Chuuya didn’t mind the heat at this hour. Earlier in the day it had been sweltering, suffocating. Even from the window of the infirmary he could feel the sun’s vigor boiling against the side of his face. He hated the scent of sterile tools and alcohol swabs and the ungodly sound of skin being sewn back together; he’d rather get choked out by humidity in the middle of the desert. But now as the moon won it’s nightly battle with the sun the warmth of summer didn’t bother him. Perched high on the metal skeleton in a row of partially constructed warehouses Chuuya could finally appreciate Yokohama’s transformation. Brilliant, golden lights climbing infinite skyscrapers, the sound of nightlife rousing from its slumber through the clinking of glasses and neon signs flickering to life.
The new warehouses lined the port just in front of a row of bars and a convenient store that sold bottles with foreign names plastered on the label. Mafia protected, supposedly. Guilt furls in the pit of his stomach as Chuuya watches gentle ripples coast over the navy canvas underneath his feet. Just a week prior the sea had been stained a deep garnet, split apart by bullets flying and beams cracking in half. At first they were a minor annoyance, hitting trucks loaded with illegal arms meant for the black market. Then they went after the warehouses, the shops, the people merely existing in parallel with the mafia. Chuuya swallows thickly as memories swarm the forefront of his mind.
He’d lost too many men too quickly; newly appointed at nineteen and already drowning. Chuuya couldn’t allow himself to feel despair for much longer, there was no point in mourning further than a day.
Before the sun broke tomorrow morning there would be repentance for the lives lost on this very dock. For now, though, he would find solace at their unmarked graves. At least they found peace under the glimmering city lights; if he was ever to buried he’d rather have a good view of his city than share a hill with a bunch of strangers. The thought, though cryptic, eases the tension in his shoulders fragmentally as his thumb rolls over the neck of his wine bottle.
Summer wine was only good at night. The decadent sweetness could be overpowering under the hot sun, but a blanket of lavender coated in starlight made the perfect setting. Cherries and something he couldn’t identify lace the back of his throat, numbing as it travels down and warms his belly. The throb in his side begins to lessen with each sip.
“You shouldn’t be up here with your injury.” Akutagawa was unnervingly silent; if Chuuya hadn’t been surprised by the company of another member he might have gotten his head blown off. Chuuya simply shrugs and glances over his shoulder with a knowing smirk.
“You’re one to talk.” Chuuya says eying the white sling cradling Akutagawa’s arm. The younger man simply blinks in response and shuffles forward with stunning composure. Silver glints of the beam as the moon rises overhead. Chuuya’s legs swing mid air, dangling over the dock carelessly. Only a portion of the warehouses had been rebuilt, and this one had only made it through the beginning stages, but Chuuya was stubborn and wanted to see the city shimmer to life. It’s metal beams were barely thick enough for Akutagawa to stand with both feet flushed together; but he moved with grace despite his clear irritation donned by knitted brows. “Want some?”
Chuuya holds the bottle by the neck and shakes it, red liquid sloshing to the center. Akutagawa squints trying to read the label but he can barely grasp a single letter. He inches closer, side stepping to the thicker beam Chuuya’s perched on. Pain jolts through his shoulder and he lets out a hiss, barely audible unless you knew what to listen for. Chuuya’s eyes flicker to the side, hand shooting out with the bottle still in his grip. A scarlet brow arches; Akutagawa moves his gaze from Chuuya’s flushed cheeks to the water. “It’ll help the pain. And don’t act like you’re not feeling it from that broken arm. Just because you don’t talk much doesn’t mean I can’t sense your bullshit.”
The air stills; Chuuya’s eyes narrow.
“I don’t like bitter wine.” Chuuya blinks and frowns at Akutagawa’s response.
“It’s not bitter. It’s summer wine. Just try it.”
“I’m not of legal drinking age Chuuya-san.”
“You’re in the fucking mafia.”
Chuuya’s frown deepens; Akutagawa flinches. Minutes drag by before he concedes silently and eases himself down with one hand. Chuuya pushes the bottle across the beam gently before yanking a cigarette from his jacket pocket and plopping it in his mouth. Akutagawa doesn’t miss the uncomfortable angle Chuuya twists to ensure the smoke blows away from him. Chuuya’s teeth clench, free hand reaching towards his ribcage to ensure his stitches haven’t popped. Akutagawa sips from the bottle with apprehension. Chuuya’s brow arcs at the slight change in expression on Akutagawa’s face; enjoyment.
Chuuya smiles, biting the sarcasm back on his tongue and flicking ash from his cigarette.
A strip of moonlight cascades over the water reaching just over the dock to the base of the warehouse. Drops of crimson stain the sidewalk. Permanently etched into the ground just below Chuuya’s feet. Anger resurfaces in Chuuya’s blood. Akutagawa can feel it in snapping through the air, electrifying the small space between them. He had been there in the aftermath when Chuuya glowed red with rage and Rashomon twisted onyx through the rumbling cherry glow. Akutagawa can feel the beam vibrating beneath his legs.
Chuuya’s eyes hyperfocus on the stain beneath him, unwavering, resentful. The air around him suddenly feels cold, as if ice had been dumped directly down his right side. Red static catches in his peripheral but as soon as he registers the entity its gone. Another smile tugs Chuuya’s lips upward as Rashomon refurls near his ankle. The bottle makes it back to Chuuya’s gloved hand; the beam stills.
The glow of the city is as subtle as the summer breeze passing through the docks. Whipping calm waves towards the port and sliding down Chuuya’s back. There’s solitude woven in this particular silence, where Chuuya would normally prefer conversation he finds himself irrevocably content. Bitterness felt a lot less damning with company.
