♠ How Chuuya relishes the moments such as these that his job supplies him. The artful nature that lies in the choke of breath stifled under the silk hankerchief, loaded with trichloromethane like honey on the lips of the damned. There is a decadence to abduction, a power trip that goes straight to his head, and it’s no forlorn buzz of adderal or last night’s sazerac - it lavishes his hypothalamus with adrenaline, appropriately setting a swing to his step, curves his spine and enlightens his senses with a nature that can only be properly described as predatory. After all, the mouse, threaded with expensive rope to the chair, is stirring noticeably as the minutes pass and the effects of the asphyxiation technique fade. Who is Chuuya to bow his head at such a creature when Ango’s throat is bared to his fangs, which glitter merrily in his hand, each a fine burnished steel?
He steps to the furthest corner of the room and puts a record on. Elle Fitzgerald’s Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye croons and echoes ever so slightly. He takes his coat off, neatly sets it on the rack, and rolls his sleeves just past his elbows.
The monologue is a pleasant surprise. Chuuya sets an arm slack against the back of Ango’s chair, leaning into look him over, eyes widening. He smiles cordially, showing his teeth.
“Tell me, is it cowardice? Perhaps your inability to comply is a better example of that, Sakaguchi-san. You know, I had no idea you were spending all your time in that depressing little office of yours. It’s so pathetic, I could cry.” Chuuya’s voice is dry, severe. It reverberates with a mocking tone, clear to whoever is there to listen, even through a blindfold. A hand whips out and buries itself in the damp hair at the nape of Ango’s neck, just enough to yank him against the wooden backing. Chuuya holds him there, his fist tight under his glove.
“I guess it’s like you to keep us waiting, but - we can’t have that for long, especially if it’s such an important task you were to carry out for us without ifs, ands, or buts. Oh, and we’re perfectly aware of the truce.” He rips open the collar of Ango’s shirt nonchanantly as he speaks, scanning the bare skin with a bored, childish staredown. “But, you know, nothing in the rules said that we had to include your cute little secret agent orgy with those bastards, did they? I didn’t see you on the list! Your real assumption, Sakaguchi-san, is that someone is going to look after you.” Chuuya muses thoughtfully, turning Ango’s head to the side like a doll, surveying the crisp edge of his jaw (and perhaps the sweat beading at the delicate junction beneath it.)
“Knock knock,” Chuuya iterates gently, drawing a louboutin back in space. “We don’t take no for an answer. Sit back and relax, please! After all, you’re my guest.”
The steel of his shoe meets in a furious impact with Ango’s shin, in the hope that a fracture blooms beneath the layer of muscle and skin at the sudden abrasion.
Ango seizes up, joints and muscles tense as his head is wrenched back and his shin is effectively shattered. The noise bubbling up from the back of his throat is a strangled gasp, followed by a shaky hiss. Chuuya is strong, that much is apparent, but strength measured in words is only that — words. To experience it for oneself in such an abrasive way transcends anything the agent would ever know.
He swallows his pain, grits his teeth, and speaks through his pearly whites.
「 What a barbaric display, Chuuya-kun. 」 His voice trembles ever so slightly, but it’s obvious that he’s trying to hide it. He wants to say more, but he’s too busy grinding his teeth together to try to stop himself from focusing on his pain.
