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Kosei is sixteen when he meets his soulmate.
He's just won a battle under the blinding lights of the arena. His opponent had been an older boy, maybe eighteen or nineteen. The boy had been bigger and stronger than him, but at the crucial moment, as he stared Kosei down, sword poised, he’d hesitated. The boy's eyes hadn’t been the eyes of a killer; he’d been the same as Kosei, held here against his will, forced to fight for the entertainment of others. He should have swung, but he stopped, and blanched, and Kosei had seen his own fear reflected in the boy's dark face.
Kosei had wrested the sword from the boy's grasp and run him through, twisting the blade until the boy stopped moving.
Now he walks out of the ring and to the backroom, where someone will be waiting to escort him to the ring doctor. He'll receive some perfunctory treatment - enough to ensure he lives until his next match - and then he'll be brought back to what the Kijin men refer to as the slave pens.
But when Kosei arrives in the empty gray room that connects the ring to the rest of the complex, he doesn't recognize the man waiting for him. The man wears the Kijin Clan pin on his lapel, but his suit is sharp and pressed, and its dark rich fabric alludes to wealth the usual low-ranking men could only dream of. When Kosei approaches the man turns to leave without a word, and he leads Kosei away from the doctor's office and the slave pens.
He's taken to the outer limits of the complex and shown into a room. The room contains a large metal table and several metal folding chairs. Shackles are bolted to the metal table. A drain is set in the concrete floor beneath it. A single naked light bulb shines starkly above him.
The man leads Kosei to the table and fastens the shackles to his wrists. A third chain connects to his collar. Kosei wants to question the man, but he has to say it properly. Stupid questions anger the yakuza. But before he finds the right words, the man leaves. The click of the door handle echoes in the small room.
This is different. Different is bad, usually. Kosei focuses on his breathing as he examines the room more closely. The chains attached to the shackles are thick; there's nothing in the room that would be able to break them. The bolts connecting them to the table are also sturdy. There's some slack on the chains, however; if he has to fight, he might be able to use them as a weapon. He can also reach one of the chairs, and that would work in a pinch, too.
The door opens before he can determine if the table moves. The man who enters wears a bright, flashy suit with white leather shoes. He smiles at Kosei, and Kosei takes a step back towards the table.
"It's Kosei-kun, right?" the man asks. He steps forward, and Kosei realizes he recognizes him. He's seen this man, watching the fights at the ring. The man is someone important, because he has his own private viewing box in the upper stands. He lounges in it, drink in hand, and watches people die. Frequently he'll have someone with him; usually a pretty girl or two, occasionally a handsome man, and Kosei takes this openness as further proof that the man's someone high up on the chain.
"That was a good fight, earlier," the man continues. "I've been watching you for a while now. You're stronger than the other brats here, aren't you?" The man eyes Kosei's skinny frame and laughs. "Or should I say, you have more potential."
He takes another step forward, and Kosei takes another one back. The backs of his thighs brush against the cool metal of the table. The man stops and holds his hand out as if cajoling a timid cat. His dark nails gleam in the bright light. “Kosei-kun, I only want a closer look at you. Just to see if I’m right.”
The man drops his hand and sidles closer. The movement draws Kosei’s gaze down, and he catches a glimpse of the knife tucked in the man’s belt. Panic stabs through him, sharp as he knows the knife must be. Kosei jerks back against the table and gathers the chains in his hand, ready to- to do something, to wrap the chains around the man’s neck, maybe-
Abruptly, red thread bursts into existence, staining the distance between them. It takes a moment for Kosei to understand what he’s seeing; to look down and see the way the thread loops around his pinky and stretches out to the other man, to loop around his pinky, too.
The man – his soulmate – stops and looks at the thread, his mouth open. He takes a step back, but the thread doesn’t dissipate; it grows, until it pools on the floor between them, circling the drain like blood. Even as the man unsheathes his knife, Kosei can only wonder, distantly, if there’s supposed to be so much of it.
The man steps on the thread and pulls it taut. Kosei knows before he even takes the knife to it that it won’t work. He’d seen his mother try something similar, once. But Kosei will not be his father, so he doesn’t laugh when the knife stops dead against the thread and refuses to cut. His soulmate tries it again to no avail.
“It’s you?” his soulmate says as his face twists into a glower. “Why is it you?” When he drops the thread and looks at Kosei, rage burns in his dark eyes. He moves before Kosei can collect himself.
Kosei drops the chains in his grasp with a pained gasp as the knife stabs into the back of his hand. And then it keeps going and going, until he can see the bloodied metal poking out from the other side, and Kosei has to swallow the bile rising in his throat.
The knife lifts and leaves burning pain in its wake. Kosei curls his arms over his abdomen to protect his innards, but the next place the man strikes is his face. A flash of silver in his peripheral vision is his only warning, and then Kosei can feel the skin of his cheek splitting open as warm blood gushes down his neck and pools along his collarbone.
The man's eyes have gone wide, his breathing heavy. A smile flits across his face, and then he stabs the knife down into Kosei's shoulder.
Kosei grunts and bites his tongue. This new, sharper pain distracts from the burning throb in his hand, and he reaches for the chains again. Blood smears along the links as he struggles for a firm grip.
His soulmate catches the movement. He yanks the knife down before he pulls it out, and this time he stabs it through Kosei's wrist. "Don't misbehave," he hisses, admonishing.
Blood streams down to Kosei's fingers. Everything is getting a little fuzzy around the edges, but he understands. In this instance, trying to fight back will get him killed.
The seconds and minutes bleed together as his soulmate has his fun. He drives the knife under two of Kosei's fingernails and slices them off. He carves a series of shallow, stinging cuts along Kosei's stomach and hips. When Kosei begins to sway and slump against the table, black spots enveloping his vision, his soulmate holds a lighter to his knife and cauterizes the wound on Kosei's wrist. Kosei turns his head and gags at the stench of his own burning flesh.
Pain is the only thing Kosei can still feel when his soulmate finally steps back. Red is everywhere: red on the table, red on the nearby chair, red crawling across the floor to clog the drain, red stretching through the distance between them. The thread drips with it. The man grabs it and holds it up with a smile. "That's better," he says, and then he turns and leaves. The thread stretches all the way to the door before it dissipates.
Kosei collapses into the nearby chair, blinking hard. The pain is beginning to recede in a way that spells danger. He pinches the wound on his hand, letting the burn seep into his bones, and forces himself to keep thinking.
He hadn't gotten his soulmate's name, but he isn't sure he wants it. The other man hadn't needed to give an explanation to make himself clear. Kosei got the message: his soulmate doesn't want him either.
That isn't surprising. His parents had been soulmates, and he saw what his father did to his mother. Kosei had hoped for something different as a child, but he knew better by now. The thought doesn't even hurt.
It doesn't. He won't let it.
Kosei looks for his soulmate the next time he’s in the ring. He cranes his head up to the top of the stands in the seconds before his opponent arrives and the match begins, and spots him, reclining on a plush leather couch in his box. There’s a man and a woman with him today.
Kosei has never looked at men before, but his soulmate is a man, so he tries to look now. The man with his soulmate looks well-groomed and expensive, but there’s a docility in his mien that makes Kosei’s eyes slide off. He watches his soulmate instead, who catches his gaze and raises his glass in acknowledgment. His soulmate doesn’t seem angered by Kosei’s attention. He appears no different than any other time Kosei’s noticed him.
The match begins before Kosei can give it any further thought. He wins, because he has to, and afterwards he’s taken to the empty room again. His soulmate hurts him again, but he seems happier about it this time. He talks more while he does it, commenting on Kosei’s fight and his technique. When he leaves it’s with a cheerful, “see you later.”
They continue in this way. His soulmate doesn’t come every day, but Kosei sees him often enough. He prefers the knife, but sometimes he beats Kosei with his fists instead. And sometimes he doesn’t touch Kosei at all, merely commenting on his ability in the ring and offering pointers for his next fight. It’s impossible to predict his moods, or how he wants Kosei to react. On some days Kosei’s stoicism enrages him, and on others he praises Kosei for not letting the pain show.
Things gradually escalate. Kosei’s opponents in the arena become bigger and stronger. No longer is he fighting brats with weapons; now he’s pit against fully grown men with nothing but his own fists to defend him. After scraping through one particularly difficult match by the skin of his teeth, his soulmate comes directly to him in the slave pens. Their thread bursts into life before he’s even halfway across the room, and Kosei can feel the eyes of everyone, slave and Kijin man alike, trained on them.
What is he doing? Their meetings had always been private before. Is his soulmate not ashamed of him, after all? Some stupid part of Kosei is relieved at the thought, even as the other man enters his cell, twirling his knife, and proceeds to demonstrate that he has no compunctions about hurting Kosei in front of an audience.
But afterward his soulmate stays with him. He kneels on the concrete floor by Kosei’s head and holds the gauze for the doctor and tells Kosei he’s a good boy for enduring it so well. Kosei thinks about taking the doctor’s scissors and cutting his soulmate’s chest open, as if seeing his heart with his own eyes would make its contents comprehensible.
It’s maddening, trying to puzzle out what his soulmate wants from him, so eventually Kosei stops trying. Instead, he allows the resentment to take root in his chest and grow. There isn’t much he believes about soulmate relationships, but he had always thought that if he managed to find his supposed other half, they could at least have a relationship as equals. The current power imbalance is unsustainable. Kosei catalogues every hurt, every slight, and prepares for the day he can pay it back. He’s strong, and he grows stronger with every fight. He’ll find a way out of here someday. He has to.
Shortly after Kosei reaches adulthood, his soulmate becomes Nishitani Homare III. Kosei is brought to his new office a few days after the ceremony. The room has sleek black walls and polished tile flooring. A large wooden desk sits imposingly before the Kijin Clan crest mounted on the back wall. His soulmate – Nishitani – sits in a plush leather chair behind the desk and beckons for Kosei to come around the desk and stand beside him.
“Well? What do you think?” Nishitani spreads his arms wide, indicating the room. He looks at Kosei expectantly.
Kosei glances around the room again. It’s far too clean, but Nishitani is a man who cares about appearances. “It suits you,” Kosei says. And then, remembering how the other Kijin Clan men had addressed Nishitani, he adds, “Patriarch.”
Nishitani smiles, pleased. “Doesn’t it? But I should have something even nicer soon. It’ll have a new arena too, far nicer than what you’re used to,” he says, as if Kosei should be happy about this.
Kosei nods. Maybe Nishitani only wants to talk this time. He’s in a better mood than Kosei’s ever seen before.
“You’ve been doing well lately too, haven’t you?” Nishitani continues. “We’ll need to work harder to find you worthy opponents. Come here, Kosei-kun. I’ll reward you.”
Kosei shuffles closer. He twines the thread around his fingers, a stupid nervous habit he has yet to break. But it’s so hard not to react.
“Closer.” Nishitani beckons again, still smiling. He tugs on the thread until Kosei stands before him, and then he reaches out to push down on Kosei’s shoulders. “Down here, come on.”
Realizing what he wants, Kosei grips the arms of the chair and slides his legs onto the seat to straddle Nishitani. He’s seen Nishitani in this position before, with the girls in his box. Kosei tightens the thread around his fingers as trepidation roils in his stomach. But then Nishitani loops an arm around his neck and pulls him down, and a pair of warm lips meet his own.
There are no fireworks, or butterflies, or whatever else there’s supposed to be. But it’s warm, and soft, and slightly sticky, with a faintly fruity chemical-y kind of taste – that must be his lip gloss. It’s far from the worst thing Nishitani’s done to him, so Kosei presses back against him.
Nishitani pulls back. “You’re still a virgin, aren’t you?” He laughs. “That’s okay. You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you’ll pick it up quick.” Nishitani pulls him back down, moving slower this time.
This is Kosei’s first kiss. He tries to mimic Nishitani, but he can tell his own movements are clumsy and too forceful in comparison. When he accidentally grazes his teeth against Nishitani, his soulmate bites his lip in retaliation.
Even with that burst of pain, kissing is more stimulating than Kosei expected. His face flushes and his breathing goes ragged. And Nishitani keeps going, until Kosei eventually settles into the pace of it. It’s too enjoyable. The other shoe must drop soon.
Nishitani separates from him with a slick noise that manages to sound more appealing than gross. He grins and takes one of Kosei’s hands, guiding it to his crotch. His dick is hard beneath Kosei’s palm. Kosei balks, but Nishitani holds him steady.
“We’ll start small. You can figure this out, can’t you, Kosei-kun? It’s not so different from handling yourself.” Nishitani presses Kosei’s hand down.
It feels different, but of course this isn’t a request. Kosei squeezes, hesitantly. This shouldn’t be anything painful, at least. That’s better than he was expecting.
Nishitani is still smiling, but he’s starting to look a little impatient, so Kosei unbuckles his belt and shifts the fabric of his pants until his cock is visible. It’s smaller than Kosei’s and has a slight curvature to it, but otherwise isn’t that dissimilar from his own after all. He can do this. Kosei wraps his hand around it and Nishitani makes a pleased sound.
Kosei pumps it slowly, using the foreskin to ease the glide the way he would with himself. The shape of his hand around Nishitani’s cock is unfamiliar, and he moves awkwardly at first, unused to working from this angle. But eventually he settles into a serviceable rhythm.
Nishitani is expressive, and that helps. Kosei can tell from the little furrow in his brow if he’s doing something wrong and can hastily try something else. And when Kosei gets it right, he sighs happily and thrusts into his hand. Nishitani doesn’t like a tight grip, and he wants it fast but not overly so. He’ll probably need this knowledge again, so Kosei files it away.
It’s unexpected, when Nishitani comes. He pushes up into Kosei’s hand and spasms in his grasp, and then something warm and wet splashes onto Kosei’s hand and wrist. Kosei pulls away and stares at his hand, now covered in another man’s semen.
“Lick it off,” Nishitani says.
Kosei can’t help the face he pulls at that, just as Nishitani surely can’t help laughing at him for it. He darts his tongue out to taste and wrinkles his nose. It’s foul. The texture is like swallowing a glob of mucus. He licks it up and swallows quickly, to keep the taste from sinking into his tongue.
“Good boy.” Nishitani tucks himself back in his pants. His face is flushed as red as his lips, and Kosei finds his gaze drawn there.
Nishitani notices his stare, and those red lips stretch into a sharper smile. “Did you like that?” He presses his palm to Kosei’s crotch and laughs at the erection he discovers. “Of course you did. Maybe there are other ways I could be making money off you?”
Kosei scrambles back, until he’s standing by the edge of the desk. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to beg, but it’s no longer something he’s above doing.
“No? But you did so well for me. You might be a natural.” Nishitani narrows his eyes, then shrugs. “Well, I’ll think on it. You can go.”
This is the first time he’s been dismissed without an escort, but Kosei takes himself back to his cage like a good little slave. He can’t escape yet. He still isn’t strong enough.
Kosei is not sent to the whorehouse, but his education with Nishitani continues. He learns how to suck a cock, how to finger a man, how to be fucked. Nishitani had been gentle, the first time; he isn’t on their subsequent encounters. Frequently, it hurts. On the days it doesn’t hurt, the pleasure is humiliating. Sex is another weapon, and Nishitani wields it as adeptly as he does everything else.
Sometimes he allows others to see, and this is a kind of weapon, too. Nishitani had no friends to propel him forward; his power is built solely on his own ability. He earns the respect of his men through fear and cruelty. Kosei understands the logic to it: Come and see what the Patriarch does to his own soulmate; if he can be so cruel to the one he’s meant to love, imagine what he’ll do to you!
Nishitani teaches Kosei other things, too; sometimes he’ll drag Kosei to his office and force him to decide the punishment for a runaway slave, or which of the two slaves who started a fight outside the arena should die. It takes him a while, but Kosei learns that the correct answer is torture to the death, and both. Rule breaking can’t be tolerated, and examples must be made. Within the confines of the yakuza, it makes perfect sense.
On one memorable occasion, his soulmate plays a game together with him. They sit across from each other at a table and pass the loaded gun back and forth. Kosei can’t stop his fear from showing; he trusts Nishitani not to kill him directly, but this is something different. Uncontrollable. He doesn’t want to die.
But Nishitani plays with him. He presses the gun to his own temple and pulls the trigger before he slides it back to Kosei. Does that mean anything? Or has the game been rigged from the start?
The day everything changes starts like any other. Kosei doesn’t see Nishitani in the morning, and that’s a relief. He has a fight in the evening. His opponent is a free man, a career fighter who has the luxury of training and conditioning and formal instruction and specialized diets. Kosei needs to be at his best.
After the fight a Kijin man waits for him, but he doesn’t lead Kosei to the slave pens or to Nishitani’s office or even to the little concrete room with its bloodied drain.
He takes Kosei outside.
There’s a man outside, wearing sunglasses despite the sun’s faint rays sputtering out against the horizon. The pin on his lapel is unfamiliar.
The Kijin man removes from a key from his breast pocket and pushes it into Kosei’s collar. When he lifts the collar off, Kosei’s head feels so light that for a moment he fears it might roll off.
“Congratulations,” the Kijin man says, gruffly, and leaves.
“Yo,” the man with the sunglasses says. “I’m Tsuruno. Captain of the Watase Family.” He looks Kosei up and down, frowning.
Kosei’s heard of the Watase Family. Nishitani kills people for Watase; sometimes he tells Kosei about it. He always seems to cherish those kills more than any others.
“You’re Kosei?” Tsuruno asks. “I’m told you don’t use your family name.”
Kosei nods. He doesn’t need it.
“We can’t have you using your given name all the time… Well, we’ll think of something.”
Kosei shifts, one hand rubbing at his neck. Tsuruno doesn’t seem aggressive, so he asks point blank, “What’s going on?”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” Tsuruno straightens up and faces him fully. “Nishitani has agreed to hand you over to the Watase Family. If you accept, we’ll have you join as one of our own. You’re a strong guy. We could use someone like you.”
So Nishitani has sold him off. Kosei is of such little consequence that his own soulmate will auction him off to the highest bidder. Bitterness burns in his throat. But then his mind catches on the rest of Tsuruno’s speech. “I can refuse?”
Tsuruno scratches his cheek. “Of course you can. If you aren’t interested, I can… make arrangements. You won’t be able to stay in Osaka, but I can find somewhere else for you.”
Make arrangements. Of course. The only arrangements a yakuza would make for a penniless civilian involved a fishing boat if he was lucky, and a barrel if he wasn’t. Kosei still isn’t free. He’s traded one collar for another. “I’ll join.”
Behind the sunglasses, the corners of Tsuruno’s eyes crinkle with relief. “Good, good. Come with me, then.” He turns and leads Kosei to a sleek black car idling by the curb. “You’re not too tired, are you? I’ve got an empty apartment you can crash at, but I thought you might like to buy some new clothes first.”
Kosei’s slave rags are terribly conspicuous amongst the sharp suits of the yakuza. “I’m not tired.” He slides into the car’s backseat and leans forward self-consciously, trying to keep his sweat and grime off the slick leather seats.
“Alright. We’ll hit the town first.”
The car pulls away, and Kosei watches the arena complex until it disappears into the distance. The scar on his cheek aches.
Kosei becomes Shishido, and he downs the sake to join the Watase Family. Watase sets him up with some basic necessities, Tsuruno gives him a shithole apartment, and then he’s left to fend for himself with the rest of the men. He discovers he already has a reputation in the Omi, and he spends his first few months divesting people of it – a couple hard hits and a little intimidation with a weapon is typically enough to convince them he’s not so different from his soulmate, after all, and it might be wiser to show some respect. Eventually his new reputation spreads enough that his words become sufficient for convincing the other men.
It helps that he doesn’t see Nishitani, or much of anyone from the Kijin Clan. The others in the family talk of a pleasure barge, called the Castle, that all the Kijin men are preoccupied with. It’ll launch soon, someone tells Shishido, but he doesn’t care. He has enough to do on land. Nishitani’s business is no longer his concern – that much has been made very clear.
Shishido throws himself into his grunt work, and he finds his new leash has so much slack that he starts to forget it’s there. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once, to choose his outfit in the morning, to decide what order to tackle his collections in, to go out for dinner at whatever restaurant he wants, to stay out as late as he pleases. He holds his head high as he walks the streets, and the civilians see his shiny little pin and they treat him with respect. He’s not a dog here, but someone deserving of fear and regard.
When the money starts to roll in, Shishido spends it almost as fast as he gets it. More than once he has to beg for an advance from Tsuruno to make rent, but it doesn’t bother him when Tsuruno disciplines him for being so careless. He’s had enough of wearing threadbare rags and washing his hair with soap. He buys the finest, flashiest clothes and colognes he can afford, and once he’s satisfied with his wardrobe he starts to frequent the high-end bars and hostess clubs. People care about appearances. If he wants to advance, Shishido must look the part.
Aside from appearance, he knows cruelty and violence are his best bets for quickly amassing power. It comes to him so easily. He doesn’t have enough sway yet to go too far with the other family men, so if they start to run their mouths about his past he settles for simply roughing them up a bit. But with men from rival families, or business owners who don’t want to cough up protection money, he can let loose.
It’s intoxicating, having power over someone else. Shishido remembers where it hurts most and puts his knowledge to good use. Killing is something he can do without a second thought, something completely and utterly detached from himself. But seeing his victims squirm and cry and scream stirs something within him. He could watch it all day. The way it makes the other men back up and avert their eyes, careful not to get in his way, is only a bonus.
Tsuruno takes him drinking, after his promotion to lieutenant. Although Shishido pushes for the hostess club, they end up at a quiet bar.
“Not that I’m not grateful, Captain,” Shishido says, eyeing the liquor on the top shelf, “but this would be better with some girls.”
Tsuruno snorts into his glass. “You spend quite a lot of time with the girls already, from what I hear. They’ll still be there later.”
“Don’t all the guys hit up the clubs? One of the perks of the job, isn’t it?” Shishido grins. “You oughta join us sometime, Captain.”
“I go to clubs plenty. But some of us are too busy to stop in every night. As yer about to find out.” Tsuruno knocks against his shoulder.
Shishido laughs and drains his glass. Tsuruno takes work too seriously, but he’s not a bad guy. Shishido’s certain he would’ve ended up here – or at least somewhere close to here – by his own power eventually, but Watase and Tsuruno’s intervention had sped things up for him. Although they don’t always see eye to eye, Shishido is grateful.
They’re five drinks in when Tsuruno admits, “Maybe we should’ve gone to the hostess club after all.”
“Hey, it’s not too late.”
“Don’t most of ‘em close soon?” Tsuruno checks his watch. “It’s getting late.”
“Oh, that’s true. Next time, then.” Although Shishido has numbers for some of the girls, and calling one up would be a nice idea. A better way to celebrate.
“I haven’t been to that new one yet. The one by the park?” Tsuruno says. His words slur slightly. “I need to check it out.”
Shishido frowns. He sounds entirely too serious for a man who only intends to visit a hostess club. “I’ve been to that one. Cute girls. Their number one is good, but the number two is my favorite.” Mia-chan. She’s one of his numbers. He could call her.
“It’s new girls, right? They didn’t poach ‘em all from other clubs?”
“I don’t think so. Their more experienced girls are from outside the city.”
Tsuruno nods. “Good. I can make a couple visits, just in case.” His hand taps against his empty glass.
“Ah.” Right. Shishido’s heard about this; how Tsuruno likes to visit new establishments with lots of women on staff, and not purely for pleasure. Tsuruno still hasn’t found his soulmate. At his age, he may never. Shishido hums, and then, emboldened by the alcohol, teases, “So yer expectin’ some pretty, young thing, huh?”
Tsuruno shoots him a look and sighs. “Well… it’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure it would. That’s every guy’s dream, right?” It had been Shishido’s too, once. A very long time ago.
“A young pretty girl who’ll cook and clean,” Tsuruno agrees. “But I think I’d settle for anything at this point.”
Shishido’s lips twist up into a wry grin. “I doubt that.”
“Oh.” Tsuruno looks at him, his face pale. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He’s had a long time to come to terms with his soulmate. It doesn’t bother him anymore. The Watase Family may have swept in to save him, but Nishitani is the real reason he’s here. And one day Shishido will stand equal with Nishitani, and then he’ll pay him back for each and every wound. That’s what their connection signifies.
The bar closes, and they head home. Shishido doesn’t call anyone. Tsuruno never mentions soulmates to him again.
“Shishido,” Nishitani says, a pleased grin flitting across face. “I thought they might send you.”
“…It’s good to see you again, Patriarch.” Shishido bows. How strange, to hear his new name fall from that mouth. The thread spools around his feet but he feels no desire to touch it.
Nishitani’s lips quirk up again, as if he can hear the truth buried deep in Shishido’s words. “You are here as the Watase Family’s event coordinator, yeah?”
Shishido nods. It had taken him a while to convince Tsuruno he was the best fit for the job. Tsuruno is much too busy, and this is a suitable duty for the Family lieutenant. Besides, no one knew arena fighting better than Shishido; he could draw the crowds in and keep them entertained easily. Shishido’s projections on the money he expected to earn had finally gotten Tsuruno to relent. Looking down at the Castle patrons now, in their rich suits and flashy dresses, it’s possible Shishido had been too conservative with his estimates.
“Good, good.” Nishitani turns back to gaze over the ship. He waves a hand lazily. “You can do as you please, no need to consult me on events. Speak to one of my men if you need anything. You’re dismissed.”
That’s it? Shishido stares at that tousled head of hair, but Nishitani doesn’t look back. The gaggle of women surrounding him steadfastly ignore Shishido, although the one kneeling beside Nishitani keeps picking at the thread that had materialized in her lap. Shishido swallows his huff and bows again, turning to leave.
“Oh, Shishido?” Nishitani calls when Shishido reaches the door.
“Yes?” Shishido pivots to find Nishitani watching him.
“What do you think?” Nishitani sweeps his arm back at the sprawl of the Castle.
Shishido stares at Nishitani, backlit by the glitzy colored spotlights and neon signs. “This suits you better,” he answers.
Nishitani smiles. “Doesn’t it?” He turns back.
Shishido takes his leave. He finds a Kijin man working the arena gate that seems to have more authority than the rest and puts together a week’s worth of events with him. The man bows deeply and promises to get everything set up properly for him. All the Kijin men bow to him and speak to him respectfully. Nishitani had said anything, so on a whim Shishido asks one of them for a whisky and is mildly bemused when he gets it.
The Castle suits Nishitani, but Shishido finds it suits him, too. Walking among the glamorous patrons as an honored guest in his own right, and not one of the slaves fighting to keep them entertained, tastes of victory. When he watches the fights at the arena, the old exhilaration comes flooding back, but without the fear that had so long been its companion. Shishido places more money than he should on bets, but his eye is good and he nets himself enough pocket change that he can try the casinos, too.
When the time for the Watase family matches comes, Nishitani invites Shishido to his viewing room. He indicates the chair behind him without turning around.
It’s a good fight. The view from this high up isn’t spectacular; it’s harder to hear the crunch of bone or see the spray of blood. But the moves, and all the pain they bring, are still apparent. The spectators’ exuberance can be felt even from here. They must be raking it in.
Shishido barely sees any of it. Nishitani won’t look at him. He’ll incline his head to Shishido, if he says something, or glance out of the corner of his eye if Shishido shifts into his field of view. He comments on the fight and praises Shishido’s choice of combatants and orders his posse to serve Shishido refreshments alongside himself. But when his eyes aren’t fixed on the arena down below, they wander off to watch the fireworks or focus in to examine his painted nails.
Two of the women behind Nishitani have started to play cat’s cradle with the red thread. Shishido’s jaw grinds. Why does it bother him? Nishitani is perfectly courteous, by his standards: this is the appropriate way to treat a representative from an allied family. It’s as if he had poured all his interest into Kosei, the slave, and now had nothing left for Shishido, the man. Which is the way this should happen. It’s the best-case scenario that will allow them both to move forward without friction and that will allow Shishido to bide his time until he can enact his revenge.
When Shishido leaves the Castle he calls up a girl and invites her over. They fuck, and it isn’t even a little satisfying.
Tsuruno and Watase are traitors. They would take everything Shishido has spent his whole life working for, and they would dash it to pieces at his feet while expecting him to smile and be grateful. It takes all Shishido has not to dash Tsuruno’s head against the wall when he first hears of it.
Watase’s plan is ludicrous, but there’s a kernel of merit in it all the same. He’s right in his assessment that the Omi no longer hold the power they once did, and that the Kijin Clan is now the only subsidiary that poses any real threat. Nishitani will need to be “taken care of,” Tsuruno says.
He won’t say what he truly means, but he doesn’t need to. Shishido volunteers for the job.
“You don’t need to do that,” Tsuruno says, frowning.
“I want to,” Shishido answers. Under different circumstances, it might be true. He might jump at the opportunity to bleed Nishitani out, slowly and painfully, to pay back every cut and every blow and every insult until they become equals at last.
“Even still…” Tsuruno keeps frowning, the skin between his brows creasing.
“You have to let me do this. It has to be me,” Shishido presses. He sets his jaw and allows his anger to show.
Tsuruno clicks his tongue. “Fine. But I want you to take some other men with you. As back up.” The implication hangs in the air between them: in case you can’t follow through.
Shishido bows and agrees. Nishitani hardly pays any attention to him these days, but in this moment as Shishido’s mind races with future conspiracies and betrayals, he knows with absolute certainty that Nishitani will listen to him if he can just get his soulmate alone. He can’t allow anyone else to kill Nishitani, and he can’t let anyone else break the news of Watase’s plan.
Getting Nishitani alone proves to be a problem. He’s constantly surrounded at the Castle, and he never leaves. In the end, following Kiryu’s lead becomes Shishido’s best bet. It’s almost funny, how smoothly everything slots together once Kiryu’s in the picture. He beats Nishitani easily, and it’s just as easy for Shishido to spirit him away, with that backup Tsuruno had insisted on. In the confusion of smoke and fire and blood, Kiryu never sees that the thread doesn’t sever.
Outside the warehouse, Kiryu’s disgust is palpable. There’s rage smoldering in his eyes as he listens to Tsuruno’s explanations, but the look he levels at Shishido is one of unbridled revulsion. As if his pretended act of revenge had been one of mariticide.
The sentiment reflects in Tsuruno’s eyes, too, after Kiryu leaves, but all he says is, “I’m sorry you had to do that.”
Shishido shrugs. “I told you, I wanted to. He deserved it, you said it yerself.”
Tsuruno sighs. “I know. Sorry for that, too.”
Shishido isn’t sorry for a thing. When he gets back to his apartment Nishitani is there on his couch, already awake and bandaged up, and he looks right at Shishido and listens silently to the entire explanation, as Shishido had known he would. This time it’s Nishitani’s fingers that stretch and loop and twine around the thread, over and over, without looking at it.
When Shishido finishes Nishitani only asks, “Watase wants me dead?” His face twists up in some emotion Shishido can’t place.
Shishido nods.
Nishitani’s laugh rings hollow. “Right,” he says, his eye sliding into the middle distance and his red lips pulling down, and it’s hurt, the emotion on his face.
Once Shishido recognizes it he can’t look away. This has hurt him, in some deep internal place that Shishido has never reached, and the injustice of it blindsides him. What business does Nishitani have being hurt by someone else? Shishido’s grip closes around Nishitani’s wrist, tight enough to feel the bones shift beneath his grasp.
Nishitani’s eye jumps back to his face, startled. He tries to pull his arm back, but when Shishido doesn’t relent he relaxes it instead. “You want my help, right? You want to stop him.”
“You’ll help,” Shishido says.
“…Right.” Nishitani looks at him and pushes his arm forward this time, until his hand reaches Shishido’s face. His fingers trace along the scar on his brow. “I’ll help. You haven’t betrayed me, have you?”
Shishido releases his wrist. He holds still as Nishitani crawls forward, and he lets his soulmate settle into his lap. His heartbeat picks up as the familiar spike of anxiety pierces through him.
Nishitani leans in and kisses him, his lips as soft as Shishido remembers. There’s an edge of desperation to it, which is new, but the sickening churn of excitement in Shishido’s stomach is the same. Like he’s some young virgin again, not sure where the hurt’s going to come from but still eager to find out. He reaches out to tangle a hand in Nishitani’s hair, and that’s new too, touching without permission; but Nishitani only presses against him harder.
Nishitani is murmuring to him between kisses, pulling back with a, “So this is why it’s you and not him,” before diving back in. His hand cups Shishido’s face and his thumb traces along the scar on his cheek. “You really were made for me, huh? My perfect toy.”
The words, light and breathy, ring in Shishido’s ears. Toy. Toy, he says, while injured in Shishido’s lap, in Shishido’s apartment, alive only because Shishido chose to save him. Shishido pushes against Nishitani’s chest to force him back.
Nishitani’s eye is bright. “What?” he asks. The thread has tangled between his fingers.
“Is that all I am to you?” Shishido knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that there’s no point in asking. It doesn’t matter either way. Shishido had spent so long with the collar around his neck that even now he still remembers its weight, squeezing and molding him until Nishitani’s words ring true. Shishido is the one allowing Nishitani to view him this way.
But his neck is bare now.
Shishido grabs a fistful of thread and holds it between them. “You’re forgetting. This goes both ways.” He’d always wondered about their thread, about the amount of it. Always spilling endlessly over everything they touched. Now, he understands.
This is a weapon, too.
Shishido grabs Nishitani’s wrist again and wraps the thread around it, then takes his other hand to loop it around that wrist too. When he begins to tie the knot, Nishitani tries to pull back.
“Oi, what are you doing?” Nishitani jerks his hands back, but Shishido follows the movement easily. When he attempts to separate his wrists, Shishido only needs one hand to force them back together while he completes the knot.
Shishido grins as he pulls the knot tight. The thread is unbreakable; Nishitani won’t be getting out of it unless he runs. He’s unarmed, because Shishido had instructed his men to take his weapons. And no one else knows he’s here. His own men all think him dead. Most of the Omi Alliance will be thinking him dead, by now.
Judging by the flicker in Nishitani’s face, he’s coming to the same conclusions. A static shock zips up Shishido’s spine at the trace of fear that manifests in his soulmate’s eye. Here’s another new emotion: a better one, because Shishido put it there. He has Nishitani’s complete attention now.
Shishido stands and makes for his bedroom, tugging Nishitani along by his bound hands. Nishitani digs his heels in for the first few steps, but his weight isn’t enough to slow Shishido. After dragging him forward a few centimeters, he relents and follows obediently. Like a dog on a lead. The visual makes Shishido’s mouth curl up.
He shoves Nishitani onto the bed unceremoniously. Nishitani wriggles backward, holding his hands out between them. “Wait, Shishido,” he says.
Shishido sheds his jacket on the floor before climbing up on the bed to straddle Nishitani. He’s had enough waiting.
“You think I’ll still help you if you force me?” Nishitani continues. “I can have you killed for this.”
“Who knows yer here?” Shishido asks. “I can do whatever the hell I want with you.” He pushes Nishitani back to the mattress and plants his hands on either side of his head. “And you still need me.” Shishido is certain of this: without them both working together, Watase wins.
That delicious fear shines in Nishitani’s eye again, but then it stutters and flattens into something – less appealing. Something like resignation. Like he’s been expecting the dog to bite back all this time. When he opens his mouth again, instead of threats or cajoles he only says, “Are you going to hurt me?”
Shishido leans back. Nishitani looking at him that way takes some of the fun out of it. The desire to hurt his soulmate, to make them share in everything as they’re meant to, itches across his skin, but Shishido frowns and shakes his head. “Not this time.” With Watase’s release looming over them, he needs to keep Nishitani fit to fight, at least.
“Not this time,” Nishitani repeats. “Next time?” He drops his bound hands and laughs. “I’ve taught you better than I ever meant to.”
Shishido’s frown deepens. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Nishitani is supposed to be upset. He’s supposed to be outraged. Angry. Now it’s Shishido with frustration bubbling through his blood, while Nishitani looks at him expectantly.
“You’re thinking too much,” Nishitani says, and he has the gall to sound impatient. “If you want something from me, just take it.”
The words are a challenge, reminiscent of the times when Shishido could feel Nishitani’s eyes on him in the arena, watching him fight through the gauntlet of stronger and stronger opponents. It had always pleased him most to see Shishido kill the bigger opponents, and to see him enjoy it. Perhaps that’s what gives him his composure now – the desire to see Shishido enjoy himself that way again, even with Nishitani as the victim.
So Shishido can still interest him even now, from outside of his influence. The thought soothes his frustration, cooling the boil to a simmering heat that blends with his arousal. He shifts to cover Nishitani and rejoins their lips again.
Nishitani seems content to follow his lead, this time, and although the lack of struggle still grates there’s something pleasing about having the Kijin Patriarch yield to him. When Shishido shoves his tongue in Nishitani’s mouth and presses harder than he knows his soulmate prefers, Nishitani squirms but doesn’t bite.
Shishido pulls back, breathing heavily, and a thin line of saliva breaks in the space between them. Nishitani’s hands are crushed awkwardly against his chest, so Shishido lifts them up over his head and then twines the thread around one of the bed posts to tie another knot.
Nishitani huffs and pulls against the restraint, but of course the thread holds. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be using it for this kind of thing,” he says.
“Why not?” The thread is working quite fantastically for bondage. He’s surprised Nishitani didn’t think of it first.
Nishitani doesn’t seem to have a solid argument, and Shishido doesn’t plan to release him anyway, so he kisses him again. His hands drift down Nishitani’s chest to wrestle with the buttons of his shirt. The skin beneath is smooth and unblemished, with hard muscle tangible under his fingertips. Too perfect. Shishido shifts down to the newly exposed skin and bites down hard on Nishitani’s pec, laughing at the other man’s pained yelp. He looks better with the bite mark, so Shishido does it again on the other pec, then closes his mouth around a nipple to suck hard and dig his teeth in.
Nishitani seems to like that, as he arches his back with a gasp that sounds more pleased than hurt. Even bound and reluctant Nishitani remains very reactive. When Shishido does hurt him, will he show that too? Will he scream? Cry out? Writhe as his pretty face twists with pain? The thought makes Shishido’s cock swell, and he bites down harder, until Nishitani’s gasp swings back into hurt.
Shishido litters Nishitani’s chest with the indentations of his teeth, marking the places he would most like to scar. When he runs out of blank canvas, he sits back and reaches for Nishitani’s belt. He finds Nishitani half hard, and the physical proof that he gets some enjoyment out of this is more gratifying than Shishido expected. If Nishitani won’t fight, perhaps it’s better to make him enjoy it. Shishido wraps a hand around him to coax him into full hardness.
He remembers exactly how Nishitani likes it: a grip that’s not too tight, paying more attention to the head than the shaft. It’s easy to get Nishitani thrusting up into his hand, a breathy gasp spilling past his lips. Once his cock swells hot and heavy in Shishido’s hand, he releases it in favor of forcing Nishitani’s legs open.
Shishido fetches the lube from his bedside drawer and coats his fingers with it before shoving two of them inside Nishitani. He remembers this too, and a couple hard rubs at Nishitani’s prostate is enough to relax his muscles so Shishido can move. But he can hardly focus on the movement of his fingers or appreciate Nishitani’s quiet moans. He’s been inside Nishitani before, with fingers and tongue, but he’s never fucked him properly. Shishido had always been the one bending over. Now the thought of the reversal, of being able to dominate his pretty, arrogant soulmate, drives him to distraction. He pulls his fingers out and unbuckles his own belt, slicking his cock up with a pleased sigh.
Nishitani cranes his head down the length of the bed to watch him, staring at Shishido’s cock with clear apprehension. “…It’s been a while,” he admits.
Shishido squeezes himself and strokes luxuriously. This is a good look for Nishitani, too. “Too good to be fucked?”
Nishitani nods. “This sort of thing isn’t appropriate for a Patriarch,” he says, candidly. “But, neither are you.”
Shishido grunts. He’d received a lot of shit when he first joined up, for his past with Nishitani. Most of it had been for taking it, but some of it had been more general, simply for having a male soulmate at all. It hadn’t occurred to Shishido that Nishitani, who had always surrounded himself with men and women both, might have heard similar things; but he can’t bring himself to care. Whatever Nishitani heard, Shishido had it worse. But now it’s finally his turn.
Shishido shuffles forward to position himself, hiking Nishitani’s legs back towards his chest. Nishitani tenses, his arms momentarily straining against the headboard, and Shishido gives him the courtesy of waiting for him to relax before he pushes inside.
It’s tight, and warm, and Nishitani clenches immediately around him. He bites his lip, too, with a little furrow in his brow, and his arms strain against the thread again. The clear discomfort, the hint of pain, makes Shishido’s cock throb, and he rocks his hips forward shallowly. Then again and again, as the furrow in Nishitani’s brow deepens, reveling in the strained grunt that escapes his reddened lips.
Shishido forces himself to stop when Nishitani groans, small and pained. The kind of sex he really wants will have to wait until after they take the Omi. For now, he holds still as Nishitani shifts his hips and breathes heavily through his nose. It’s a long moment before the tightness enveloping Shishido’s cock begins to relax. Slowly, Shishido rocks forward again in a shallow thrust, and this time Nishitani takes it without tensing.
His movements stay shallow, but Nishitani’s discomfort seems to have abated. Instead of scrunching up and fixing on the ceiling, Nishitani’s eye meets Shishido’s, and that challenge is there again, goading Shishido on.
Shishido snaps his hips forward, and Nishitani tosses his head back with a pleased moan. There’s something irritatingly performative about the gesture, as if Nishitani is still attempting to be the one pulling the string. Shishido’s eyes narrow and he digs his fingernails into Nishitani’s hips. Rather than continue at that pace, he slows again, drawing back until the tip of his cock rocks continuously against Nishitani’s prostate.
This stimulation is far more effective at drawing out a genuine reaction: Nishitani’s face flushes as the moans spilling from his lips become less polished. He tightens around Shishido again, and Shishido can’t help but thrust a little deeper, chasing the sensation with a moan of his own.
Nishitani looks good like this, lying on his back. He looks good trussed up in their thread. He looks good with his red face and parted red lips, gasping for Shishido’s cock. But suddenly, it isn’t enough. That itch beneath Shishido’s skin, that urge to press tighter until bones break, intensifies to an all-consuming, unignorable burn. There can be no real pleasure without pain. Nishitani had taught him that.
Shishido’s half of the thread lies bunched by his hand, brushing against Nishitani’s hip. He gathers it in his fist and then pulls a section of it taut with his other hand. Nishitani can withstand this much, surely. Shishido brings the thread to Nishitani’s throat.
Nishitani’s eye widens in the split second before Shishido pushes the thread down. Then his breath catches and stutters with a delightful wheezing sound, as the thread cuts into his airway. The harder Shishido pushes down, the redder his pretty face becomes. His hands strain and jerk against their restraints.
Shishido snaps his hips eagerly as Nishitani’s straining muscles clench around his cock. His hands are beginning to shake from the strain of pushing and pulling the thread down and across, but he can hardly feel it through the haze of pleasure. Spittle trails from Nishitani’s lips. Aborted gasps bubble and die in his constricted throat. Shishido’s soulmate is so beautiful. He slams his hips forward.
Nishitani’s next wheezing breath hitches and stops. His eye rolls back and his hands drop back against the sheets. It’s that beauty, of having Nishitani finally, finally surrender to him, wholly and completely, that makes Shishido come deep inside, even as the pressure around his cock slackens. His grip on the thread slips as the pleasure lances through him like a knife.
Shishido takes a few deep breaths before he slips out. Nishitani is gasping and coughing, blinking senselessly up at the ceiling. He hasn’t come yet. Shishido grasps his cock mechanically, working it in his fist until he releases silently and suddenly. He may not have noticed it. His eye is blurry with unshed tears, and he doesn’t look at Shishido until Shishido leans over him.
There’s wariness in his face as he watches Shishido, but there’s something sharper, too. Anger, maybe, or something like indignity. Shishido grins at him and unties the thread from his hands. For the first time, Nishitani’s anger inspires no fear in him. He’s overpowered his soulmate once now; he knows he could do it again. And with the power structure of the Omi on the brink of collapse, there’s no outside force Nishitani can bring to bear on him. Shishido is almost cheerful as he goes through the post-coital motions of wiping Nishitani off and bringing him a glass of water.
Nishitani’s wary expression doesn’t change, and Shishido scoffs. “Yer not dead.”
“I’m not,” Nishitani acknowledges, his voice grating out of his throat in a near-unintelligible garble. “You don’t want me dead.” His voice breaks on his attempt to pitch it up, and the question comes out flat.
“Of course not.” Whatever Shishido is, it’s not what Kiryu and Tsuruno think. “We need each other.”
“To stop Watase,” Nishitani ventures.
Shishido nods. Watase doesn’t know what he has. If he’s stupid enough to throw it all away, then Shishido will happily take it off his hands. He takes the empty glass from Nishitani. “You should rest.” At Nishitani’s suspicious glance, he adds, “I’m not gonna touch you in yer sleep.”
“…I’ll sleep in the other room.” Nishitani scrutinizes him, and there’s something searching, almost curious, shining through his anger. But then he slides off the bed on wobbling legs and walks out of the room. The red thread trails after him and doesn’t dissipate.
Shishido lets him go. There’ll be time enough for more fun when Watase lies dead; until then, he ought to play nice. He’s already taken one of Watase’s things now, and he won’t be foolish enough to give Nishitani up. He must be able to take the rest, too.
Shishido looks to his future, and for the first time it seems bright.