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Soma had never hesitated to protect his secret once in over a decade. The trail of bodies in his wake was proof of that. When Yagami and Kaito fumbled their way too close to the truth, he gave the order.
"Akutsu has betrayed us. Eliminate him."
He gave his men police uniforms and standard issue guns and sent them on their way. He called Bando to update him on the situation with an even tone in his voice. It was simple. He moved mechanically, spoke mechanically, was programmed just for this. It should have been effortless. Instead, Soma’s throat was tight. He turned off the audio feed from the bugs playing in his earpiece. He didn’t need to hear what happened next. It was a foregone conclusion.
After the shooting, the rank and file police swarmed around the club; he had no way of making an appearance. He was only told by his men that Akutsu was dead. That should have been enough. Instead, he lay awake in his bed, unable to silence his mind like he had earlier. Did they shoot him in the head? Was his bleached hair caked with blood and brain matter? Was it quick? Was it slow? Did he bleed out? Did he suffocate, choking on his own blood? Akutsu's body morphed in his mind's eye, unable to settle on any one mangled, gored form. The only consistency amidst the shifting blood and bullet holes was his glassy eyes, void of spirit, staring through him and into him and past the lies and masks, and they dared to ask him why. Soma glared back, scoldingly. The corpse complied, and now its eyes asked nothing. Soma did not sleep that night.
The week that followed was a whirlwind–hunting down the last of Kuwana’s students, the ship ambush and bombing, the negotiations for Kawai’s body–and was one of the most exhausting in Soma’s career. He knew his men were starting to notice the darkening circles under his eyes, judging from the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it darting gazes when they spoke to him, though no one dared to comment lest they be made an example. Akutsu’s dramatic execution had set the entire organization on edge–but RK was the least of Soma’s problems. He’d barely slept for days. He had never been one to sleep much, but it was entirely by choice; if he chose to sleep, he slept, and if he chose not to, he did not. He no longer had any say in the matter. He’d been lucky enough to get three hours straight one night–the rest, barely one. Every night, he tossed and turned in bed, contorting his body to find some relief, but it was pointless, because the problem wasn’t coming from his positioning: it was Akutsu’s corpse staring back at him every time he closed his eyes.
Since the night he died, it hadn’t moved an inch, and now it rotted and festered, choking him in his own thoughts with the stench. Its eyes were breaking down in the sockets, into a rancid coagulated jelly that oozed in tracks down its face. The gaping holes were almost worse than the accusing glassy eyes; they were deep, deep enough to consume him. It was grotesque, it was nauseating, and it was inescapable. He needed to do something about his malfunctioning mind or he was never going to sleep again.
In his office above the RK headquarters, Soma fidgeted with a ballpoint pen at his desk, clicking its end over and over as he tried to think of a better distraction. He licked his lips, dry from the winter air. Then, he paused, and put the pen down. He swiveled in his high-backed chair and got up to open the cabinet behind his desk. Inside was one square wine bottle about a quarter full. Soma’s lips pursed for a moment, before he took the bottle by its neck. In the cabinet next to it, there was a set of wine glasses. He took one in his other hand, shut the doors, and then sat again at his desk. He filled the glass with the crimson wine, and moved to set the bottle aside, but froze before it touched the desk. Hesitatingly, he brought it back to read the label. “Sangre”, in gold cursive lettering on black. He breathed out slowly through his nose, put the bottle down, and took up the glass to smell. He swished the liquid clockwise, inhaling the aroma. Dark, earthy, metallic, even. He drank. It flooded his mouth and palate, rich and full, but it was much more bitter than he remembered. He closed his eyes, took another drink, and yet another, until his face was warm and the glass was empty. He leaned back in his chair, sighing and tasting the wine yet again on his breath.
Now, in the dark of his mind, Akutsu was no longer a rotting corpse, but living and breathing, holding a frothy glass, all amber, raising it towards him. He was younger, in the days before he started bleaching his hair. His cheeks flushed red and his grin slid just a bit too far to the side, and his silver rings and ear piercings glittered in the dim light of the bar. Soma smiled with a hint of smugness and raised a wine glass to clink with Akutsu's glass. He sipped his drink and his smile fell off of his face as he choked back a gag at the taste. He hadn’t recognized a single vintage from what the apathetic bartender rattled off when he’d dared to ask, and he was already regretting choosing the cheapest option out of spite. Akutsu downed half his beer in one go, and sighed in satisfaction. A bit of foam stuck to the corner of his mouth. Soma tutted, and withdrew his spare handkerchief, but he was too late to stop Akutsu from swiping across his mouth with the side of his hand. Soma managed to recoil only internally.
Normally he’d be far less accommodating of Akutsu’s tastes in bars, but tonight was a special night–for Akutsu, at least. Tucked away in a corner of the Champion district, Soma had barely caught the name of the place–some string of English–but it was tiny. Ten seats squeezed in tight, the bartender, and a veritable rainbow of bottles behind him. Stacked to the ceiling, there were all manners of poisons and potions to choose from if you had the money. Akutsu had ordered the cheapest beer on tap.
"You see that?" Akutsu pointed to the top of the liquor wall, at a red square bottle with a label too small to read.
"That's the most expensive shit they sell here. Fifty fuckin’ k for a glass."
Soma raised an eyebrow.
"Does it have a name?" He asked. Akutsu cocked an eyebrow and nodded at the bartender, who was busying himself with some dirty glasses.
"He told me when I asked before. But, shit, I forgot. Hey, master!" Akutsu barked down the bar. The graying man looked up from his polishing with a barely concealed weariness in his brow.
“Need another round?”
“Nah, not yet. What’s the name of that?” He pointed up at the bottle with a wagging finger.
“That’s the Sangre. Can you afford it yet?”
“... Nah, not yet.”
“Tch. Then stop asking me about it.”
Soma hummed.
"Wine?"
"Yeah. Spanish."
“At fifty thousand a glass, I hope it’s better than this swill you let me order.” He caught Akutsu nearly elbowing him from the corner of his eye, but he wisely stopped himself before it was too late for him. The bartender’s dead mackerel eyes were unfazed.
“It’s not my fault neither of you can afford the good drinks.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t stock the bad ones? You can manage a gin tonic at least, can’t you, master?” He pushed his glass away from him, though with a sloppier motion than he intended to and the last bit of wine nearly sloshed over the rim. The master snatched it away and grumbled something undoubtedly rude under his breath while he went to mix his drink. Akutsu was glaring at Soma incredulously.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“He was rude to you too, you know.”
“Ain’t like I asked you to–”
“Why do you come here?”
Akutsu stared for a moment with his mouth open, as if to protest, before closing it with a sigh, leaning his chin on a meaty hand and gazing longingly upward.
“You know. Dreamin’.” He finished his beer and leaned closer.
“We seriously only get the standard for today?”
Soma nodded curtly.
“How the fuck does that make sense?”
“You know the pay is by rank.”
“Yeah, I know, but… Do you think that’s fair?”
“Does it matter?”
Akutsu gave up trying to coax a genuine opinion from him and waved for another beer.
“You become an officer by taking these and then you make money. That’s how it works.”
“Whatever. I think it’s bullshit. When we run things it’ll be different though, yeah?”
Akutsu was so sincere when he grinned at him like he was now. Sincerity was a privilege Soma would never be allowed to indulge in. He was jealous, truth be told. It was a handsome sentiment on his face at least–handsome enough that Soma decided to play along.
“It’ll be whatever we want.”
When they left the bar red-faced and unsteady on their feet for fresh air–well, as fresh as air in Kamurocho gets–they took their time meandering through the dim alleyways, which were surprisingly devoid of people for the time of night. They walked in silence mostly, other than an odd comment here and there from Akutsu on his opinions of the watering holes they passed and occasional sniffles from Soma, his sinuses irritated by the polluted air. The tension that had hung between them since the job was becoming harder to ignore, especially without the bar as a balm.
“Hey, Soma.”
Soma shifted his eyes to him and raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.
“I… Uh, was that your, no, couldn’t be…” he fumbled to articulate, beer numbing his tongue.
“It was not the first time I’ve killed someone, no.”
Akutsu nodded stiffly. If Soma hadn’t been there personally, it would be difficult to believe that mere hours ago Akutsu had caved in a man’s face with his bare hands. Soma had taken care of the junior yakuza unfortunate enough to have been visiting his senior at precisely the wrong time, bursting into action with a flurry of cuts from a stiletto knife that sliced his arteries and left him lifeless within a minute. Akutsu’s brutal assault on the main target was messy, wild, animalistic even, beating and clawing at the man’s face with wet crunches until there was nothing left but a bloodied ruin. When he had finished and looked up at Soma standing over him, face flushed under the blood splatter and eyes blown wide with adrenaline, Soma only smiled sickly-sweet at him then, not wanting to betray the delight that stirred in his warped heart too soon.
“Y-yeah, I figured. You got him quick. I, uh, saw you, before, you know…”
Akutsu rubbed the back of his neck with a free hand and angled his face away slightly. Soma caught a glimpse of the bruises blooming across his knuckles, and a vision of them coated in blood flashed in his mind. He huffed, cursed that disgusting wine and bitter gin, seized Akutsu by the arm, and pulled him into a dark, dead-end alley. Akutsu didn’t resist when he pinned him against the wall, and more than that, let out a shuddering breath when Soma tightened his grip on his upper arms. Soma smiled at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Bloody is a good look for you, Akutsu.”
Akutsu shivered as the whisper of his own name ghosted his lips, yet he dared to bring his hands up all the same and they came to hover on either side of Soma’s face. Even without contact, his body heat singed his cheeks. Akutsu searched his eyes for permission. He’d already learned so, so well, Soma thought, before he nodded and Akutsu’s thick fingers spread across his face and their lips roughly collided. It was all teeth and a fight for dominance, until Soma bit Akutsu’s lip, hard. Akutsu hissed and yanked away for a moment, and Soma caught a glimpse of him with his own blood smeared all over his chin and a wildfire in his eyes. Soma chased after him, lapping at the wound and savoring the metallic taste that flooded his mouth, again, and again, and again–
Three sharp knocks at the door snapped Soma out of his reverie. His eyes darted up at the clock on the wall; nearly an hour had passed. He quickly swept up the wine and glass, shutting them away in their cabinets without a spared second to linger. Suffering through his officers’ nervous reports was suddenly a less nauseating prospect. But regardless, bitterness clung to his tongue for the rest of the day, well into the evening even after he’d scrubbed his mouth with a toothbrush. When he stumbled into bed and closed his eyes, the corpse was still there, of course. He did not sleep that night either.
Soma's insomnia did not improve in the weeks that followed. He was slipping in the waking hours from exhaustion, which was an extremely dangerous problem in his line of work. His paperwork was riddled with typos and errors; he forgot simple things, like where he put his keys, and concerning things, like whether he’d brought his real gun instead of his paintball gun on clean up assignments; he spent his meetings simmering in an overwhelming desire to slit his subordinates’ throats so that they’d just stop talking. While the last symptom wasn’t exactly new, before the insomnia he didn’t run his thumb over his knife’s handle and visualize blood gushing down their necks while they spoke. His unraveling was increasingly hard to disguise, and Bando had berated him for his faltering attention during one of their preparation meetings for Ehara’s trial. It should have been infuriating to lose so much cognitive ability and terrifying to think he could become a liability in Public Security’s eyes, but he was so tired he couldn’t muster to care about either. After the Bando incident he finally tried sleeping pills, which he’d always avoided out of fear of sleeping too heavily, but they only served to further dull his senses and brought him no relief, so he tossed them in the trash as quickly as he got them. He was the furthest thing from a religious man, but he eventually found that the only thing that helped keep him at least loosely connected to reality during the day was to silently repeat mantras of his own making. He reminded himself of the mission, the cause, playing them like a broken record. This was all for the greater good of order. He was a necessary evil. He was necessary. It had been necessary.
While the decaying corpse that haunted him every night was undoubtedly not helping, he had decided that the real reason he couldn’t sleep was because of the stress. Kuwana was still at large, and they were relying on his word to find Kawai. Yagami and his accomplices would need to be dealt with quickly after they’d destroyed the evidence of Kusumoto’s involvement in the murder. Running RK alone was more difficult than he had anticipated. He told Akutsu’s corpse as much. Bits of the skull were now exposed after the decomposing skin started sloughing off. It even grinned in a way, mockingly. But how could a corpse mock anyone? It was dead and he was not. He should be mocking it.
His rationalizing brought him neither peace nor sleep, so he gave up on rolling around in bed and got up. It was 2:56 AM. The light of the clock on his nightstand made his eyes squint painfully. He grimaced and unplugged the damned thing, and was promptly plunged into total darkness. He took a deep breath, let his lungs fill and empty. It was, thankfully, winter, when his sinuses were most clear. The gift of clear breathing was something he would never take for granted. He frowned at the bed with sheets in total disarray, some balled at the foot of it and pillows half-falling off the edges. Even worse was the rest of the room; discarded suit pieces, undershirts, socks, and sock garters littered the floor in an arc from the doorway to the bed. Now he scowled. This couldn’t have accumulated overnight, he knew. His evening routine recently had been beelining for the bed in the small hours, in futile attempts to rest. He must have been peeling off his clothes on the way in a sleep-deprived stupor.
In the dark, he put suits in dry cleaning bags, scooped up loose laundry and tossed it in pieces into a hamper, straightened his wrinkled sheets best he could. Soma had always been at ease in shadow. He could strike with precision before his marks could even get their bearings. It was his domain. Lately, though, it felt claustrophobic, suffocating even, and he didn’t know why. He glanced over at his drawn curtains for a moment, contemplating whether it would be worth opening them to ease the tension or if the light would dash any chance he had at resting. He decided on a half-measure. He gingerly pulled a curtain to the side with one hand and stretched his other out to the opening he made. A blotch of red neon light quickly spread across his palm. He turned his hand over in a few directions and watched the ruby roll across his pallid skin. He frowned, then quickly dropped the curtain back to seal the light away. He tried to distract himself by returning to his clean-up, but his weary mind wandered all the same.
"I know you've got some sorta viper eyes, but I can't see shit in here. 'S alright if I turn a light on?" Akutsu rumbled, groggily, as he rolled to sit on the edge of the bed. Soma hummed.
"Use the dimmer by the door."
With a grunt, Akutsu hoisted himself up. Soma heard a thud and was jolted by a bump in the bed.
"Fuck! Why's your bedframe so fuckin' sharp..."
He limped over to the door and fumbled around the wall for the switch. Soma watched the muscles on Akutsu's back flex, saw the neon lights filtering in through his window play over the curves and swells of his deeply tanned skin, broken by the black tattoo that spread across his left side like lightning. His own stained glass mosaic of reds and greens and blues and yellows; a magnum opus no one else would ever behold. All his. In a flash, he was on him, running his hands over and through it all. He felt the muscles tighten under his touch, warm and firm. Akutsu's breath caught in his throat.
"So... Soma..." He mustered out. He gave up on the light switch and braced himself with his hands against the door and wall. Soma took the opportunity to wrap his arms around his torso.
"Turn around."
Soma nudged him by pulling on his waist. Akutsu complied, and Soma admired how the light played across his chest. He’d been too occupied with other pleasurable things earlier to notice, but now he noted the fading bruises that dusted his abs, no doubt from the disaster at the warehouse. Soma had his own set of purple blotches marring his ribs from his fight with Yagami at Siren. He looked up at him, mussed bleached hair and black roots falling into his eyes. Akutsu tried to maintain the illusion of a lusty gaze–but it was useless, as always, and the quiver Soma felt under his fingers betrayed that he feared he was still dreaming.
"These lights," He murmured as his fingers trailed downward to his abdomen, “are ours. All of it. Every last shitty bar, every last soapland, every last street corner. It's ours."
Then, he reached up to whisper in Akutsu's ear.
"And you... are mine."
Soma very rarely acknowledged their silent understanding out loud. When he did, it was an indulgence at his discretion. Akutsu had earned it this evening, Soma decided after his touch grazed over the lattice of thin cuts he’d left on his hips, so he indulged him. Akutsu smiled like the drunken fool he was.
“I know.”
A tingle rippled in Soma’s chest, despite himself.
"Why did you want the light on?"
Akutsu pointed at his ear.
"I lost one of my damn earrings earlier. Was gonna try looking for it."
Akutsu smirked.
"Did you steal it offa me?"
"Hm. I did bite that ear earlier."
His smirk widened into a sultry grin. He leaned down to Soma.
"Maybe we gotta retrace our steps?" He offered. Soma kissed his offered neck in response.
"Perhaps."
The small cuff of silver in the palm of his hand was heavier than it had any right to be. Soma stared at it, hollow. He'd only just started to run his hands under the bed frame to clean when his fingers brushed over the metal and his blood ran cold. He closed his hand around it, then opened it. Did it again. It stared up at him eyelessly. It wouldn’t rot. He eventually fell into bed, his mission unaccomplished, forced to shut his eyes to ease the stinging. For the first time in weeks, sleep took him effortlessly. He lay undignified, splayed across his pillows and mattress in the dark of his empty bedroom, with one clenched fist by his head.
In the ice box that was to be his grave, Soma clawed at Yagami's arm around his neck. It was useless, he knew. It was over. It was all over. His legs slithered out from under him on the icy floor as he desperately writhed. Yagami gave no quarter. The cold leather of his sleeve crushed his windpipe. The detective was taunting him, but Soma could barely make out the words. It didn't matter, anyway, and Soma didn't want to hear it. Kitakata, Kuwana, whichever name that accursed man chose, was all his narrowing field of vision could focus on. His expression was inscrutable–or Soma's brain was suffering from oxygen loss. He blinked. Kuwana stared back. He blinked again. Kuwana was gone. Everything was gone. The darkness was empty, as it had been for these past precious few days when he’d managed to sleep through the night. It was almost lonely, not having the rotting corpse to keep him company wherever he went. Something was different this time, though. There was sound–a whisper from all directions, at first. It grew louder and condensed in source, until it was unmistakable, and a figure appeared from the shadows.
"Hey, Soma."
Akutsu stood in front of him, hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. No bullet holes. No blood. No putrefaction. Just him as he was, as he always was. He looked like he was waiting for something.
“... I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
An open door appeared next to him, and he pointed at it with a thumb.
“Ready to go?”
Without a moment of hesitation, Soma went with Akutsu to the other side.
Soma’s days in prison were unremarkable. Most days he worked. Some days he exercised; some days he read. On increasingly fewer days he had visitors: attorneys and investigators who hadn’t yet given up on wringing final scraps of information from him. None of it was of any importance. He was more a ghost than a man now, in any case.
Every night, in his chilled concrete cell, on his threadbare futon, wearing a thin and chafing green jumpsuit, Soma slept peacefully. The dark was his old friend again, and embraced him as one. He dreamed little, as he had most of his life. When he did dream, Akutsu was always waiting for him; and when he woke, he wished he hadn’t.