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Chapter Text

The Omegan Prince, was perhaps the only person in Inarizaki that morning that could’ve said he ‘woke up like this’ and not be lying. Where everyone in the Port was rushing, eyes set on small goals, small victories and whether their Sunday best had a stain on it for the Saturday outing – small flaws, Prince Akaashi was pointedly not. 

The breeze was warmer, though he couldn’t feel it, the bay was calmer, though he couldn’t feel it, the – everything; everything that was, every small fact and incremental making of the day that the ordinary folk took for granted, he missed. He could see the boats in the harbour from his bedroom in the Royal Suite, and he could see the foliage, and plant growth in the park by the bay area swaying, could hear the whistling of the wind up high. But he couldn’t touch it. Couldn’t feel the breeze in his hair. Couldn’t get out from behind the glass of his display case, nor the strings of his duties and dresses. 

His corsets had been tighter and tighter of late, and he knew when the servant ladies pulled them, he bore the brunt of some of their helpless anger. As he aged, he couldn’t help put on a few extra kilos, couldn’t help the softness that was being added to his frame, his body in its prime (as the physician had said months ago at his annual check up, urging deaf ears to take to the pile of courting letters gathering dust in a forgotten corner of the palace, a duty his brother wilfully ignored). One of these days, something would fail him, and his prime would ebb away, his importance to the nation diminish, and he’d be banished to the same house as his dam, cast aside to be forgotten ( We don’t need the memories Mother, do we? ).

As he sat in his bed, hands in his lap, head turned to stare out at the impressive landscape in front of him, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that if today was to be his last (he’d thought that every day of the Journey, and should he make it through the day it would be the first thought of his tomorrow) he would be glad to die… 

…For his people? 

Who were they? Truly, he knew Inarizaki in the broad sense, but it didn’t feel real — who were his people? Phantom faces that blended in crowds, emotions expressed in foreign and simple ways, avenues he’d never explore and burdens infinitesimally small. 

Brother tell me, who are my people?

His people were his duties and his duties were his people, and if today were to be his final day — Prince Akaashi’s hands shook, and he only wrapped them tighter around each other in his lap. He had no one to ask nor answer the question. Crown Prince Kita had never suffered fools gladly, much like their Father, and his hands still remembered the rapping of the cane against bone. 

Many lessons had been ingrained in him over the years, and unlike those who protected him with bodies riddled with scars, he only bore the figurative weight of his sins, of his education – 

– Is that why?

(Somewhere North, Kita closed the stained-glass windows to the tea room, took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to the portrait on the wall, a cream coloured sheet in a pool by his feet. He stared and the cold eyes of a dead man gazed right back, judging him from beyond the grave.)

Only one instance had actually scarred Akaashi, memories written in two delicate lines hidden across the creases of his knuckles.

Akaashi had wanted to enter the Royal Library after hours, and the after hours hadn’t been the problem there. It had been the fact that his hands had been around the forbidden fruit, the intricately carved handle to the part of the library that finessed decades worth of Finance records and writing , that held History in gory details, scrolls and blood-bound books, that told stories of how to sit the Throne and Conquer Countries , in both war and women alike.

Omegas weren’t supposed to know such things. 

Omegas weren’t supposed to speak of such things, he had reasoned upon being taken to his Father, his brothers standing behind their respective mothers legs. He’d only been eight, and he didn’t understand when to hold his tongue, or his hands. 

He'd since discovered that before hours were much less frequented by guards, that the rest of his family didn’t read frequently enough to notice books missing, and that bookkeepers were much more lenient when their livelihoods were on the line. The fact that he’d had threatened them with more than just a lifted chin and cold glare spoke to the power he had, or the lack of power rather, compared to the rest of his family. 

But at least, when he admired the view now, he could appreciate more than just the colours and the jagged edge of their country meeting the sea. Instead of seeing just the beauty, he could see the war against nature, the contrast of civilization ( they’d only see his beauty, they never learned his face ). 

The knock at the door was firm. 

Akaashi made no move to answer it, thumbing over the scars on his right hand before stilling, staring out the window. The handsmaids would enter whether he liked it or not, but had always given him the courtesy of thirty seconds to right himself (he had counted many times over the years, a countdown to whatever mental minefield the day brought). 

They didn’t treat him like glass anymore, but he felt eyes on him more often than not. 

And the windows stayed locked in whatever room he entered, his food was tested for poisons, ivy was kept to the walls with no balconies and cutlery was counted. He wasn’t an idiot. With the way the country stood, walking forward with a limp in its step; one eye clouded, the other unseeing; knives protruding like vertebrae from the spine and chipped sword held loosely in its hand; it wouldn’t take much to send Inarizaki tumbling to the ground. 

From the ashes they had risen.

And to the dust they would return.  

An assassination would kill them all, the final tipping point. No matter what point the other part would be trying to prove…, an assassination would dislodge the very ground Inarizaki was walking upon. It had been like that since… then , their loss immortalised in the statue in the centre of the palace gardens, guarded by the gazebo overhead and archways of flowers that sheltered the walkways. The white flowers had only ever mocked him, life that had bloomed in lieu of someone who had never gotten a chance. 

He didn’t walk the gardens anymore, no matter how many times Kita and the chancellors said it would be good for his ‘complexion’. 

“Good morning, Your highness.” The maidservant entered the room. 

“Good morning Seijun.” Akaashi’s response was not delayed at all, despite him not turning his head away from watching the city. And his voice was level, even with the thoughts that spiralled through his mind, the darkness that threatened to obscure all the light that their country represented (it hadn’t represented that in a long time, unless they meant the light that left soldiers eyes, the light the was snuffed by buildings bruising the sky, the light that reflected off collars and cufflinks and the metal rulers that had burned his hands). 

His poker face attached itself seamlessly to his bleeding heart once more.

“Will you be having breakfast in bed today, Your Highness?” Seijun kept her head bowed, and he didn’t notice. He wasn’t looking. She’d been by his side for years, and dreaded the day he pierced her with his all-knowing gaze. There had been talk in the kitchen and servant quarters for years, about how he should’ve been a she , and how no one would be able to afford his dowry, and how he barely talked to anyone but his brother and chancellors and even then he didn’t have the same sort of presence that The Lost One did (The Lost One hadn’t spoken much, but had always commanded the room with nothing more than a word. Like his father, the butlers said, but Seijun had never had much interaction with the Late King and so couldn’t compare). 

“Dress me. I’m not hungry.” 

“Yes, My Prince, I’ll draw a bath.” She hadn’t kept her job for so long by asking questions, she hadn’t kept her job by running her mouth and interrupting and talking above her station (an omega prince was still a Prince after all). 

And she vanished from the room, but her presence lingered like a bad smell or a leash that attached itself to the collar around his neck, keeping him in place, keeping his mask from shifting its shape from anything but the Prince the country knew. His photo was in tabloids, he’d modelled for magazines and given speeches to the Mates of Outer Nobility (The MoON society kept themselves busy by organising a network of publications, from fashion to knitting to the most sought after “Moonshine Melodies”, a how-to on raising pups, and three pages past the editor’s flip-through, a blatant gossip-rag of all the hot topics). He’d swept the nation by storm (as much as he could in a war) with his “wait-for-the-one”, and again just a year ago with his signature on a petition for increased widow and widower support, driving the tabloids insane. 

He wanted more than pearls. 

But he had no choice in wearing the gems the First Queen had left, nor the fabrics that the Second Queen had preferred (thankfully of a similar complexion). When he had said Dress me to Seijun, it was in clothes that had been picked for him, ones that the Advisors and Chancellors had picked, ones in which he had no…

His breath hitched. 

… choice . 

The corset strings of the dress were twisted and tight, and with gentle hands he helped to untangle them, smoothing over the fabric. Seijun smiled gratefully but didn’t meet his eyes, and continued to dress him. Her fingers had callouses from hard labour and her eyes had crows feet, and he dreamt of the birds that flew freely past, able to look down on one the world they knew , the world they thrived in. He’d never kept birds for that exact reason, unable to break their wings when he knew the same pain.   

The elevator was filled with security, and yet none stepped on the impractical train of his dress. The lobby was void of civilians, void of everyone that could’ve been interesting, and instead he stood – the unintentional eye of the storm. And what a storm it was. 

The car had issues. Flat tire? Something more. A handmaiden hurried to his side to take him to a chaise that had been brought down in the elevator adjacent for this very reason , and he let himself be led (because if he didn’t, it’d just be another heartache, another nail in a coffin that no doubt a resentful member of staff had been building for years). He walked with purpose, and someone whispered furiously into their phone and it was – 

The car was not reinforced enough. A problem in and of itself. Another…? Another security member in an ill-pressed suit rushed from opening lobby doors and waved their hands in front of a higher ranking officer, talking fast and unintelligibly from where Akaashi sat. He did see however, the officer get red in the face, spin on his heel and point to a team of security in riot vests (unfortunately common on these ‘Prince’s Journeys’ he’d been taking for the majority of his life), “Get the police in here and have them talk to street security. They’ll be stationed in the crowds. I don’t –” 

“Got him! The Karasuno Detective’s Captain is here.” 

And the voices crescendoed and then died and Akaashi knew that soon the crowd of people would be the only things between him and the actual crowds, dressed in the outcasts of Noble fashion trends, and other garments that had undoubtedly been holed away for important days like this. A sea of faces, voices like the waves so out of reach, eyes searching for something he would never be able to provide. 

Prince Akaashi sat and watched. 

His security, his brother’s security that had been loaned to him, the palace attendants and those that would trail the car on foot, all powdered up and in their best dress as well slowly began to sort themselves out, overcoming noise with pointing and talking, negotiating with the City Council (one member absent, and he wondered why the Duke would miss such an important ceremony) about the roads and the cars and the costs… It wasn't often he was able to witness the uglier parts of these outings. But his luck, it seemed, was finally failing. 

 At least the added-on Karasuno Captain looked as uncomfortable as he felt. 

“Ten minutes to leave, correct?” 

Seijun, immobile at his side, did not start nor shift at his sudden question, used to the silence and the out of the blue words. It didn’t make him popular, or well liked, but also left people wary enough of his sharp eyes to not step out of line. He was still his father’s son, even if he had his mother’s blood. 

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Tell security to make it five.” He stood, hands clasped together in front of him, “The car will not be a problem.”

Seijun was his spokesperson and she would do as he asked. If the missive that the very Captain standing across the room from him sent was correct (and he wished it wasn’t, but the pit in the stomach spoke volumes to otherwise), it would be today that they were coming for him. It would mean civil war in an already struggling country, and then Shiratorizawa would be tearing at the weakened fabric and pulling them apart, seam by seam. The Dictator of Shiratorizawa was not someone to be trifled with, not someone to have temptation dangled in front of him like a carrot on a stick (for he would grab the carrot and the stick and beat his rider to death, all the while with the carrot dangling from his mouth, a sadistic smile climbing up his face). 

If someone wanted him dead, they would have it done. Even if he hadn’t touched his potentially poisoned breakfast, even if he rebelled in the quietest ways he could, even if he did everything he could to not let them have power over him…, he still lived in his lonesome glass tower. 

So… who would throw the stone? 

• • •

Breathe . 

That’s what he would’ve said. That’s what Suga would’ve said to each and every one of them, rubbing Hinata’s shoulders, pinching Oikawa’s cheek, gently patting Tadashi on the back. He would’ve told them to do their jobs, to show no mercy, to always, always stay ahead of the enemy. But as the crowds stretched far down the main road, as the metal dividers were pushed onto the road with the mere density of people, as the police officers and Corvids split to cover ground… it took everything in him to not fall to the floor (fall far, far behind). 

Breathe. 

Sweat trickled down his hairline. He didn’t like this. There was nothing about today that he liked. Every hair on his body was prickling, goosebumps crawled his arms, chains wrapped around his chest and fire curled over his neck, heating his ears. He could practically feel his volatile scent seeping from his scent glands, cold where it evaporated, spreading his scent into the air and even though it granted him a modicum of space, it still sent his stomach rolling. 

Head down. Eyes up. 

Crowds were dangerous, as much as they were safe. Eyes were everywhere, good keeping a watch on wicked and wicked keeping a watch on the good and everything that he could possibly see, so could their unknown ( known ) enemies. So many enemies. 

For the first time in years, for the first time since his first solo mission, it felt as if his gun sat unnaturally in its holster, as if it was unnatural against his body, and not its rightful place. Surely they could see it. Surely the little girl with red bows in her hair saw it as she walked by. Surely the father’s eyes of the family of four flicked his way and saw his guilt before ushering them on. Surely the two in long button-up coats to protect against the wind held firearms in their shadows and distrust in the light of their eyes. Surely… surely… surely… 

Surely they could all see the red on his hands, the bloodlust in his eyes. 

Breathe.  

Surely he stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowds with his shock of orange hair and face that mirrored the structures of a younger man with an innocent gaze immortalised in the photo that sat on his tombstone, beside the flowers that the keepers left. You’re supposed to be dead, you’d be dead if it wasn’t for – 

Breathe. 

His heart clawed at the cage of his ribs, and his lungs felt fit to burst into a pile of disgusting gore on the sidewalk, to explode up his oesophagus and cascade out his mouth, to join the red already stained on his skin, imprinted on his mind and his soul and etched into every memory that haunted him (he dreamt of the torture he’d inflicted on others, but he dreamt also of the lives he had saved and the children he’d stopped from every having lives like Oikawa’s and Tadashi’s and… and Natsu’s ). Would the people walking past judge by life, death or would they simply kill him with their own two imperfect hands?. Hinata just couldn’t –

Breathe.

All around him he knew there were eyes. Good ones. The Corvids were spread throughout the crowd, and as much as they had all wanted to protest this morning when Daichi had informed them of the plan – it was how it had to happen. The best way to cover ground, the best way to make sure that undoubtedly when the Eagles and Co., showed their wings, strays would be picked off as easily and swiftly as they could, nothing left to seep through the cracks. 

The detectives were stationed at the boundaries of the open road and the crowds, pacing on the concrete of the gutters, in their finest. They’d been allocated there – most of them – by palace security, but Hinata knew that most of the Nekoma Detective Unit were spread throughout the crowd as well, and Tsukishima ( Asshole , Kageyama had muttered to Hinata, disguising the head turn by glancing further behind the omega) had somehow managed to slink off to try and find the sniper, limping off in the opposite direction as Tadashi, ironically looking to accomplish the same task ( Be safe , don’t forget to guard your back ). 

And Oikawa was hidden in the same crowd he was trying to shrink from, and that split had been a hard one (harder than it had been leaving Ennoshita, Nishinoya, and Natsu behind, the former in throes of heat and the two latter not nearly comfortable enough with crowds to not bolt). They’d been a duo for so long.., it was hard not to look for his steely gaze and the smirk that seemed to manifest at a moment's notice, one he’d be able to pick out from any… crowd. 

“I’m going batshit.”  

He trusted his pack with his life. 

“We’ll finish this game later won’t we?” Oikawa’s eyes had searched his own, and the worry was there, their game of scissors, paper, rock fading as their hands relaxed. White scent patches on his neck had concealed both the bites and the gland that ached to ease the tension. Hinata’s had already been saturated…, potent ginger filling the space outside the parked van (he’d changed his patches again since the crowds had filled).  

And Hinata could smell it now. Just barely. It curled around his shoulders ( No breeze makes for a clearer cleaner shot , Tadashi whispered in his mind), patches a crutch not made for a scent he couldn’t control. His stomach clenched with the smell – Why now? Fuck if he knew – and shit was he glad he’d decided to have his breakdown next to a public bin, keeping cover in both the visual and olfactory sense. 

He trusted his pack. 

They’d accomplished so much, and they’d all accomplish so much more in the full and joyous lives they’d lead. No one would die today. They were his everything. He just didn’t like it. The separation. The solitude. No one could die today . 

Oikawa had looked just as anxious as he’d felt this morning. It… winning … He was alone. He was alone. They both knew who would emerge… as certain as the body that had been mauled in the woods, as certain as the residue fear in empty eyes and the whispers in the shadows. 

The Corvids.., they’d also been tearing at the seams. Ripping. One thread at a time, and probably had been for a while (probably since Natsu had been taken in broad daylight, since the emotions got the better of not just him but him as well)..., but the fabric that was ripping had been covering their eyes and no one had realised… 

What would happen?

“These secrets that you’re hiding are going to be discovered, just like mine were.” 

That’s why they’d run in the first place. That’s why his feet were rooted to the spot, and why he felt like his chest was caving in, and his heart was pounding and everything was caving, collapsing … a society about to crumble . He couldn’t… 

Breathe. 

Suga wasn’t here. 

“And when they do, how are you going to protect the people you love?” 

Kenma had always been the voice of reason, always been the voice of doubt in their heads, logic in the emotions he’d drowned himself in (fires for each other, burning in pires that would never touch, lighting the way for many around, dancing in storms of separate ideals, reaching for the same goal). How was he going to…? How? 

Breathe . 

Hinata knew. He knew – and Oikawa, because there had been a sense of finality in their game this morning – they both knew who would emerge this morning. The clock was ticking. The moon hung pale in the sky and watched. A crow sat on a lamppost and laughed (and they didn’t laugh, they only cried). All paths ended here (did they? Would they all end here, today?). Inevitable. Like breath in lungs, like leaves on trees, like the cold grip of his alpha’s hand around his throat, choking the life from him while he struggles – the dead man (Would he join his abuser soon in the dirt? Would the city care for his story or the weight that he’d gained and the non-omegan dress he’d be found in?). It couldn’t be helped. 

Whatever happened…

“You don’t win alone. That’s just how it is.” 

Suga… fuck …, he wanted to curl up into a ball and cry. He wanted to drop to the dirty ground by the bin that he stood beside and pretend it was the person he’d trusted, given his life to. Crow, Queen, Suga – a mix of all three personas, somewhere, sometime and some point would be here…, and as dangerous as crowds were to him, they were infinitely more so to a man who had so much to win and so much to lose (because Suga wasn’t like Hinata, and Hinata couldn’t quite explain it, but something like this would break him in a way that it wouldn’t break Hinata, because while he cared , he didn’t – maybe it had something to do with the instability within him, or the scars he’d earned and the people… the family , the child he’d lost). 

Everything was spiralling, collapsing. Their murder of birds, their pack was going to be ripped into fucking pieces, their wings clipped or torn from bodies, fragile bones crushed, flesh picked apart by the vultures and eagles and carrion birds of a blinded society. Like roadkill left to rot on hot bitumen, or electrified corpses caught in farmers fences, wings splayed and feathers burnt to a crisp in mocking imitation of sacrifice. Crushed. Caught. Collapsing. Catastrophic. 

Time ticked onwards. 

The guillotine’s blade caught the sun, and he wanted to run but his legs trembled against his will and the metaphorical iron that looped his wrists also hugged his chest and he couldn’t – 

There was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing he could do standing there paralysed, heart pounding, but feet planted and sweat continued to drip as time ticked and everything was going grey around the edges because he was missing something, a hole in his heart where something used to be, a feeling of emptiness that swallowed him whole and crept up his throat and he was missing something, they were missing something…they were missing someone…

Breathe. 

There was everything he could do to stop it. He just had to find the right person, find him . Hinata just had to find the leader of their pack, the person he’d agreed to follow to the end, and keep following even when it was all over ( No one would die today — and if they lost, then he would gladly take the fall, and Oikawa would have his back and Suga would continue to climb, because Hinata knew that they’d always be there and he’d always be there for them). Suga had run ( Are you trying to do what you did for us so long ago? ) to keep them safe. 

He didn’t want to move. But there had always been rules, they had always been told…

Two steps ahead …

And so Hinata ran. 

Breathe . 

The threat of treason was secondary when it came to the people he loved. 

• • •

His hands were sweaty. His hair was perfect and he’d made sure to push the bed-hair around until he could dampen it without fear of knotting the longer strands, and run it through with his dwindling supply of product, and nothing could stop the slight bounce of either his hair or his step… but his hands were sweaty. They were shoved in his coat pockets, one curled around the taser Ennoshita had pushed into his hands before the next wave of his heat had started (right after he’d taken the blanket that needed rescenting), but even then he could feel it in the tackiness between each finger, the heat that beat in his chest pulsing in his hands.

Oikawa leaned over the barrier, removing one hand from its coffin and placing it on the flimsy (it should’ve been stronger, but everything felt weak) barricade. The air was crisp, and the metal cold. Behind the barricade the officers they’d been housing with and then some (Other units? Lower ranks perhaps) patrolled. Walking up, walking down – stopping those that actually tried to climb the barrier to catch a glimpse of the Prince’s vehicle instead of merely leaning out like the rest of the crowds. 

Even now, though it would be another ten or so minutes until the procession even started , he could barely hear himself think over the noise and the cheering and the scuffling and the faint arguing of families and couples. 

“Hey!” Oikawa leaned over further, angling his body until both shoulders had shoved the past those by his side (they backed off at the noise and he was grateful, distantly), and his torso pressed uncomfortably into the metal of the barrier. He waved and called, “Iwa-chan!” 

Oikawa could barely be heard over the noise, but the call was to out rather than inside the crowds and pierced the small bubble of silence and seriousness that was the patrolled road. Even so, he was only just seen by the searching eyes of the man who found himself so tempted by the thrill of a fast-becoming familiar voice. To Iwaizumi, the alpha was simply staring out at a sea of people, watching everyone as they tried to catch a glimpse of something too far away, and he was only glad that he wasn’t a few more paces up the street. His eyes wouldn’t’ve snagged on Oikawa if he had been.

No one can beat his looks. If Oikawa hadn’t already been smothered by the man’s personality and the fact that he was still reeling from the date (a heat-riddled Ennoshita had fisted his shirt and dragged him into his room to scent and then talk with an eyebrow raised and a shaky fingers balancing yet another cigarette and Oikawa had spilled everything ), he would’ve found it personally offensive at how well Iwaizumi cleaned up in his uniform. 

This was payback.

Especially now that the omega had Iwa-chan’s eyes on him and he could lean over further and tilt his head and  smirk and relish in the faint beginnings of the blush that flushed over the others tanned cheeks. And Oikawa’s smirk only grew (his hands were sweaty, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably). The detectives couldn’t really interact with the crowds outside of enforcing the barriers and the law (as their jobs were to do), and fuck him , if watching Iwa struggle didn’t make the beginnings of a shit day a little better. 

“Iwa-chan! Baby!” 

He’d never seen an alpha’s entire attention snap to him faster – and it sent a shiver down his spine and a heat creeping up his neck that was entirely different to the throbbing in his heart and hands. If Iwaizumi had been a step or too closer (and he was quickly approaching, almost tasting the omega’s mirth in the air, and not wanting to know what trouble he’d get into if the alpha stayed away) Oikawa would’ve seen the way the alpha’s pupils dilated a bit, and would’ve smelt the slight change in his scent. Not in a way that meant a loss of control , just a simple  shift, in a way that someone would shift their grip on the groceries when trying not to tackle and kiss the living daylights out of someone else. 

“You couldn’t have given me a kiss before you left for work?” He couldn’t keep the grin off his face if he had tried, nor the laugh that bubbled up at the red that spread on Iwa’s. The role of the disgruntled housewife never failed to ruffle feathers, especially if they didn’t have one to begin with, “Can’t I get a kiss Mister?” 

“You – I…” 

A few steps closer, until he was just out of Oikawa’s reach (pity, but something that probably couldn’t be avoided due to his fucking work requirements). There were a few stray glances from the people on either side, and the omega felt a vague stirring of wrongness (they shouldn’t be able to see this, no one should).

“I can’t give…” Iwaizumi rubbed a hand over his face, pausing as it covered his mouth and blushed, as bad and as red as Oikawa had seen him. Neither had talked much after their outing the previous day and their feelings hadn’t been discussed and nothing had been put into words – not about each other at least. To say that…, for Oikawa to say that…, his throat was dry as he protested softly, “I can’t kiss you while I’m at work.” 

“What… protecting your big bad reputation? What if I say please?”   

The alpha cocked an eyebrow and put his hands on his hips, nearly drawing Oikawa’s eyes to the way the fabric of his uniform sat on his shoulders and the way his muscles flexed under the fabric (but he didn’t, because the alpha’s gaze was heavy and tempting). 

“You’re being a menace, Tooru, you know that.” 

“I asked nicely.”

“Hah…Didn’t use your manners, and I… –” Iwaizumi nearly couldn’t look him in the eye (but he did, because he had never seen eyes like that before, and each moment he could get he’d cherish), “– I’m not allowed to right now. Not while patrolling.” 

And they could’ve so easily fallen back into the rhythm and rhyme they had played yesterday, the back and forth banter with all bark and no bite, but… Oikawa’s hands were sweaty, and the taser was heavy in his pocket and he felt unwanted eyes on his back and his marks felt heavy and sore on his throat (the ache had been gone since Daishou’s death and now it had returned and he didn’t like what that meant). So he let his smirk drop, the metaphorical mask he wore unharmed but for a sole crack, a chip in the block on his shoulder.

“Iwa-chan,” He beckoned him closer, “Can you…—”

The alpha obliged, eyes squinting, but taking the change in tone in stride. Oikaw’s eyes now held a different gleam, and the crowd's waters were slowly shifting. If the alpha was versed in the ways of the water (if he had been like Tadashi, over a hundred paces down the main road, who lifted his gaze and drew in the scent of open ocean and approaching sharks in the middle of a landlocked crowd), he would’ve felt the emergence of predators in a pack of prey. Instead, his hairs stood on the back of his neck, and he felt the omega’s gaze trickle like cold water down his spine and he stepped forwards. 

No matter how pretty it looks, Tooru, it will always be cold. 

Cool sweat dripped down his back, and he lifted a hand from his pocket to reach out to the other (now just in reach, now just in touch, now a dream he could have in his hands, now a want and a wish he might be able to grasp) and then Iwaizumi reached out to grab his clammy hand – 

Warm calloused fingers closed around his own. 

“I –” 

Iwaizumi’s eyes searched his own. He swallowed his tongue and his fears, and hoped the words would make their way out…, somehow. 

“There’s something you should know.” Nothing but a whisper, louder than a thundering yell. It was a secret – Tsukishima would’ve demanded it, Daichi would have slotted it into his board of happenings and what-nots , someone else would’ve shaken the omega by the shoulders for keeping anything from them; but Iwaizumi stood, waiting. Patiently. He would wait. By the gods above, he would wait (especially if the omega looked as serious as he did then, with the weight of the mountains in his eyes and the hopes to conquer one too). 

And Oikawa’s heart threatened to give way, as he threatened all he knew to give away something his pack had been guarding for years ( Forgive me Suga…, I want you to live too ).

Forgive me. 

“It’s something about the Eagles. Their leader.” 

Little to nothing was known. Everyone had made sure of that over the years. He was a figurehead as much as he was the forgotten pillar, the weight-bearing wall of the underground that no one above knew was there. But that didn’t denote his influence – no matter how pretty it looks, Tooru, it will always be cold. He remembered steady hands holding a gun in his, and the body sinking in darker water, the water that all the rivers ran to, the water that lapped the docks his alpha ran. Cowards deserve a cold death. 

“Are you sure you want to tell me –” Slow. 

“We have history –” And then, fast, out of the corner of his eyes he saw… a memory. A haunting. Something that shouldn’t’ve been there, a ghost. If you don’t tie them down, they won’t stay dead, remember that, won’t you? History. Oikawa felt something shrivel inside him, a cold dredge of dread clamped tight (he could tell his scent was spiralling, he could tell in the way Iwaizumi’s grip suddenly tightened, but he couldn’t focus on that not when –), and his neck was alight with burning flame. He whipped around and pulled his hand from the alpha’s grip. 

“What –” Alarm in the other’s voice. 

Too slow. There was the barricade and there were boundaries and there was years of history buffeting the wings of the eagle that circled its territory.

“What did you see?” He could tell behind him, the alpha most likely had his hand on his gun, or on his radio, or on his taser. He could tell that he was ready to run after him, to follow him (it felt like he had Ennoshita or Hinata or Suga by his back, but this was different, alighted a different feeling within him that he didn’t have time to analyse). He could tell as well, by the way that his voice felt smaller… that Iwaizumi was already far, far behind (there was nothing that could bring the alpha closer, nothing unless it was another mark on his neck that pulled his body in ways no alpha could ever understand). Everything spun around him. 

There would be no mistaking the alpha that smirk or those eyes had been attached to. 

His hand went back into his pocket (and he mourned the warmth of Iwaizumi’s hand), to grip the lukewarm gun again (this demanded too much for the taser — his pockets were deep, his hands were sweaty). His back was to the one who had cared for him, and his eyes searched for the one who had moulded him. 

Steady Tooru. Steady. He could feel the perspiration trickle down his back under the layers that held the wind chill from him, that kept his core hot and heart pounding. There was heat in his hands as well, but he held the gun steady in his pocket, finger loose on the trigger but grip tight. 

Ushijima’s ghost of a smirk stuck in his mind and the memories that had been kept at bay for years, for so, so long , came tumbling out, like the water that fell from the heights of mountain snow in the hot spring storms, a staggered rush of movement, just as his legs did on uneven pavement as he turned to give chase. The crowds were their own sticks and stones that battled the currents, but he pushed back with every force in his body, using his elbows and shoulders to man past the stares ( Where’s his alpha? What happened – ). The last of the scent patches they had, they’d given to Hinata, and the collar of his coat was too low to hide the marks that chained him to the man he searched for.  

They burned – the crowds stares, his eyes, his ears and – go,  where did he go, where the fuck… never again would another fucking alpha lay claim to his throat, never again would he lose like that (the view of someone he hadn’t seen in such a long time had his knees weak and he cursed the biology, and hated the gods above), never again. Not to Wakatoshi. Not to anyone else. 

“Don’t you see omega?” He remembered the large calloused hands that had gripped his hips, warm in a way he had once longed for, warm in a way he no longer cared for. They held him in place as the blood had trickled down his neck, paintings of blood rain running along the planes of his naked body. The bite would continue to ooze without the healing properties of the alpha’s saliva thickening and clotting the blood, helping to close the wound. The deep voice had his skin prickling, “You’ve run from your Noble roots, your towers, makeup, pretty dresses and high-heel shoes. Your castles have been destroyed by the very ones that swore to keep you safe. This is reality.”

And though his mind had been foggy, it had cleared momentarily to join the clouds that bore down on the sky, blanketing the earth in its misery, framing the grayscale landscape that had sprawled out in front of the industrial tower that belonged, to the warm-handed alpha that had just mated him. His roots weren’t Noble, but that hadn’t been part of the half-truth told to keep them safe. The heat that his body had been preparing for had required safety and the omegas by his side required medical attention and – finally , the heat that had laid waste to his insides, trickled from his abdomen to shield his face, burning with shame at his action (he’d always remember everything ). 

“Not everything is so black and white, pretty one.” At last, he was given the reprieve of a long rough tongue over his neck and he shivered as it covered the previous two marks that had long since scarred (mistakes that could never be taken back, blessings he’d never ask for again), “How amazing you could keep such innocence with such scars. You think you could come here, seeking refuge, stinking of heat, making demands from me…?”

The chuckle had sent ice through his veins, and a heat stirring in him that could have only been attested to the new mark on his neck (new hormones, new chemicals, another pull in the river of urges he experienced every day, like currents hiding beneath the water’s still surface). 

Ushijima’s breath was hot on his neck as he murmured, continuing to lick and kiss the wound between words, holding the omega’s body close to him, knot still too big to comfortably dislodge. Oikawa’s body would never forget the feelings, the ghostly sensation and the warmth that went from foreign to familiar in a matter of milliseconds. 

“You will not find refuge in me.”  

We had never wanted to. 

“You will not find safety in me.” 

We never expected safety.

“But you will join me anyway.” The words in his ears had sent shivers of fear down his spine, the cool tones ricocheting off the bedroom walls around them. Oikawa couldn’t even look the alpha in the eye, not when Ushijima had him sitting on his lap, facing the city that the latter wanted to rule, “Because you omegas, despite your obvious weakness, still continue to seek strength. There is no rulebook, there are no rules – and the laws mean nothing to those who have power over the ones who keep them. I have said I would protect you, but you’ve got to shatter your illusions, and shed your morals.” 

Oikawa arched into the alpha’s touch, and heat blossomed again, a final wave, a final hurrah.

“There’s no space for the weak, omega. Not in the grey, cruel world.”

His words were fundamentally wrong. He knew that – based on the lies that they’d fed the alphas who had found them, of the three Noble omegas cast out, of the rose-tinted glasses that had smashed under the heel of alphas they thought had loved them. But even though Oikawa had always known of the fallacy, those words…, they stuck as thoughts he’d never shake. Poisonous hope. Something that caustic and corrosive, that he shouldn't have found solace in, but dealt damage to the walls he’d erected, the ones that stopped the hope from attacking his heart. 

Floors below them, Hinata had been struggling to draw breath, stuck on a ventilator, unable to lift so much as a hand while his body healed and his omega raged. And floors below that, Suga had been struggling to remain standing, tossed around by men twice his size, used as a sparring dummy for alphas that had no respect for the lithe omega with no meat on his bones, and no practical defence training on his side. 

What were the strong but ones that were once weak? 

His body had ached as the alpha shallowly thrusted into him, grinding his knot into his worn hole further, keeping him facing the view while mapping the omegas neck even more. His body had ached from the memories of phantom hands and phantom voices. Ached from the years of memories of a view that wasn’t filled with a grey bustling mass and was instead filled with a quiet, steady solitude and isolation, from the memories that haunted him at every turn but had strengthened him to the man he was today. 

Shatter your illusions . 

Reckoning. 

Oikawa stood stock still in the crowd, eyes searching for the pair of dark eyes that had slid over him with a spark of recognition, and a quiet assurance in their gaze. It filled his chest with something lowly and rotten. 

Revenge. 

Shed your morals. 

The mark on his neck felt like an iron burning onto his skin, and he knew it wasn’t the alpha calling him, he knew it was only centred in his burning face, and his burning awareness of its presence and the grip it had held over him for so long. It had been so long since he’d last seen his third mate’s face, and his heart ached for something he’d never give in to. 

Tooru stood there, with another alphas eyes on his back, facing the seas of people that waited for a Prince (someone who would change nothing for them, someone who would look but never see), and he thought of the forest he had once lived in. He thought of the sky broken up by the carpet of layered canopies, the pillars of the trees that had held him straight, nurtured him and grown him, and the moss that lined the bubbling brooks he’d walked, feet on the fallen drapes the world had discarded. It had been everything, in those moments of silence, his own scent that reflected that quiet peace, the all-encompassing ancientness which he’d longed so many times to fall for , of a system so much larger than himself. It was everything, and he was just another seed floating down the river of life to one day lay root somewhere… the inevitability of time had always been his greatest comfort and his greatest fear. 

He thought of his childhood, thought of the forest he saw every time he closed his eyes, and then he thought of the kind eyes and warm hands that had helped him through the first part of his last heat, that had helped him to eat when his throat didn’t want to work for him, that held so much understanding, so much empathy .

Ushijima was right, in the many things he ruled, he reigned over. The alpha had a firm hand and firmer grip on the reality they lived in, but he was wrong. 

He was so, so wrong. 

My world has always been green.

And much like the shifting winds, the changing tides and crisp spring air, Oikawa knew in his heart of hearts that if he didn’t take this chance, he would never be able to again. Time would continue (his heart attested to that, continuing to march, sweat continuing to build), and the ugly feelings would fade. 

Gold and silver have reunited . Yahaba’s words echoed in his mind. 

He scanned the crowds one last time, desperately searching for another glimpse of the alpha. Looking for anything slightly recognisable. Hair, face, a jawline he’d traced many times in the countless heats he’d spent with the man in the few years they’d worked together, before the Corvids learnt to fly. Even another cold glance from the corner of the man’s eyes would’ve been – 

Gold .

Ushijima’s fangs had always been a warning. And they glinted in the sun and in his peripherals he caught a glimpse of an upturned lip and an unsheathed fang and the patterns shone in the sun’s weak rays and – 

“Oikawa!” Iwaizumi yelled behind him. 

But he’d already broken into a run once more, letting the crowds swallow him as he fell to the currents that swept him downstream, following the tangible memory and scent that lingered in the air. It was time for Ushijima to meet his reckoning, and finally get put in his place . His grip on his gun tightened. No. Their past could never resurface.  

• • • 

“Are you ready?” 

“No.” 

“You don’t have to do it, if you’re not ready.” The papers rustled, “But know that everyone’s waiting for you. You’ve been gone for a long time.” 

“It’s so easy to lose track of time. Where am I signing?” 

The click of the pen uncapping echoed in the mostly empty room, and scratching of the nib of the feather interrupted the silence that it had left. The messily scrawled signature took up most of the dark line, and ink smudged a few words above it. He hadn’t had to practise his writing in many years. But once the ink was dry he still rolled the scroll with deft hands and poured the wax that had long gone out of use elsewhere and stamped it firmly with the seal of his family (a seal he would soon design himself). The owl beside him ruffled its feathers but didn’t move as he secured the official document in the metal message carrying cylinder.

“Congratulations on the completion of your pilgrimage, Chief Koutarou Bokuto. The Fukurodani Embassy welcomes your return. May the shifting winds bless your travels and the new season bear peaceful harvests. We look forward to seeing what new fruits your reign will bring.” 

• • • 

The darkness was not all-encompassing as it should’ve been. The shadows were not as forgiving as they could’ve been. Yet the men in suits still hid effectively, in the alcove of the doorway and the hallway being, readying themselves for the moments ahead. It wouldn’t be much longer, the watches hands gleamed on their wrists. Time ticked on. 

Suga and Ushijima stood at the forefront, and behind them all, the only other two of that group that knew the depths of twisted spiralling plans – Semi Eita and Ohira Reon, adjusted their cufflinks and lingered. Their roles would only become crucial in the very end stages of the morning, and so would hide until they were needed. As the others emerged into the light, looking like the final hurrah of meeting before executives and businessmen dispersed back into the aether, the two alphas hung back, waiting…

(The hands on the clock ticked onwards). 

As the resident medic, Ohira needed to be kept relatively out of harm's way, and as someone who had applied themselves more in the act of interrogation and torture than the act of the hunt (it was too primitive to pride oneself only in the primal acts, to degrade oneself to a dog-like state when you could easily be bringing others to their knees with well placed words and silver tongue), Semi was kept as a guardsman. Organised by Soekawa and approved by Ushijima with an impassive nod, but a deep well of knowledge that shone from the alpha’s eyes. 

They lingered, and Semi spun the keys around his fingers.

“Have you said your goodbyes, Ohira?” He didn’t turn to look at the other, continuing to stare out onto the street, watching the crowds grow thicker as the rest of them disappeared. He felt his lip curl in disgust at the sights. The key ring pulled over his knuckle and he let the keys fall back down into his palm before starting again. 

“This morning. Before she left. You?” The wedding band hung around Reon’s neck, threaded through by a silver chain, one that also held another pendant, some sort of charm, that hung too low past his collar for anyone to see. He already missed the weight of it on his hand (he didn’t want to think of the chasm that would follow). 

“No.” 

Reon turned his head, just to catch Semi’s eyes and then look away, and he clasped a hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing briefly, “They’ll understand.” 

“No. They can’t. They need to hate me. I’ve been part of too many dispatches for the cops to not put two and two together. It’s not a matter of ‘if’ for me Ohira. They need to stay safe.” He spun the keys and they caught the light and the shadows retreated further. Semi sighed, and wondered how their Queen had done it, how their Queen had so effectively pulled off a stunt like scamming their Board of Executives, had stayed blank faced when cussing out the people he was so fiercely protecting. Did the taste of betrayal linger on his tongue? Did the task – did he ever feel the ill-fit of the mask, or even recognise the lies on his tongue?? Even with this Semi couldn’t help claw down the panic in his throat; as if he were a clown juggling too many glass balls, trying to sprint in too-big shoes, running after a crowd he didn’t agree with (and Queen had been doing it for how many years? ), “I don’t know how he does it…” 

“Who?” 

“ Queen… , he’s…” Grappled for the words, “You were there, weren’t you? – For that meeting. Washijo was telling me about it afterwards. How does he do it? It’s so…” 

“There’s a world in his mind that he sees, I don’t think anyone could truly know what he’s looking at. There’s calculation there, a vision of something more… It’s something I haven’t seen since we did that deal with that Miya twin, about the baby-medic downtown.” 

It’s so fucked up . 

Semi huffed a laugh and spun the keys once more, his other hand going to the inside of his coat to adjust the gun in its holster. He took the first step out of the alcove, and through the doorway of the commercial building, Ohira followed him. The volume rose in a matter of milliseconds, families and couples and singles all clamouring and elbowing and trying to secure a place at the front of the barricades where they would best see the blood that would spatter the ground soon enough, the death that would finally shatter the shit-forsaken country (he’d rather see no other place burn, if it had to be anywhere, Inarizaki could fall first and Semi would twist the noose around its neck, and the royals could rot in the fiery pits of Niflheim). 

“Ah that was some shit that went down. When the drugs fell through? Miya’s still searching, I hear.”

“Sakusa would put one in anyone who tries to take away his clinic, all the rats know not to blab about that place. Though..,” Ohira paused, considering the way they would barter and exchange, and the way that that wouldn’t happen anymore, and his wedding band was an anchor around his neck as much as it was burning a hole in his heart ( chasm ). They slid down a side street, where the latecomers helped thicken the crowds, and obscure the views. The roads opened up again only a block over, and it wouldn’t take long through the alleys to get there (they were a labyrinth that most officials would never stoop to learn). The smell of fish and ocean was heavy in the air, a wind beginning to cry through the taller towers of the inner city, “The streets won’t be as nice to him anymore. Not with the Corvid’s disappearing, and us…” 

(He wouldn’t say jumping ship, because walls had ears and people too, and nothing was sacred, nothing stayed secret, nothing was truly forever lost.) 

“Yeah.” Semi nodded once, abruptly, eyes jumping from shadow to shadow, and his lips pulled into a shadow of a sardonic smile, “It won’t be the pretty city it once was.” 

“Never was fucking pretty. I make more in a week than I would in a year at any above ground shit. It’s bullshit, the system broke as soon as I couldn’t afford to feed my family without selling drugs on the side.”

“Ah, so corrupt of you.”

“You were the one that was corrupted first.” The car beeped, as Semi unlocked it, and Ohira leant against the hood, flicking a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it (hypocritical, but what healthcare worker didn’t find themselves loved and comforted by the hypocrisy after a long day at work?). His gaze slid towards the other, eyes sharper than what they had been moments before, “What did it for you when they made their recruiting rounds? What enticed you to join? Eagle?” 

He was a dummy under a doctor’s blade, a victim to the scalpel. Semi flicked the keys, and checked his phone. Time ticked on. Their sniper would be in place. The procession would be starting. Somewhere in that crowd a silver halo would stand out among the rest, so different from the tresses it used to be, hands scarred and bloodied from the secrets they kept, ready to carve out tongues that threatened ruin. 

“No, I would’ve joined when I was younger if it had been Eagle. The first time I thought about anything other than working for feed, was when Crow joined the rounds. He had… has the same touch of madness.” Semi grinned, stoicism melting away into a feral baring of teeth, “Why do you think we’re running because he told us to?

• • • 

Everyone had their places. Every place had their thing. His patches were discreet on his neck, his pistol was in its holster strapped to his side, under his formal blazer. Everything was in place. Including Ushijima. Including Semi. Including Reon. Including Washijo – who despite one eye could shoot a pigeon blind mid-flight for shits and vindictive giggles that had him thankful every waking second that Hinata wasn’t in that man’s proximity. The getaway was ready. The sniper was informed. Ushijima knew his role. As did he. 

Suga didn’t match the other men in their black suits and formal get-up. They would stand out more than blend in, but they hadn’t lived on daylight streets in a while, they didn’t understand . His own dress pants were a deep grey paired with a sweater vest and tweed blazer, and while he most likely looked a little too of academia to blend with the regular, he knew it was less conspicuous than the flapping black suits of his contemporaries, exposing guns on hips and curled lips at the ones they scammed. Continuously. 

His stomach curdled with nausea and dread. Ropes around his heart squeezed, and the iron on his lung only weighed him down. 

Everything – everything – rested on today. 

( Pray for me, my Brothers ). 

The omega licked his dry lips and followed Ushijima at a pace. Softly. Footfalls, soft “excuse-me…, yes, pardon me”, and he kept his eyes out for any of his pack (he saw Tadashi from afar, saw him striding towards the building he had picked out weeks ago, and his soul sung with pride, as vines strangled his throat – he couldn’t –). 

Ushijima broke the crowd's flow.

Suga stood to the side of a street vendor capitalising, and watched. 

The alpha stopped, turned and double-backed, smirk tugging at his lips, a golden fang glistening. The line to the donut vendor grumbled their dissent as Ushijima pushed through, and Suga slipped through a gap, keeping to the wall. Watching. Someone else pushed past, shoulder checked him roughly. The scent stuck, and his stomach dropped and the gears in his watch stopped time for a second as he watched Oikawa push past just as Eagle did. And as much as he wanted to… Suga couldn’t get involved. 

There was someone he had to stall. Someone who could expose the entire operation – and it wouldn’t be one of his oldest and closest friends (Oikawa’s hand grabbed the elbow of Ushijima’s coat and pulled harsh), nor would it be the firecracker of red that would be sniffing the crowd for him despite having no sense of smell, and a scent that pervaded all areas before him. He knew Ennoshita would be in heat (he had checked his calendar). He knew Natsu didn’t do well with crowds (he had held her hands to her ears in the middle of supermarkets when someone got too close, she could only go with Shoyou there, sticking by his side). He knew Nishinoya would stay behind (he would watch over both, because he didn’t have anything invested in this operation). There was only Tadashi, with a brain that so oft hid behind his emotions, with knowledge that he armed himself with, against his trauma; with a quiet tenacity and loud stubbornness – Own your past, else it’ll own you. It would go to shit if – 

Suga couldn’t get involved, but he could – he broke his silence and his footsteps grew louder, his heartbeat fastened, his dry lips cracked and he tasted blood on his tongue. 

And Hinata saw silver through the crowds and followed, because he would always follow. 

And Iwaizumi saw Oikawa pull on the arm of a massive alpha and stick a taser into the man’s side as the alpha grinned down at the omega in a way that spoke only of winning and he followed, because if he didn’t, who would? Why would he wait? ( Hypocrite ).

Daichi heard commotion somewhere beyond the barrier to the street and called someone over to open the barrier so he could get through to investigate as a car rounded a corner to the South, and the trumpets blew as the procession began, and the crowds didn’t quiet, but grew in tempestuous applause. And the person that was yelling was holding their side, and blood seeped through their fingers and someone screamed. Someone screamed and it was barely heard over the yells for the Prince, over the shouts, over the laughter that grated and snapped like bone in a meat grinder, and the noise of the medics attending was lost in the seas of hundreds, like blood diluting in the water. 

And away from the growing commotion, Oikawa’s hands shook as he watched Ushijima smirk down at him and said in a soft rumble, “Fancy seeing you here, omega. Did you escape another gilded cage?”

And Tadashi disappeared behind the doors of the first-class hotel, and Suga watched him go, and his heart stopped because just as he did, just as he felt his hopes fall through his fingers, his heart in his hands breaking into a million fractured pieces, he saw someone else walk through the doors. A balm, a soft cushion – a gnarled and angry face as Washijo stumbled out, cursing and spitting onto the sidewalk. 

(Hinata watched, and he followed, because his feet were free, and he wanted to take that other man’s eye and he wanted to – he wanted to – run ). 

And just as the balm was applied another bandage was ripped, the realisation washing over him like an ice cold shower. His scent began to coil around him, a turgid bubble about to pop, “Washijo? Why – you’re meant to be.” 

Suga stopped, and grabbed the man by the shoulders, ignoring the glare that he sent him, ignoring the filthy looks he was getting from other patrons that had been shoved when he pushed the other man back and then pulled him closer. He could feel his scent souring behind his scent patches, he could feel his heart seeping from every pore, as sweat slicked his back (and the birds took flight, screeching as the noise crescendoed, ever-louder). 

Everyone had their places .

“Why are you here?” He hissed, too quick, too sharp. And before the other alpha could answer, could bristle in indignation and puff his chest, “Who’s up there?” 

“ Brat, get your hands –” 

“Washijo, I couldn’t give a shit. Who the fuck –” His fingers dug into the man’s shoulders, as his voice drew out into a thinner whisper (if his voice rose, than everything would come tumbling out, until his insides were outside, and the world would burn down around him). Washijo stared at him with one beady eye and Suga refused to be the one to look away first. There was no way in hell he’d let this day be ruined. 

(They were so close to being safe. So close to burning the final strings that tied them to a less than holy path. So close to ridding the country of those that remembered the growing pains the Corvids went through. So close.)

“Soekawa.” Washijo grunted, “Got a fucking chip on his shoulder an’ something t’prove. Now –”

“ Him ?”

“ – le’go of –”

“You let Jin? I have one request, one last request and –” 

“ – brat , I said –”

“You’re senile, you’ve absolutely lost it old man. Insane. Absolutely –”

The older alpha gripped his wrist, where his fingers sunk their claws in and shoved him off. And Suga took a staggering step back before regaining feeling in his legs and in his arms and everything was numb for a second, as he grabbed Washijo’s arm, pulled him in and before the other could even react had his fangs pressed against the curve of the man’s ear and a knife to his side, “You don’t deserve this mercy.”

Three steps ahead, to make up for the biological step behind ( Did it even fucking matter anymore? Time was, time was… fuck, fuck, fuck ). 

And Hinata ran . He followed. He saw Suga’s disappearing silhouette freeze, and the crowd shifted and he elbowed his way through a dense party of six into a hollow clearing. The air was punched out of his lungs as the crowd closed on his exit once more. Someone screamed. The one-eyed man whose coat Suga had been fisting was clutching a blood soaked white shirt. Someone tried to approach. Washijo growled lowly, pupils dilating. And the omega could only plant his feet in response (he wanted to run, but he wanted to fight, and he had meant to take the man’s other eye on the day they left) and return the growl. 

And Suga only spared a glance behind him, at the chaos of two men openly brawling ( “You’re just like your father, you know that right?”) , before rushing onwards. He could enter the building, he also could… not. Fuck . Time was – fuck. They were waiting on his – time was…. Minutes. They had minutes. Cover. Fucking cover. It was instant, but it felt like eternity in the moment it took him to draw his gun. On the steps he stood, a head above an inconsistent ocean of Saturday bests’, and fired.  

Time ticked on, and his watch was hot on his wrist. 

Everything went to shit . 

He could hear the grains of sand in the glass, scratching the vision he’d had for the day. He could distantly hear the crowd yelling as more gunshots rang out. He could see the pushing and pulling and pulsing of the crowd as heartbeats stilled and they tried to protect their own. He could feel himself slipping his gun away and he could feel the gears in his brain moving and he could feel his feet on the pavement and the elbows and shoulders that came from all sides. And he could smell everything . Every worry, every fear, everyone everywhere… and an almighty wave of ginger that seeped through each hurried inhale.

Hinata was approaching, so he started to run. 

And Ushijima’s men were surrounding him in the crowd, and their eyes were everywhere and they were firing off because if people were focusing on what was happening behind the barricade’s then they’d never see the shot that would be fired from the building that – (Tadashi would be approaching them, but if it was Jin, then the omega would be too late and Jin would have already –) .  

And Ushijima himself was standing triumphantly, a bruise blossoming on his cheek, but a smug grin that split his face as he stared down at a fallen Oikawa. Too far to hear what they were saying, close enough to see the fear and the shame in Tooru’s eyes, close enough to see the fury that overcame it all. Mouths moving, the alpha retreating and then a gun in the hand of the omega and Suga turned his back as Oikawa won a battle he’d been fighting for years (the omega won nothing but the satisfaction of inconveniencing the other, a bullet buried in the alpha’s side and laughed at the snarl of pain, “Fuck you Wakatoshi, get absolutely fucked.”). 

And Iwaizumi watched, before springing into action, and he caught a glance of silver in the crowd before tending to the omega battered and bruised in front of him. 

And Hinata was watching, scouring the crowds as he ran, feeling his heartbeat pulse in stomach, too little and too late .   

And the elevators dinged loudly as they reached the desired floor and the smell of smoked fish and honey spilled out into the empty hall. Tadashi gripped his handgun and adjusted the straps of the sniper case that lay flat on his back. There was no one there to encourage him, there was no one there to back up his hunch, or keep him safe ( and he was back, on the boats, with no one else there to keep him safe, but he owned his past, and would find a way ). 

And the procession continued unencumbered by the rioting crowds. Akaashi sat primly, properly in the back seat of a car with too many windows, waving to those that cared enough to stay, desperate enough to put stock in a wish, in a hope that would never be fulfilled. 

And… and…and… 

One step forward ( burn the ropes ). Heart thundering in his ears ( burn those bridges ). Another step ( burn the house down) . Freedom… that’s all they wanted. That’s all he wanted. To not lose himself in the shackles of society, to not bend to the whims of alphas that didn’t give two shits what they were doing to the country, as long as the borders were protected. Honeysuckle filled his nostrils, the scent patches on his neck saturated ( destroy all evidence ). Bitter and angry and so, so, potent (clear a path for us to fly, Suga, we’ll follow you .., no matter what ). Another step forward. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours but they all compressed into a heartbeat, a pause, a drunken passing of time, a flap of a butterfly’s wings ( Nothing’s going to plan, Suga, are you going to run again?) . He couldn’t feel his fingers, but he could feel the cracks in the pavement he walked over. One more step. One more step.

The sniper couldn’t be stopped. 

( Are you going to run again? Do what your father did?) 

He stuttered to a stop (Hinata followed, muscling through a closing crowd, and he watched with wide eyes, watching as a limping Oikawa approached from his other side). He could smell it all, smell them all approaching. Too late. It was too late. There wasn’t enough time.  

Never enough time. 

Too late and no escaping it.  

The procession was crawling forwards. His watch hand’s ticked loudly, his heartbeat at tripletime. Less than – time it perfectly ( You have to be perfect, Koushi, they won’t take anything less than perfect. You are their hope, you are their future) . Get it. Time it. Do it. Don’t be afraid. His body was beginning to tingle, goosebumps spreading like wildfire, contrasting the numbness in his veins.

You chose this path . Time to walk it . 

And everything shattered. The floating feeling that had encompassed Suga, the feeling of weightlessness that had enveloped his body exploded as his feet shifted forwards and he stumbled into a broken run, forwards. Going forwards when there was no forward to go. Away from the crowds, away from Hinata (tears filled the omega’s eyes), away from Oikawa (the horror had set in, and the pain as well). There was a glint of a blade as one of Ushijima’s men reached out to stop him and he pulled out of his way, too fast, too slow, ripping fabric and he couldn’t feel where it landed, but could feel the hot flow of blood down his right arm (he didn’t care, nothing mattered, nothing except this). Shaky hands tightened their grip and he stumbled over the barrier, grace gone in his haste. The car lights reflected off his hair, breaking illusions and reflections into a million shards of light as the silver tones in his hair shone . No thoughts, his body moved. 

Guard your back, watch your sides and always, always keep the goal in front. 

He knew where the Prince would be sitting. He knew where the sniper was. He knew Ushijima was slipping away. He knew Daichi was running towards him, recognition on his face. He knew Hinata was still trying to get through the bulk of the crowd, too close but still too far. He knew the sun was smiling down at him, and the breeze felt nice on his face. Even the highest flying birds would have to land eventually, right? 

And he ran. Not in front, but to the side. 

Like a dream, he watched himself fall. For a split second his soul was snapped from his body as the impact rippled through him. Everything slowed and he watched his skin put up a futile fight before bursting, watched his body twist in the air, watched the spray of blood like he’d watched so many times in so many others. The bullet went straight through and shattered the glass behind him but no further than that. No… no..

The pain called him back welcoming him as an old friend. 

One he didn’t think he’d meet this soon. One he hoped to never come across again

Warm hands cupped his fallen (when did he hit the ground?) body, and the throbbing in his shoulder was joined by a symphony of other sharp shooting pains, other aches. Callused fingers pressed into his wound, covering it with the stiff material of a uniform not meant to be anywhere near him (dangerous, that blue is dangerous) and behind the stench of bloody copper he could smell a bitter scent of coffee. Fuck. 

“Le’ go o’ me Dai –” He couldn’t help but slur, trying to weakly push away the two hands that crowded him with his painfilled but working arm (he couldn’t feel his left arm and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to or not). Blood coated every surface. His fingers were slick with red and he couldn’t help but laugh, laugh at the way the stain would never come out, laugh at the way he decided to protect his secrets. Everyone had their places, and his place was apparently right there, bleeding out on the ground, glass and blood surrounding him. 

(Silver). 

(A glass cage, shattered). 

( “I’ll protect you Keiji, leave it to me.” )

( “What happened?” His hands folded in his lap as proper, clasped tightly to keep himself reaching out. “Nothing of note, Keiji, don’t fret.” )

( “It’s suffocating.” )

( I can’t breathe. There are days when my chest fills with the weight I hold on my back and I can’t draw breath. I’m not who I want to be. And I don’t think I’ll ever be. Sorry, Keiji. I know you’ll be the one to find this. I know you won’t show anyone. There are so many words I want to write, but I don’t have time. I’m sorry. I can’t breathe anymore.) 

( “We take your burdens so that you may find peace. Your memory is mine. I’ll make you proud, I promise.” ) 

And in front of him there was silver, in shades he sought from every jeweller but could never get close to, and a wall of glass that had lay around them in millions of pieces and the shell of a bullet sitting harmless on the floor of the car. The Omegan Prince’s hands shook, and he did what his training preached and clasped them together in his lap. A lap full of glass and hands that were now littered in small cuts, and small mercies for the attempt on his life that had come into fruition in a way that he never expected. 

His heartbeat echoed in his cage, but a door had been opened for him, by the one who had jumped to save him and that didn’t matter (it did but he didn’t care, not in the moment, not when he still couldn’t believe what he had just seen) because he had caught a glimpse of a face he thought he’d never see again. Akaashi couldn’t help the word that left his lips, the name he thought he’d never say again. 

“Koushi?” 

The word broke through the blood roaring in Suga’s ears, and the cry of crows far, far away. He saw the murder circling him, high above the clouds, saw them dipping and diving, buffeted by the wind and enjoying the crisp spring air. Darkness creeped over the edges of his vision, creating a vignette of long gone days. Just him and his Corvids. When the world was simpler, and they could lose themselves in finding their meaning. Yet, the sound of his name wasn’t quite right, and older days swam to the surface of his mind, breaching the dark murky waters. 

Suddenly all he could smell was the soft fragrance of frangipani, and the sweet undertones of honeysuckle. 

“Koushi? Is that you?”

The pull was too strong. The memories were too painful. The water was too tempting. The time that hadn’t been on his side for the entire morning, held his hand and coaxed him to close his burning eyes. His bullet wound throbbed and both stab wounds – the one that had grazed his arm and the silent stab wound in his side he’d endured from Washijo (the fact he hadn’t realised until the adrenaline was draining from him was telling), ached in a tantalising, morbid melody. 

“KOUSHI!”

And everything after fell silent, as he took the hand of time, and slipped into the pitch black waters of oblivion (his body couldn’t handle it, the scents that surrounded him were overwhelming, and as Suga fell unconscious, his body fell further into the drop).  

( He had wanted to burn the strings, burn the ropes and burn the bridges, forgetting he was at the centre of it all ).  

So much had been lost, and there was so much left to find. But everything would have to fall in order to uncover it all. Daichi cradled the omega’s cold, bleeding body and stared up into the eyes of the Omegan Prince and wondered just how much he’d missed.