Disclaimer: Kazuya Minekura owns Wild Adapter. I do not.
Warning: Language, mentions of violence, sexual references.
Note: First-person POV (Kasai). Short but funny, in a jaded Kasai sort of way. I actually wrote this back in May and managed to lose it into the bowels of my hard drive—found it yesterday while looking for my Geology paper. Address your thanks to 'science.'
It was probably a mistake to go into that apartment, but I guess my police instincts are always heightened when it comes to my nephew. After the phone call I got from him last night, I suppose I expected the worst, and the door was unlocked. He never leaves that door unlocked.
I have my gun in my hand before I realize it and my training kicks into overdrive. Ease the door open, scan the living room and aim. I glare down the barrel of my sidearm but the room is empty.
There's the usual mess of food wrappers and video games and books scattered over the hardwood floor. Tokitoh isn't exactly the cleanest person I've ever met, but normally--after he passes out for the night--Makoto will walk through the house and straighten up. The fact that the place still looks like a small tornado touched down is unsettling in and of itself. I step carefully over empty soda cans and discarded jeans and make a right, into the kitchen. The light is on over the stove but I see no masked gunmen, no Yakuza thugs.
There's still a pot of what smells like bad curry on the burner, but it's off. The refrigerator has a noticeable dent in the door, and the papers that were held onto its surface with mismatched magnets--mostly carry-out menus--are littering the scuffed linoleum floor. These are signs of a struggle. My adrenaline amps up another degree, and I can honestly say that I'm nervous about what I might find in the next room.
Back through the living room I duck into the washroom, where the washer door is ajar and the clothes hamper has been upended. Someone ransacked the place. My gun precedes me through the frosted glass door to the shower, but again I see no bodies, no signs of movement.
My eyes are drawn to the floor of the shower stall, though, and I know goddamned well that's blood staining the blue tiles. It isn't much, but I can smell it in the air, coppery and rich. After so many WA crime scenes witnessed and dealing with Yakuza gunfights, you don't forget the metallic tang of fresh blood. I want to know whose blood this is in my nephew's bathroom and why it's here. I'm moving with increasing anxiety as I step back through the washroom and approach Makoto's bedroom door.
The conversation I had with him last night plays through my mind. He'd gotten into an argument with Tokitoh over something pretty asinine, and from what he said, that spoiled little stray of his had started it. And then Tokitoh had just left the apartment. When I hung up with him finally he'd said that he was going to bed. Toki-boy still hadn't come home.
I sight my gun directly at the door to the bedroom, take a deep breath to steady myself, and push through the door.
My eyes adjust to the contrasting semi-darkness in the room a bit more slowly than I'm comfortable with--I guess I am getting old. The blinds are down, the bookshelf has been dumped, contents and all, onto the floor, and Makoto is stretched out on that battered old twin bed of his, naked as the day he was born, Tokitoh wrapped around him.
I stare for about five minutes. There are some things that you never really expect to walk in on, and this has me frozen in my tracks. They're both dead-to-the-world asleep, very undressed, and covered in bruises and scrapes. If I had to guess, I'd say that they beat the living hell out of each other, trashed the apartment in the process, and then fucked each other stupid.
Not that I really need that visual of my nephew and his cat, but all the evidence says that I'm right. I lower my gun and re-holster it, shaking my head in amusement. And here I was, thinking that I'd walked into a crime scene.
Toki-boy is snoring like a buzz saw, curled around Makoto like the kid snuggles up to the heater in the winter. It's almost cute, in a weird, holy-shit-this-is-awkward kind of way. He's got a few bruises on his hips and a split lower lip, and I'm damned sure that Makoto is responsible for those, but I highly doubt he got them in the fight. My nephew, on the other hand, looks like someone kicked the shit out of him. Split lip, black and blue bruises along his jaw, his chest, and a nasty cut across his right side. He's got scratches running from his shoulder blades to waist in twin sets of four on either side of his back. Those look absolutely painful, and I can only imagine how they got there.
Christ, there are some things about my nephew that I just don't want to know.
I understand his odd relationship with Tokitoh, to a point. I really have no hangups with Makoto being gay. Or selectively sexual. Or whatever the hell he is. And Toki-boy has grown on me. I'm very attached to that kid. But the last thing that I expected to walk in on was this little scene. Makoto would probably laugh if he knew, but that stray of his would be hissing and spitting nails. From the looks of things, I think it's safe to say that they've mended whatever happened between them last night.
So I exit their room as carefully and silently as possible and leave the apartment exactly as I found it, but I make sure to lock the front door behind myself. God knows they don't need Izumo or Tojou walking in on them in a compromising position like that. Makoto might have some frighteningly sharp reflexes, but sex rough enough to trash an apartment and scar its participants will take a physical toll on anyone.
And a vivid mental picture pops into my head of Toki-boy dragging his nails down Makoto's back while my nephew pounds him into the mattress, and it makes me want to shoot something. I light a cigarette as I head back to my squad car and make a mental note to always fucking knock first.
Lol. I just love that visual of Kasai grumbling under his breath that his nephew is an idiot/ pervert.