[Viewfinder fic] Traffic - Part VI
Dec. 8th, 2009 08:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petroniaTitle: Traffic
Series:Viewfinder
Characters/Pairings: implied Asami x Takaba, Kou, OCs (Feilong in previous chapters)
Rating: R for drug use, language, violence, and possibly triggery talk about non-con (though given that this is VF...). Additional warning for, erm, het.
Disclaimer: Feilong, Tao, Takaba, Kou, Asami's goons and Asami himself were created by and belong to Yamane Ayano. All the rest are OCs.
Spoilers: Set some months before the Naked Truth arc, immediately before the New Year's Eve one-shot.
Notes: The structure is loosely inspired by the Soderbergh film Traffic, hence the title. It's basically a straight-up attempt to fill in the seinen gangland thriller lurking in the background of the manga, where the foreground is the Asami-Takaba-Feilong triangle. This story is now complete in 7 parts; I'll be posting the rest at the rate of 1-2 chapters per day. Thanks to my betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sub_divided and marej. ^_^
Previous Chapters: Parts I-II | Parts III-IV | Part V
***
Takaba Akihito, age 23
Freelance photographer, Tokyo
Her first name was Misato; last name, Haru-something-or-other. She had long black hair, long black lashes, and a sullen mouth in a heart-shaped face. Legs that started under the bubble skirt of her little red designer dress and went on for miles. Too skinny for Takaba, but he could see the appeal. He could also read the metaphorical flashing neon sign that said Bad News from a hundred metres off. Some girls were not worth the time, money, and heartache they cost you.
Now try telling that to Kou.
He must really be getting old.
They're going to put us on the VIP list, Kou had said. And: her friends are all total cuties. He hadn't been lying, exactly, but the vibe was off. One of the girls had arrived with boyfriend in tow, except he kept his other arm around friend number two at the same time and acted like he expected them both to laugh at his jokes. The third girl was more Takaba's type – petite and sweet-faced, in a spangly top that showed off considerable contours – but she giggled even louder and seemed even drunker than the others. Misato didn't, but only because she looked deathly bored with the entire scene.
Takaba tried nevertheless, mindful of his wingman duty. It wasn't until they were outside the club and he made a coffee run that the whole picture clicked. He returned to find the group halfway down an alleyway, huddled unglamourously behind the neighbouring restaurant's trash dumper.
"Are you sure now," the boyfriend was saying to Kou as Takaba came up alongside, in a tone of voice that suggested Kou didn't quite get it though don't get him wrong, he had nothing against the way Kou lived his life, it was just funny. What a douchehead, Takaba thought.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Kou said, shooting Takaba a glance. He looked uncomfortable as hell.
"Sure of what?" Takaba asked, but he knew already. Kou wasn't – Kou had been a different sort of teenager. Douchehead knew Takaba knew, too, and just grinned at him.
"Nothing," he said, keeping his eyes on Takaba and daring him to make a big deal out of it. Which Takaba wasn't going to, of course, because it would just embarrass Kou more, even though Douchehead's face was asking to be introduced to Takaba's fist. The girlfriend giggled and pressed up against Douchehead's side.
"Ne, Kazu-chan," she said, "pass me your water bottle." Misato just smoked her cigarette and looked bored.
As they filed past the bouncers – the VIP list was for real at least – Takaba fell back alongside Kou and hissed, "Did she take any?" Indicating Misato with his chin. Kou winced.
"Yeah," he said. "Not – she didn't have any money so he just gave her one."
Shit. "This is really not your scene, Kou."
"I just want a chance to talk to her," Kou said. "She is actually really nice. You just have to know her."
Kou didn't know her, Takaba thought, but they were inside and it was too late to point that out.
***
Inside was cavernous, dark, and jammed with beautiful people bumping to very loud electro-house. They had an alcove in the VIP section and bottle service – paid for by Douchehead – but the girls made a beeline for the dance floor. Takaba wanted badly to get drunk. He didn't dance sober, and he definitely didn't do sober-while-everyone-else-flew-like-kites. The night was so obviously careening toward disaster, though, that he knew he couldn't take the chance. Kou poured himself a screwdriver that looked more vodka than orange.
Out on the floor, Douchehead and girlfriends engaged in unsubtle grinding while Kou tried to dance with Misato. She put up with it for a good fifteen minutes before heading back, Kou trailing behind. Takaba smiled and made eye contact to keep the petite girl – her name was Asari, he did have a memory – distracted. She smiled back and her lips moved.
"What?"
"I said, I need more water!"
By the time he made it back to the alcove to check on them, it was obvious Kou had blown it. He was sitting in a corner with a crestfallen air, ignored by Misato, who was engaged in the sort of intent visual survey of the surrounding floor area that suggested she was too cool to get on her hands and knees and actually look.
"Contact lens?" Takaba suggested, sliding into the seat next to her, and she gave him a dirty look. It was the first time she'd acknowledged his existence all evening.
"I dropped my pill," she said.
"Oh wow, forget it," Asari said from beside Takaba. She'd followed him, apparently. "You're never going to find it in this light. That sucks, hardcore."
"I'll be right back," said Takaba.
He waited until he was around the corner and well out of sight. Then he looked at the thing that had rolled into his hand when it had touched the cushions.
***
The upstairs men's room was deserted. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. Tried to feel less pissed off. Failed.
This had never been his scene either. Not as the one buying. There was a time in his life – only recognized in hindsight as a turning point – when he could have become as fun a drinking buddy as Douchehead out there (whom Takaba actually gave a couple of years less than himself). He'd had the hookups, had been told to consider it. Then he'd met Detective Yamazaki.
He thought a lot about Yamazaki, these days. Couldn't hate him. There are no saints, he'd told the other detective, but he'd never assumed Yamazaki was one. What he had assumed was that there was a line in the sand, and that you couldn't be a good guy and cross it. That you wouldn't stay yourself. Yamazaki had saved him from one kind of choice, and subsequent betrayal didn't cancel that debt.
He didn't know if Yamazaki had stopped recognizing himself in the mirror. But Takaba had seen nothing different in the man's face, even at the very end.
There are no saints. People made themselves complicit every day, stepped over whatever line lay in wait for them and returned to tell the tale. Even the ones who made their living on the other side thought they were doing their jobs, just looking out for their own. That world was always there: built to serve, like plumbing or the electrical grid. For its businesses to prosper party kids had to buy the drugs, johns had to buy the women, bar owners had to buy the protection, politicians had to buy the war chest. Police detectives with sick kids and no savings had to buy quick money at very attractive rates. And all of them had to come back for the next hit, time after time after time...
Takaba knew all about that part. And there was nothing in his face to show for it, either.
"Takaba-kun?"
The door swung closed again, muting the outside. It was Asari.
Even her name was a reminder.
He just watched her; his hands were still dripping into the sink. She smiled and wandered closer, arms held mock-coy behind her back in order to emphasize her best assets. Her pupils were blown wide and black, the way he imagined they would get during good sex.
"You really care about your friend, don't you?" she said. "You were keeping me busy so he could try to fuck Misato." A tilt of the head. "It's cool, I'm not mad. I was – it's really sweet of you actually. I think."
"Thanks," he said. She giggled as if he'd said something funny. Then she went up on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were soft and tasted of orange juice and clean sweat.
He absolutely thought of doing it. It played out sequentially in his head: break the kiss, walk over and turn the lock on the door, put his wet hands on her waist and pull her in. He could undo her jeans and slip his hand into her panties, curl fingers into soft flesh and slick heat. Get her off and get her to suck him off, or lift her onto the counter – she didn't look heavy – so he could touch her breasts while they did it, or bend her over the sinks so she could see it happening too.
He could make her like it. She wanted to like it. Who knows what she'd taken; it could have been the same thing he'd been made to inhale, that one time – the first time – and he remembered how that had felt, he would have done anything, it hurt somewhere far off and he was going to die but that was okay because he couldn't help it, he wanted—
He pushed her away, disregarding her sound of protest, and walked out.
Kept going down the corridor until he encountered another door, and pushed through that too.
He was outside the club, on the fire escape in the alley, and it was cold.
"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," said a voice to his right and below. Takaba turned his head. It was Douchehead, he noted with an utter lack of surprise; crouched on the metal stairs just below him and hissing into a cell phone. That was the kind of night Takaba was having.
"What the hell do I know about shit that goes down in Yokohama? Look, the guy just – of course I didn't ask any questions. That's what cash on hand is for, contingencies. It was a fucking good deal, okay? Fifteen hundred units in their own little suitcase. No, nobody is after me, okay, get a grip, nobody even knows about—"
"Careful," Takaba said out loud. He hadn't been meaning to, hadn't wanted the other to notice him at all. Douchehead started and snapped his phone shut reflexively.
"Oh shit," he said. Then he really saw Takaba, and relaxed. "Shit," he repeated in a different tone, then suddenly grinned.
"You're pretty on the ball, aren't you?" he said. "Not like your friend."
Takaba didn't answer.
Douchehead's phone buzzed; he ignored it. He straightened and stretched, deliberately, taking the two steps up that put him on a level with Takaba. "Sorry about before. It was jokes, man, you know that, right? I'll make it up to you. What do you want, blues? Or – no wait, I know – the pinks." He winked and made an abortive hand gesture. "You know what I mean? Man, let me tell you a secret about those: the chicks like them better. Sick, eh? They won't admit it but it's true. For maximum efficiency you'd rather give it to a slut than take it yourself. You don't even have to tell her what it was, just wait til you're getting her a drink and—"
One small part of Takaba's mind registered his own scream. The rest of him barrelled into Douchehead shoulder-first, nearly sending them both over the railing. Douchehead made an inchaoate noise and pushed back, arms flailing wide. Takaba hit him hard, a point-blank shock that reverberated satisfyingly up his arm. Then he grabbed him by the collar and threw him down and followed, and the guy was curling around himself, his arms coming up, but—
As Takaba swung again, something caught his wrist in an immovable vise. The next thing he knew there was an arm around his torso too, holding him back – nearly lifting him off his feet with the effort of pulling him off – and no matter how he cursed and struggled it wouldn't give.
Douchehead coughed fitfully and tried to lever himself up on his elbows.
The white-hot rage left in a rush, the way it had come.
Behind it crept the cold.
The other waited until seemingly sure Takaba was calm, then released him. Takaba turned and saw it was Asami's man – the blond, nameless hulk who'd taken his camera, that one time. He gazed down at Takaba, expression impenetrable, and said nothing. Takaba looked again: saw the black BMW parked across the mouth of the alley, idling in a white cloud of exhaust. The driver's side door still open.
It started to snow.
Series:Viewfinder
Characters/Pairings: implied Asami x Takaba, Kou, OCs (Feilong in previous chapters)
Rating: R for drug use, language, violence, and possibly triggery talk about non-con (though given that this is VF...). Additional warning for, erm, het.
Disclaimer: Feilong, Tao, Takaba, Kou, Asami's goons and Asami himself were created by and belong to Yamane Ayano. All the rest are OCs.
Spoilers: Set some months before the Naked Truth arc, immediately before the New Year's Eve one-shot.
Notes: The structure is loosely inspired by the Soderbergh film Traffic, hence the title. It's basically a straight-up attempt to fill in the seinen gangland thriller lurking in the background of the manga, where the foreground is the Asami-Takaba-Feilong triangle. This story is now complete in 7 parts; I'll be posting the rest at the rate of 1-2 chapters per day. Thanks to my betas,
sub_divided and marej. ^_^Previous Chapters: Parts I-II | Parts III-IV | Part V
Takaba Akihito, age 23
Freelance photographer, Tokyo
Her first name was Misato; last name, Haru-something-or-other. She had long black hair, long black lashes, and a sullen mouth in a heart-shaped face. Legs that started under the bubble skirt of her little red designer dress and went on for miles. Too skinny for Takaba, but he could see the appeal. He could also read the metaphorical flashing neon sign that said Bad News from a hundred metres off. Some girls were not worth the time, money, and heartache they cost you.
Now try telling that to Kou.
He must really be getting old.
They're going to put us on the VIP list, Kou had said. And: her friends are all total cuties. He hadn't been lying, exactly, but the vibe was off. One of the girls had arrived with boyfriend in tow, except he kept his other arm around friend number two at the same time and acted like he expected them both to laugh at his jokes. The third girl was more Takaba's type – petite and sweet-faced, in a spangly top that showed off considerable contours – but she giggled even louder and seemed even drunker than the others. Misato didn't, but only because she looked deathly bored with the entire scene.
Takaba tried nevertheless, mindful of his wingman duty. It wasn't until they were outside the club and he made a coffee run that the whole picture clicked. He returned to find the group halfway down an alleyway, huddled unglamourously behind the neighbouring restaurant's trash dumper.
"Are you sure now," the boyfriend was saying to Kou as Takaba came up alongside, in a tone of voice that suggested Kou didn't quite get it though don't get him wrong, he had nothing against the way Kou lived his life, it was just funny. What a douchehead, Takaba thought.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Kou said, shooting Takaba a glance. He looked uncomfortable as hell.
"Sure of what?" Takaba asked, but he knew already. Kou wasn't – Kou had been a different sort of teenager. Douchehead knew Takaba knew, too, and just grinned at him.
"Nothing," he said, keeping his eyes on Takaba and daring him to make a big deal out of it. Which Takaba wasn't going to, of course, because it would just embarrass Kou more, even though Douchehead's face was asking to be introduced to Takaba's fist. The girlfriend giggled and pressed up against Douchehead's side.
"Ne, Kazu-chan," she said, "pass me your water bottle." Misato just smoked her cigarette and looked bored.
As they filed past the bouncers – the VIP list was for real at least – Takaba fell back alongside Kou and hissed, "Did she take any?" Indicating Misato with his chin. Kou winced.
"Yeah," he said. "Not – she didn't have any money so he just gave her one."
Shit. "This is really not your scene, Kou."
"I just want a chance to talk to her," Kou said. "She is actually really nice. You just have to know her."
Kou didn't know her, Takaba thought, but they were inside and it was too late to point that out.
Inside was cavernous, dark, and jammed with beautiful people bumping to very loud electro-house. They had an alcove in the VIP section and bottle service – paid for by Douchehead – but the girls made a beeline for the dance floor. Takaba wanted badly to get drunk. He didn't dance sober, and he definitely didn't do sober-while-everyone-else-flew-like-kites. The night was so obviously careening toward disaster, though, that he knew he couldn't take the chance. Kou poured himself a screwdriver that looked more vodka than orange.
Out on the floor, Douchehead and girlfriends engaged in unsubtle grinding while Kou tried to dance with Misato. She put up with it for a good fifteen minutes before heading back, Kou trailing behind. Takaba smiled and made eye contact to keep the petite girl – her name was Asari, he did have a memory – distracted. She smiled back and her lips moved.
"What?"
"I said, I need more water!"
By the time he made it back to the alcove to check on them, it was obvious Kou had blown it. He was sitting in a corner with a crestfallen air, ignored by Misato, who was engaged in the sort of intent visual survey of the surrounding floor area that suggested she was too cool to get on her hands and knees and actually look.
"Contact lens?" Takaba suggested, sliding into the seat next to her, and she gave him a dirty look. It was the first time she'd acknowledged his existence all evening.
"I dropped my pill," she said.
"Oh wow, forget it," Asari said from beside Takaba. She'd followed him, apparently. "You're never going to find it in this light. That sucks, hardcore."
"I'll be right back," said Takaba.
He waited until he was around the corner and well out of sight. Then he looked at the thing that had rolled into his hand when it had touched the cushions.
The upstairs men's room was deserted. He splashed water on his face and stared at himself in the mirror. Tried to feel less pissed off. Failed.
This had never been his scene either. Not as the one buying. There was a time in his life – only recognized in hindsight as a turning point – when he could have become as fun a drinking buddy as Douchehead out there (whom Takaba actually gave a couple of years less than himself). He'd had the hookups, had been told to consider it. Then he'd met Detective Yamazaki.
He thought a lot about Yamazaki, these days. Couldn't hate him. There are no saints, he'd told the other detective, but he'd never assumed Yamazaki was one. What he had assumed was that there was a line in the sand, and that you couldn't be a good guy and cross it. That you wouldn't stay yourself. Yamazaki had saved him from one kind of choice, and subsequent betrayal didn't cancel that debt.
He didn't know if Yamazaki had stopped recognizing himself in the mirror. But Takaba had seen nothing different in the man's face, even at the very end.
There are no saints. People made themselves complicit every day, stepped over whatever line lay in wait for them and returned to tell the tale. Even the ones who made their living on the other side thought they were doing their jobs, just looking out for their own. That world was always there: built to serve, like plumbing or the electrical grid. For its businesses to prosper party kids had to buy the drugs, johns had to buy the women, bar owners had to buy the protection, politicians had to buy the war chest. Police detectives with sick kids and no savings had to buy quick money at very attractive rates. And all of them had to come back for the next hit, time after time after time...
Takaba knew all about that part. And there was nothing in his face to show for it, either.
"Takaba-kun?"
The door swung closed again, muting the outside. It was Asari.
Even her name was a reminder.
He just watched her; his hands were still dripping into the sink. She smiled and wandered closer, arms held mock-coy behind her back in order to emphasize her best assets. Her pupils were blown wide and black, the way he imagined they would get during good sex.
"You really care about your friend, don't you?" she said. "You were keeping me busy so he could try to fuck Misato." A tilt of the head. "It's cool, I'm not mad. I was – it's really sweet of you actually. I think."
"Thanks," he said. She giggled as if he'd said something funny. Then she went up on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were soft and tasted of orange juice and clean sweat.
He absolutely thought of doing it. It played out sequentially in his head: break the kiss, walk over and turn the lock on the door, put his wet hands on her waist and pull her in. He could undo her jeans and slip his hand into her panties, curl fingers into soft flesh and slick heat. Get her off and get her to suck him off, or lift her onto the counter – she didn't look heavy – so he could touch her breasts while they did it, or bend her over the sinks so she could see it happening too.
He could make her like it. She wanted to like it. Who knows what she'd taken; it could have been the same thing he'd been made to inhale, that one time – the first time – and he remembered how that had felt, he would have done anything, it hurt somewhere far off and he was going to die but that was okay because he couldn't help it, he wanted—
He pushed her away, disregarding her sound of protest, and walked out.
Kept going down the corridor until he encountered another door, and pushed through that too.
He was outside the club, on the fire escape in the alley, and it was cold.
"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," said a voice to his right and below. Takaba turned his head. It was Douchehead, he noted with an utter lack of surprise; crouched on the metal stairs just below him and hissing into a cell phone. That was the kind of night Takaba was having.
"What the hell do I know about shit that goes down in Yokohama? Look, the guy just – of course I didn't ask any questions. That's what cash on hand is for, contingencies. It was a fucking good deal, okay? Fifteen hundred units in their own little suitcase. No, nobody is after me, okay, get a grip, nobody even knows about—"
"Careful," Takaba said out loud. He hadn't been meaning to, hadn't wanted the other to notice him at all. Douchehead started and snapped his phone shut reflexively.
"Oh shit," he said. Then he really saw Takaba, and relaxed. "Shit," he repeated in a different tone, then suddenly grinned.
"You're pretty on the ball, aren't you?" he said. "Not like your friend."
Takaba didn't answer.
Douchehead's phone buzzed; he ignored it. He straightened and stretched, deliberately, taking the two steps up that put him on a level with Takaba. "Sorry about before. It was jokes, man, you know that, right? I'll make it up to you. What do you want, blues? Or – no wait, I know – the pinks." He winked and made an abortive hand gesture. "You know what I mean? Man, let me tell you a secret about those: the chicks like them better. Sick, eh? They won't admit it but it's true. For maximum efficiency you'd rather give it to a slut than take it yourself. You don't even have to tell her what it was, just wait til you're getting her a drink and—"
One small part of Takaba's mind registered his own scream. The rest of him barrelled into Douchehead shoulder-first, nearly sending them both over the railing. Douchehead made an inchaoate noise and pushed back, arms flailing wide. Takaba hit him hard, a point-blank shock that reverberated satisfyingly up his arm. Then he grabbed him by the collar and threw him down and followed, and the guy was curling around himself, his arms coming up, but—
As Takaba swung again, something caught his wrist in an immovable vise. The next thing he knew there was an arm around his torso too, holding him back – nearly lifting him off his feet with the effort of pulling him off – and no matter how he cursed and struggled it wouldn't give.
Douchehead coughed fitfully and tried to lever himself up on his elbows.
The white-hot rage left in a rush, the way it had come.
Behind it crept the cold.
The other waited until seemingly sure Takaba was calm, then released him. Takaba turned and saw it was Asami's man – the blond, nameless hulk who'd taken his camera, that one time. He gazed down at Takaba, expression impenetrable, and said nothing. Takaba looked again: saw the black BMW parked across the mouth of the alley, idling in a white cloud of exhaust. The driver's side door still open.
It started to snow.
