” Yohji spread his hands. “What have I done to you? You have always been a good friend.”
“You tried to turn me over to the police,” Kotoku said frankly.
“And you had me beaten up and almost killed,” Yohji said smarmily.
“I want your information. Weiss are a risk to me,” Kotoku said. “Two of my contacts have already died due to their activities.”
“But they are part of Kritiker, yes?” Yohji shrugged. “They’ll just replace them. They hardly strike me as an organisation to value human life.” He smirked sardonically.
“I want Weiss dead,” Kotoku said bluntly. “Tell me where.”
To refuse outright was death, but to agree...
“No.”
Yohji swivelled in his chair to stare at Crawford. Kotoku didn’t seem surprised, so Yohji fought his own shock at the abrupt negative his partner had offered.
“Ask again and my employer will learn of this. He already has a group working on the Weiss situation. To make your own attempt implies insufferable presumption on your behalf, Mister Kotoku.”
“Your group, I presume. He places too much trust in you. What would it hurt to have a little back up? A plan B?” Kotoku laughed softly. “But then, I suppose, if you know where they are I have little to concern myself with.”
“Precisely.” Crawford gripped the back of Yohji’s unorthodox chair and leant over his blond head. “Why waste your own people when mine will do it for you?”
Kotoku smiled and leant back in his seat. “Fine, good good. We are concluded here, yes?”
“I believe so. I wish you could have been of more help,” Yohji fumed quietly. “Still, it is almost a lead, and I have worked with less in the past.”
“I never knew you so ungrateful, my pretty boy,” Kotoku grumbled cheerfully. “It is this Crawford’s influence, I am sure. All these western influences, and you so open-minded. No wonder you soak up this rudeness like a sponge.”
Yohji laughed. “Have you known me any other way?”
Kotoku shrugged. “True, true enough. Perhaps you are a bad influence on your Mist-ah Crawford.”
Yohji smiled at the mocking of Crawford’s speech idiosyncrasies. Crawford looked ever so slightly taken aback, which made the two Japanese men share even wider grins. These were old games, well played, the last reminders of favours long worn thin, owed and repaid and owed again. Yohji stood and bowed and took his leave, and Kotoku returned the gesture. Crawford stood iron-pole straight.
“One more thing,” Kotoku said as they left the room. “Takatori Saijoh kept it in the family as well, when he left Kritiker.”
“One last tidbit? I am honoured,” Yohji over-enthused, hands clasped to his heart. Kotoku shook his head at the younger man’s antics.
“You’re as special as you like to think you are to me,” he smiled. “Come back to me, my boy.”
“I will send you my own as a gift, one day,” Yohji waved his hat extravagantly.
“And where will you find such a child? You’re lady friend ran off with a boy named Kase. I know this because I’ve dealt with him,” Kotoku called as the door closed.
Crawford was alarmed at the speed with which Yohji’s expression, posture and general mood changed. His shoulders hunched, he wrapped his arms around himself and he stared resolutely at the floor.
“Had to get one last dig in,” Yohji muttered. “Always wants the last word.”
“Kase? I know that name. Died, recently.”
“Really?” Yohji stared at him. “Really?”
“At the hands of Weiss,” Crawford said. It was much better to see Yohji smile. “He reported a connection to one of the members. Hidaka Ken, ex J-leaguer. They both were.”
“I know that,” Yohji snarled. “You think I don’t? Such apologetic letters, all about this J-leaguer who saved her life while I was shot and thought her dying in that alley. I thought she was dead! I lay there bleeding and blaming myself for her death and no, this handsome soccer star has swept by and picked her up and-”
“And he’s dead now.” Crawford smiled, but any chance of recovering Yohji’s good mood was gone.
“I want to go home,” Yohji said weakly. “You’re driving, right? Take me home. We’re done here.”
“Yes, but we’re not going home,” Crawford said firmly. “Well, if you can really stand to think of that dank office as home.”
“Are we going to your place?” Yohji asked, envisioning palatial penthouses with western style furniture and expensive American imports. Yohji wasn’t sure what would have been imported, but it would be done at great expense, he was sure. Crawford wasn’t the type to get something cheap when he could buy it expensively and make certain people know he’d gone that extra mile to get it.
Like the BMW he was currently being led into. Ooh, coat on the back seat. Ignoring the disgusted look Crawford gave him Yohji dug out a bottle of whiskey and down a fiery mouthful. That was better, burning away the memories. He slumped down in the leather seat, nursing the bottle and staring out through a rain-soaked windscreen.
“Wow, it’s really coming down out there,” he mumbled.
“We’re not going far,” Crawford said shortly.
“How much did you have to drink?” Yohji said, taking another large swig from his cornered bottle.
“Not much,” Crawford said. “Some of us don’t have that problem.”
Yohji sniffed at him. He didn’t have a drink problem. Oh, it wasn’t that old lie about being able to stop any time he wanted - he knew it would be far harder than that - but even though he drank it had never been a problem. Never interfered with his work. Never interfered with his play, when it came to that. In fact, he’d have a problem if he didn’t drink.
No one ever seemed to understand that, no matter how hard he explained. Of course, it only really made sense to him when he had a cushion between himself and the sober world. Right now, Crawford was the sober world, and the wonderful thing about drinking was you didn’t care when the sober world glowered at you for it.
Although, if he didn’t drink, he wouldn’t be glowered at. He’d have to give that some thought. He liked Crawford better when he wasn’t frowning. He could be funny, even. Humour was good. And he bore no resemblance whatsoever to Asuka, not even when he kissed. Now that was something worth pursuing.
They were pulling up outside a motel Yohji knew well. Did Crawford think there was something worth pursuing as well?
“This will have to do,” Crawford sneered at the stuttering neon. “At least it’s not by-the-hour.”
“No,” Yohji agreed
amiably. Whiskey always made him amiable. Bourbon made him forgetful,
which was always good, but best saved for when he was really
desperate, and beer made him horny. He tended not to drink beer much
now. Spenser. Spenser was a detective who drank beer, he remembered,
like an alcoholic fish. Like a tour of the breweries of
“Well, come on.”
“Yes,” Yohji smiled.
Crawford took him by the shoulder and steered him roughly into the dirty foyer.
“Two single rooms for the night,” Crawford snapped at the acne-plagued boy behind the desk.
“Yohji-san!” the boy enthused.
“Mito-kun,” Yohji grinned. “As the man says, please.”
“We don’t have any,” the boy shrugged. “No single rooms.”
Crawford slammed a fistful of
yen onto the desk. “Find some.” Yohji was surprised he wasn’t
more discrete. Oh, right, it was
“None left,” he shrugged. “It’s weird. We got a double.” he downed almost as much in one swallow as Yohji had in the whole journey. Crawford looked like someone had force-fed him manure.
“I do not want a double room. I want two singles.” Crawford was almost apoplectic.
“We have no singles. Look,
I’ll show you the book,”
“Do you even do single rooms?” Yohji asked curiously.
“Two or three,”
“Sure. I’ve got another,” Yohji said generously.
“I know you do,”
“Yeah, that’ll do,” Yohji said before Crawford could object. “He’s hardly going to fork out for two doubles, is he? Bloody expensive car, bloody obviously expensive car, but two rooms? Hell, he won’t even pay for a decent hotel, so why pay for two rooms?”
“Stop rambling,” Crawford snapped at Yohji as he thrust more money at the spotty boy. “Give us the key and let’s get this over with.”
“Of you? I always am. Thanks for the whiskey, Private Investigator Kudoh.”
Yohji ruffled his hair and led Crawford up the tired stairs. Glancing at the key, he opened the first door on the first floor they came to.
“Ooh, this is nice,” Yohji beamed.
“You’re joking?” Crawford asked.
“For this place? No. See, it’s even been cleaned. No stains on the sheets.” Yohji collapsed onto one of the futons and began to dig for a bottle of bourbon. He could never sleep unless he let his memories go first. Send them to sleep, and he’d follow, sooner or later.
“I shall not sleep at all,” Crawford declared, staring at the futon as though he thought it would rise up and bite him. Well, some of the second floor mattresses might, Yohji reflected.
Yohji looked at him. “Here,” he held out the bourbon. “You need it more than I do.”
He hoped Crawford would appreciate that nature of the sacrifice. Hopefully he’d have enough that he wouldn’t wake up when Yohji did. Most people found it hard to sleep through screams of “Asuka!” but you could never tell with Crawford. For example, Yohji hadn’t expected Crawford to take the bottle, but it was gone and Crawford was sitting on the futon.
“G’night,” Yohji smiled.
“Good night,” he heard faintly. “You ridiculous idealistic drunk.”
* * *
It turned out screams of “Asuka” did wake Crawford, even before they woke Yohji. The American was shaking him and Yohji grabbed those strong arms in a rictus of sleep-confused madness for a second. Older man and younger clung to each other for a few brief moments, a strange embrace. Yohji panted himself back to reality, blinking away sleep and welcoming the usual hangover. Crawford was giving him an alarmed look. For a moment, Yohji mistook it for concern.
“Are you alright?” Crawford asked brusquely. Yohji pulled himself into a sitting position and Crawford sat back on his heels, looking at him shrewdly.
“I don’t operate until I’ve had coffee,” Yohji said. “Coffee.”
“So we do have something in common,” Crawford mused. He held out a paper cup. “I guessed as much.”
“Black?” Crawford nodded. “Lots of sugar?” Crawford nodded again, smiling slightly. “Hot!” Crawford nodded smugly.
“Didn’t your mother teach you not gulp your drink?” he asked.
Yohji sucked in cool air, then down the rest of the coffee. It hurt, but it sure as hell woke him up quickly. Crawford looked slightly impressed. Definite improvement over disgust, Yohji felt.
“Any more?” he asked hopefully.
Crawford didn’t reply. He wasn’t looking at Yohji now, with his disgust or admiration. Well, maybe there was a touch of admiration, when he did glance at the younger man. He seemed to be trying so hard to keep his eyes on Yohji’s face, though Yohji doubted he had the faintest idea that Yohji had said a word to him.
See, the flipside of those horrific nightmares about Asuka was the raging hard-on he occasionally got. And, well, with Crawford kneeling on the sheets and moving around and Yohji only having the clothes he’d worn and not wanting to get them too rumpled... Well.
“I’d be insulted if I didn’t know your boyfriend would kill both of us,” Yohji said.
It was worth it for the blush. Oh, he may have destroyed any chance at getting on with the man, but dammit, he’d made him blush. He was human.
“Could you pass me my trousers?”
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