Chapter Text
Cold soaks into his body, through the thin padding of his jacket and into his bones. They ache with a pain that runs deep, burning with every drawn breath, freezing his throat as it curls out of him, creating patterns in the night air.
It’s been a long time since he’s felt like this, Natori thinks; laughter bubbling up his throat broken only by a soft groan as he forces himself up, hand scuffing on the rusted metal beneath him. The smell of it has soaked into his skin; the taste of iron on the sharp of his teeth as he runs his tongue along the edge. Hunger sparks in his stomach, beneath the dull ache and the hurting.
It was a good fight. A fun fight.
Yeah, getting smashed in the face and losing wasn’t ideal, but there was victory in drawing out Kaji’s animalistic brutality that fuels that hunger twisting in Natori’s gut.
He laughs to himself at the memory of it; the sound catching in the back of his throat as he forces himself upright. Movement below catches his attention; Natori not the only one to be regaining consciousness after Bofurin’s anger had swept in like a coastal storm. Kaga is swearing under his breath, words brutal and punctured, like bullets from a gun while Kongo is teasing him from where he’s crashed against the wall, like he’s not as bloody and beaten as the rest of them.
It makes Natori laugh all over again; his own ill-amusement drawing the attention of the others as he forces himself to his feet. He’s a little unsteady—Kaji’s punches were heavy—but he doesn’t stumble or trip, and it doesn’t take long for him to make his way down the rusted metal stairs, to the concrete where the rest of his right hands are growling at each other like wolves bearing fangs over scraps.
Mogami looks particularly pissed, his eyes cold and his hands twisting around his makeshift staff, fingernails scratching at the barbed wire that’s come loose during the fight with Bofurin. Somehow he’s already managed to wash himself up, or at very least clean off the blood from his face and hands, even if his jacket is still stained.
Kirishima looks much the same. Tone isn’t sat among them.
“I don’t know why you’re so fucking happy,” Kaga spits as soon as Natori gets close, kicking aside still-unconscious KEEL who are too weak to be awake just yet. Kongo laughs, like he’s amused by it, barely getting his hands up in mock surrender when Kaga rounds on him, although he doesn’t do much more than glare from where he’s sat, baring his teeth before deciding he’s too tired to try and start another physical fight.
He turns back to Natori instead; all anger and foul temper.
“You look like shit,” he spits, like it’s something he needs to be reminded about. As if Natori’s skin isn’t tingling from the memory of Kaji’s punches; the weight of his fists having sunk deep into his skin.
It’s too soon for bruises to deepen from red welts, but Natori’s spine thrills from the mere thought of it.
It’s a first for him. Usually, bruises on other’s skin is enough to excite him, especially when he’s the one to place them there. Something about Kaji putting bruises on him, and being excited by it is new, if not a little fascinating.
Not that it was one-sided. Natori knows he landed more than a fair few hits too. But more than that; the look in Kaji’s eyes, the blood in his hair, the way he kept getting back up after every hit and kick Natori landed.
The way he’d tucked himself up, small and cowering, when Natori rained blows upon him.
The way he’d choked, when the rope snagged around his neck.
Natori places a bloody hand over the smile fighting to overtake his face.
A collar would suit him.
Kaga misunderstands his amusement; already irritated from the loss and the pain snaking through his veins.
“What’s so funny about getting your ass beat?” he shouts, his volume triggering a ripple of shifting bodies around them, but Natori pays none of the weaklings any mind.
Instead, he lets his hand slip, grinning shifting to a different hue of amused.
“You know you got beat too,” he sneers, just for the sake of watching Kaga’s brow fold sharper as the insult lands, and he’s on his feet in an instant, one hand bunched into a fist, teeth grit hard enough to break his jaw—
And tips, sideways, stumbling enough that he’s unable to keep his balance and lands on the ground, kicking up dust and knocking an amusing squawk from his lungs.
Around, everyone dissolves into amused laughter. Kongo tips onto his back, the idiot, while Mogami just sneers from where he keeps lending a hand to his ankle every now and then. Kirishima mutters his own insults under his breath, because it’s much easier for them all to laugh at Kaga’s weakness than acknowledge their own recent defeat, but for a wonder, Natori isn’t as pissed as he thinks he should be.
Something about the way Kaji’s murderous glare is a permanent fixture in his mind’s eye, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something about the way his fingertips burn for the same pain of closed-fists to beat on flesh.
“Bastard,” Kaga snarled from where he’s pitched on his side, having placed his arms beneath him to push himself up off of the ground. He’s got grit pressed into his cheek, some of his fringe hanging over his eyes, but he hardly seems to notice, focused instead on glaring fierce at Natori, like he’s in any position to instigate another fight. He’s spouting hot air more than anything, and Natori is familiar enough with his personality to allow it. Besides, Kaga isn’t the one he wants to fight.
“You’re meant to be the Leader, ain’t you?” Kaga is still spitting. “You’re meant to be the strongest. You’re not meant to be so weak that a pathetic wimp from Furin managed to beat you!”
Mogami picks at the barbed wire again. “If he’s weak, what does that make you?”
Kongo laughs louder, even as Kaga waves a fist at them both.
And truthfully, Natori could let them fight and argue with each other like strays on a scrapheap, but the hunger in his stomach feels like it’s only growing stronger with each curl of his fingers, each dull pulse of pain that echoes throughout his entire body.
“I don’t think I lost,” Natori says, not really speaking to anyone in particular, threading his fingers together and lacing them behind his head like a makeshift pillow, even as the act of its puts stress on his arms. His spine screams at him, his muscles stiff and burning all over again but Natori leans into the feeling with a sense of self-satisfaction. “It doesn’t feel like it at least.”
Kaga curls his lip in disgust.
“You got your ass handed to you. I’d call that losing.”
Natori is too busy recalling the fight that just transpired to take the bait, mind caught in the way pain burns through his muscles. He drops his arms, letting the weight shift from his spine where it feels like his bones have been knocked out of whack letting the others argue amongst themselves; their sound nothing but a background to the glint in Kaji’s eye, the mindlessness that overtook him; the weight of his punches and the way he refused to back down.
That Umemiya was an idiot. He was too weak to keep Kaji’s beast-nature leashed and instead had caged it beneath his self-satisfying heroism; too scared of his strength and preferring to bring him down to his level.
Furin had tried ripping out his teeth and filing down his claws, but Kaji was still a beast on the inside, pacing behind bars of a cage that Natori has already proven that he’s able to break through. It won’t need much more to steal him away. To break his will. To chain him with fear.
Maybe an actual chain, if Kaji is going to be stubborn while Natori takes the time to re-educate him.
Something tells him he is.
How exciting.
The thought makes him laugh, and once more, four pairs of eyes turn back to him with varying degrees of confusion. Natori decides he’s not going to leave them in suspense, despite how much it would amuse him to do so.
“I want him,” he says simply.
At the end of it, that’s all it comes down to.
Natori wants Kaji.
Bloody, bruised, and entirely his.
“Huh?” Kirishima grunts, leaning forward from where he’s sat, one elbow on one leg, chin pillowed on stiff fingers, trying to keep up with Natori’s maddening train of thought and yet comes up empty.
“Kaji,” Natori grins, like that is explanation enough. Around, a few of the stirring bodies flinch at the undisguised desire smothering his words.
“He’s perfect.”
Kaga, still pissed, clicks his tongue. He’s managed to get himself a little more upright, and is wisely staying on the ground to save himself the embarrassment from falling over a second time.
From what Natori can remember, he was facing off against that pink-haired boy, all dainty and dazzling with his silver piercings. He looked the weakest out of the first-years that came to take back Nagato, and yet from the bruises on Kaga’s face and the blood smear across his top lip, Pinkie managed to deal enough damage before winning their little fight.
Unlike Natori though, Kaga doesn’t seem satisfied with the loss.
“He’s a goody two-shoes,” he snarls, like he’s still looking for a fight. “All those Bofurin bastards are.”
“Nu-uh. He’s a real animal. You think so too, don’t ‘cha Natori?” Kongo sing-songs from where he stands, darting nimbly out the way when Kaga takes a swing for him; irritation bubbling up and overflowing. He tips a little as well, still reeling from the first year’s leader’s attacks—the boy might’ve been his own beast if he was stronger, but he’s too wet behind the ears for Natori to pay attention to him just yet. Not when there’s a sweeter treat at the tips of his fingers.
“Bofurin put Kaji on a leash. And I think it’s time for a change in ownership,” Natori grins, lips curling around his words as he speaks them. Even just the thought of Kaji at his feet once more, bowed over, cowering from the pain Natori will inflict on him is a high he won’t easily forget.
Kongo matches his smile, even with his own note of hesitance and he slowly catches up. Kirishima and Mogami have shuttered their own emotions but they’re intrigued at least, given the way that they both shift a little closer, eyes fixed on Natori, not even bothering to look when KEEL members are finally waking up.
Natori ignores them.
“What do you say fellas? Want to get a little pay back on Furin for messing with our fun?” he asks, hands spread out before them as he paints them a beautiful picture of revenge; violent and bloody and theirs for the taking. “The icing on the cake will be taking their wolf for ourselves. Kaji doesn’t belong with them. His violence is wasted,” Natori grins, tongue darting out to taste the blood on his lips. It’s not enough.
“You’re all kinds of fucked up, Natori.”
All their heads turn to the slow drawl of shuffling feet, as Tone makes his way towards them.
His nose looks broken. He looks pissed and more than ready for a fight.
Natori’s sneer curls tighter, creases at corners of his eyes. His right hands are with him. They don’t want Kaji the same way he does, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s better this way. They want revenge instead; payback for Furin’s attack against them, which is enough for them to continue to align themselves with Natori’s brutality, leaving him to have fun all by himself.
It will be just as easy to draw Kaji out as it was with Nagato’s friend. Just as he was considered someone important, Natori just needs Kaji’s “someone important”. And he’s already shown Natori just what that is without even realising it.
Despite all his agreement of being unworthy of titled as a hero, he’d shown up for his underclassmen. He’d growled about it, bared his fangs and been all pissy at the split-dyed dumbass that had thought himself strong enough to fight Natori, but in the end, he’d been here and he’d fought to protect them.
Protected that blond kid too.
Natori grins.
Bofurin really had trained their beast well.
“No, that’s fine, you guys go ahead and I’ll catch up. You’re heading to the monja restaurant right?” Nirei asks, almost off-handedly as he roots around in his desk for an eraser. It takes a few seconds to find one, seeing as the way he turns mid-sentence to where the rest of his friend group are all shuffling to the classroom door. Well, all of them except Sakura, who has paused halfway, face scrunched in a half frown like it’s only just made sense that Nirei isn’t coming with them just yet.
It’s his choice; he was the one that had offered to review the final few math problems with Takanashi and Kurita during their lunch break, and it will only take a few minutes at most, after which he can follow.
Considering the trouble that usually finds their class, by the time Nirei catches up, Sakura and the others will probably be finishing up a fight and they’ll all be able to head to the monja restaurant together.
“Go, go. I’ll be right behind you,” Nirei says, waving the hand that currently isn’t stuck in his desk. Sakura’s frown deepens, but after a moment he must see the sense in Nirei catching up rather than him and the others lingering, and threatening to become a distraction.
The other half of the Taka-Kuri-Kaki-Anzai friend group are distracted as is, either hitting up the vending machines or the bathrooms, so Nirei only has a few minutes without them to try and get through three problems without getting roped into their antics.
Still.
Sakura lingers, like he’s fighting himself.
“He’ll catch up,” Suo reminds him from the door. He’s wearing his easy smile, the one that masks anything he’s truly thinking, and while there is ample room to tease, he can probably sense the unease that runs tense through every inch of Sakura’s body.
It’s an unspoken understanding that, since the KEEL near-disaster a few weeks ago, Sakura’s protective nature has only grown fiercer, even if he’s constantly trying to hide it from them all. He’s always been some kind of protective—he’d defended Nirei on their second meeting without hesitation and he’d taken out thugs targeting Kiryu mid-fight—but it’s been a lot more present as of late.
Nirei has caught him on more than one occasion simply watching the class. Sometimes it’s in lessons, sometimes right when he steps through the door, his eyes sharp with a coveted emotion as he does a headcount of his classmates and observes them all silently for a moment, like he’s looking for trouble or something out of place.
Suo has noticed as much as well—although there’s not much that Suo doesn’t miss—and if Sakura’s eyes ever linger on anyone in particular, Suo is the first to inquire; skilfully playing off his curiosity as small talk or idle chatter, until Sakura’s shoulders aren’t quite so tense and he allows himself to be distracted by conversation or Kiryu’s mobile games.
He’s even tried playing a few. It’s warming to see.
Nirei grins at his captain and co-vice-captain before turning back to his other classmates whom he has promised that he’ll help, catching Takanashi before he can struggle on a problem when he’s using the wrong equation to balance the algebra.
“Wait, Takanashi, not like that, it’s this one here,” Nirei says, leaning in, offering up the eraser he was sure he’d need, laughing when Takanashi grips his own head with a theatrical groan. He doesn’t have to explain much—for all that Furin has a reputation for being a school full of idiots that couldn’t get in anywhere else, it’s not actually true. Most of the boys that attend, especially the first years, actively chose to come to Furin. It allows them to fight, and to protect their home.
Just because they’re not entirely focused on their studies doesn’t make them dumb.
Nirei chose too, and while it’s not like he’s as strong as his classmates, and would probably rank himself as the weakest in the school, he knows that he has his own merits. Helping tutor his class, and serving as a bank of information for Sakura in aid of his goal to reach the top of the school are among them, and things that he’s actually fairly good at, considering this isn’t the first time that the others have asked for Nirei’s help.
(Suro and Kiryu are also amazing when it comes to their grades, but Suo’s mischievous streak makes him an antagonistic tutor, and although Kiryu understands the material inside and out, being able to translate it for his classmates isn’t something he excels at.)
Nirei doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s flattering that his friends rely on him for his help.
He knows that he relies on all of them for their strength, given that he wasn’t able to do much in the KEEL incident. Training with Suo is slow-going too, even if the number of scrapes and bruises he’s walking away with is slowly beginning to dimmish after every lesson, but this is something he can do right now.
And if he stays on top of his own studies, he can continue to be.
Kurita breathes a heavy sigh, dropping his pencil as he finishes the last of the questions, satisfied with the answers and Nirei’s explanation both. Beside him, Takanashi is holding his own worksheet up, tears in the corner of his eyes. Theatrical idiots, the pair of them, Nirei thinks fondly; turning back to his own desk to return his things quickly, so that he’s able to catch up with the others.
Anzai holds out a can of melon cream soda in thanks, having already grabbed it from the vending machine earlier. “Sorry about bothering you on your lunch break, but you’ve been a huge help,” he says, clinking his own in mock cheers before cracking it open, shuffling closer now that their friend group can get to eating their lunch.
“It’s no trouble. Better to get it out the way now,” Nirei says easily. Especially when the class is trying to meet up on the weekend. It’s nothing special: a trip to the park for the afternoon and then to karaoke, after Sakura had admitted to Kiryu that he’d never been, which Tsugeura decided they had to promptly rectify. Of course the rest of the class had decided to join in on the outing, making up an excuse to bond like they had at Pothos.
Takanashi tries offering up some of his egg rolls as additional payment, but Nirei waves him off easily, taking his phone out of his back pocket and sending a quick text to the group chat, double-checking that they’ve made it to the monja restaurant and not been side-tracked by any issues with the townsfolk.
They shouldn’t; Komoku are on patrol for lunch, while Jikoku are scheduled for afterschool responsibilities, but… Nirei wouldn’t be surprised otherwise.
“I’ll catch you guys in a bit. Remember, if you need any other help you can always ask,” Nirei says in farewell, hand waving above his head as he’s out the door and heading down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He doesn’t need to rush; he knows the others will wait for him. He’s not starved either considering he had leftovers for breakfast, but the promise of a hot meal is enticing enough he’s a little bit liberal with his speed on the stairwell, rushing down them until he hits the ground floor, a little red-faced and breathing heavier by the time he’s shoulder-barging his way out the main doors.
Right as Kaji is walking through them.
Strong though he may not be, Nirei can be nimble. Suo’s teaching him to harness that, as well as to improve his overall sense of balance with the sudden shift between standing and crouching, and it’s this is what saves him from crashing into an awkward pile of limbs.
That, and the fact Kaji’s grip is tight around his upper arm, having caught him before he could trip in his haste to jump out of the way.
“Watch it Nirei,” Enomoto laughs, in greeting and warning both, also lending a hand as Nirei works to right himself. Kusumi hides a grin behind his hand, before lifting it to ruffle Nirei’s hair as he passes him, heading towards the stairwell where it seems the upperclassmen had also stepped out to grab lunch from the market street.
They’ve grown friendlier since the incident with KEEL, and while Nirei hasn’t quite gotten a mark on Kaji, he knows his vice-captains are at least very pleased that their underclassmen are relying on them and asking advice. They’re good role models to look up to.
Nirei’s caught between grinning and bowing in apology, stepping back a little to give them more room. “Ah—sorry! Sorry, I didn’t—”
“You’re fine. Just be a little more mindful of your surroundings next time,” Kaji says, pulling on his headphones just enough to speak without needing to shout, giving Nirei a once-over in a very familiar show of observation that Sakura’s been doing, before tucking his hands in his pockets and leading the way for his vice captains.
“Ye-yeah! Of course! Sorry again!” Nirei says, bowing quick and this time, walks out of the front doors at a reasonable speed, thankfully not bumping into, or tripping over anyone else.
It’s a pleasant day—not too windy and not too cold, but just enough for them to warrant wearing their Furin jackets. Soon it will be summer, and Nirei bets that he and his group won’t be the only boys to keep frequenting the town, if not to buy themselves snacks and treats from the street vendors, then for the few minutes that they can take outside of stuffy classrooms.
For now, there’s only a few here and there: mostly faces that Nirei recognises from Komoku’s team attending to their patrol duties, and none of those that Nirei passes are any more scuffed than usual, suggesting that there haven’t been any brawls or tussles so far.
Or, none so close to the school at least.
Maybe that was why Nirei’s guard was down.
Maybe, he’d grown complacent, being so close to the school.
Maybe that was why, when the hand first landed on his shoulder, his first thought was Tsugeura, even though he’s the last of their classmates that would be able to creep up on anyone—and probably wouldn’t, stating it something as unvirtuous or the like—so Nirei doesn’t react as to how he ought, until the grip on his shoulder slides to an arm near enough around his neck, swathed in black, but not the sleeve of Furin’s uniform.
“Guess Furin really are full of themselves,” the stranger says into Nirei’s ear, not exactly talking to him, but his tone is goading and insulting all at once.
Nirei tries to shift, to throw some of the weight off his shoulder and get a better look at whoever is invading his personal space, but the arm around his shoulder turns biting, fingers digging into the flesh, making movement impossible without drawing out more pain. Nirei gasps out a noise somewhere between breathless and panicked, just as a second body crowds him from the right side; dirty-blond hair and black eyes that spark something sinister and malignant.
They’re also wearing a black hoodie, same as the first, in poor imitation of Furin’s style.
“That’s their first mistake,” the newcomer grins, staring at Nirei but obviously speaking to the taller, who’s got his arm like a noose around Nirei’s neck. “Thinking yourself invincible on your own turf is just asking to be thrashed.”
Air burns Nirei’s lungs on the inhale, confusion and questions on the edge of his lips as his body is struck with a sudden chill. He doesn’t recognise the faces of the boys that have grabbed him—doesn’t know why he’s been grabbed—but the enjoyment to his fear is familiar enough that he knows this is bad, this is about to be very bad, why are they—‽
“You’re coming with us,” the taller says, not even giving Nirei a chance to turn him down. Not that he could with the way he’s pinned with his arm alone; fingers still driven into his clavicle in half-threat, half-promise that if he tries to fight back, they’re going to hurt him.
Which—isn’t as scary as it probably should be. Nirei has been kicked around a lot by tougher, scarier opponents. It hasn’t happened so much recently, with Sakura and Suo defending him, always placing themselves in the way of danger before anyone has the chance of targeting him, but at least Nirei knows what to expect. It’s a part of being a member of Bofurin. It’s—
“If you don’t, or if you kick up a fuss,” tall-mean-and-ugly continues, “we’ll trash this street and then drag you with us. Might even drag in someone who’s a little more compliant. What about her?” he says with a tilt of his head, shifting slight enough so that Nirei can better see who he means. Not that he has a name to put to the face, but Nirei recognises her nonetheless as one of the girls that works at Penpen Kusa, the patisserie on the corner. She’s watering the flowers out front, oblivious to the potential danger mere feet away.
“Oh go on,” Black-Eyes sneers as he pushes in from the left, uncaring to the way Nirei gets squished from how close he gets. “I know Natori said he wanted to do this quietly, but I’m itching to go crazy. He said we just had to lure out the others. Threatening the town will do that much, won’t it?”
Another chill runs down Nirei’s spine, and not just because of Black-Eye’s words, but because of his tone. He sounds far too happy about the prospect of violence; like the damage he could inflict on Makochi and its people is nothing more than a game to him.
There’s more to it, of course, and Nirei’s mind scrambles to make sense of it. They’re trying to lure someone out. Others out. Bofurin members? Targeting the town would do that easily, but—someone called Natori wanted to do it quietly? And they’ve grabbed Nirei. Is it only Nirei—?
“What are you—?”
“This is why I said Mogami should’ve been the one to come with me,” the taller of the strangers sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before fixing the second with a glare fierce enough to cower anyone. It goes to show how unhinged the other is that he simply grins, even as the taller moves, taking a half step to drag the three of them a little closer to the side of the street. To anyone else, a passing glance might make them think that it’s just three Furin kids being close with each other.
No one is paying attention to them anyway. Nirei can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.
“You’re too trigger happy,” the taller continues, crushing Nirei closer to him to scowl over the top of his head at the second. “You and Natori both. I don’t know why I’m still putting up with the pair of you.”
Black-Eyes grins. “It’s ‘cus you love us.”
“Don’t make me hit you.”
Something about the voice and the goading connects with a memory Nirei has been trying to forget these few weeks, but it all comes rushing back in an instant when Black-Eyes laughs, cruel and unnerving, and suddenly Nirei is back at the shipyard, sprawled out on the floor with his head pounding, his face on fire, and cruel smiles leering down at him—
“You—you’re from KEEL!” Nirei gasps, leaning away from the taller’s arm, but it’s like a collar around his throat and he can barely put enough space between them to take a full breath. Black-Eyes crowds him from the other side, closing off any escape route, smile widening as he leans in close enough that Nirei can count the few number of freckles faintly smattered across his face.
“Correct! At least that saves us having to explain it to you, doesn’t it Kirishima?” he grins, tilting his head as he turns to the taller, putting more of his weight on Nirei’s arm to the point that he’s crushing it, laughing at his face as it twists in pain.
The other—Kirishima—just rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”
“But we beat you,” Nirei stammers, mind still turning, one hand coming up to grip at Kirishima’s wrist to try and pull it away from his throat. He’s not choking him, but he could, and the simple flex of strength is warning enough that he’s not trying to get away to earn anymore of their ire.
They still haven’t been noticed; not by the townsfolk, and neither by any stray Komoku either. Nirei can’t see anyone, even if he doesn’t know how he’d be able to signal the danger before the KEEL guys turned their anger on Makochi. He could hold onto Black-Eyes, maybe. Cling, like he had to the guys in the alley before Sakura had saved him, to hold him back long enough and entice his anger onto him instead of anyone around, long enough for someone to notice. For Komoku to call others over and the nearby townsfolk to vacate.
Sakura and the others are in the monja restaurant at the end of the road, and they’re all fast when they want to be. They’d be here in a few minutes tops. Nirei just has to—
“We?”
Black-Eyes ducks into Nirei’s field of vision, smile growing taut at the corners of his mouth where it threatens to overtake his face; eyes scrunching until he’s almost peering through his eyelashes.
Nirei’s body goes still, like a prey caught in the sights of a predator.
“What’s this talk about we?” he purrs, cocking his head just a little more. It looks uncomfortable. Unnatural.
“You were the ones holding your friends back. You couldn’t do anything,” he says, the words honeyed and sickly sweet as they fall from his lips, leaning even closer; Nirei trying to jerk backwards but Kirishima’s arm holds him fast.
Black-Eyes dips his chin, tone sinking in malice.
“That’s why you’re perfect.”
Nirei shudders.
Perfect for what?
Kirishima must run out of patience, or he must know the risk of what it means to stand on Tonpu’s market street because he shoves all three of them down a nearby alley. Nirei stumbles and nearly trips over his feet where they suddenly shift from standing still to walking brisk, but Black-Eyes and Kirishima’s weight pressing in from both sides keeps him upright.
“It worked last time, didn’t it?” Black-Eyes continues, falling easily into step beside them, like Nirei isn’t being all-but-kidnapped on his lunch break—or, wait—shit, he’s actually being kidnapped isn’t he‽
“We roughed up Nagato a little and you and all your hero friends came running,” Black-Eyes continues, leaning in as they walk. Kirishima tries pulling away, where the weight is slightly unbalancing him, despite his extra height, but Black-Eyes just moves with them like he’s oblivious to the irritation growing more plain on his friend’s face.
“But hey, you’re pretty smart,” he grins, eyes bright, but then it’s Black-Eye’s arm around his shoulders, and Nirei is yanked into his orbit, arms flailing for a moment where he nearly loses his balance. Neither of the other two allow his pacing to slow, and they chase the length of the alleyway towards the neighbourhood where it’s much quieter and there’s less risk of them being seen by anyone that might complicate things.
It would be better if they’re spotted now, by Komoku or anyone from Furin; distant from the townspeople going about their business and less likely to get roped into whatever problems the upper members of KEEL are creating. And yet the problem is that they are moving further away from the market street, closer to the edge of Furin’s territory making it less and less likely that they would be spotted.
“You figured out we’re KEEL and you knew not to put up a fight,” Black-Eyes continues, seemingly oblivious to the way that Nirei’s mind is running a thousand miles an hour, desperately shoving down the fear of being grabbed so that he can do something that isn’t just panic.
Suo had told him, between their sparring and lessons, that Nirei won’t only just grow stronger with strength training and practice, but that being able to think on the battlefield will also give him an advantage against enemies that think of little more than throwing punches and spilling blood.
And yet being able to think in these circumstances feels more like a detriment than anything helpful. He is aware that Black-Eyes is not obviously as strong as Kirishima, given the way that he’s curled his hand into Nirei’s collar to strengthen his hold on him, and yet, Nirei has no doubts that trying to get away will be just as difficult. Besides, even if he did, Kirishima hasn’t simply vanished. He follows closely behind like an honour guard, scowling fierce when Nirei glances back at him.
He looks just as irritated at Black-Eyes, who is still taunting Nirei with words and goading insults alike, like he’s not just trying to insult him, but like he’s looking for a fight as well, as if he hadn’t already pointed out that Nirei is not able to fight on their level.
And yet given the state that they’d found Nagato in, in KEEL’s lair, Nirei knows it isn’t so much that Black-Eyes is looking to exchange blows, in that he’s more so looking for an excuse to use him like a punching bag.
“How pissed do you think Kaji is going to be when he learns that his kohai is taking the fall for him intruding on our fight?”
If Nirei’s heart hadn’t dropped through his stomach, he would’ve choked on it.
“N-no—” he stammers, mind churning because if KEEL wanted revenge, it would make more sense if they targeted Sakura for leading their entire class to their hideout, or Anzai for telling his friends, even if he’d been keeping it to himself until Sakura practically forced his hand.
Not that—not that Nirei wants them to be targeted.
But wouldn’t it make more sense?
He pulls away without thought, twisting to try and unlatch the hand curled into his jacket, leaning backwards as he puts his weight into the movement like that might leverage the situation to his advantage.
Yet, there’s no advantage to be found when Kirishima steps forward, hand gripping Nirei by the back of the neck, like one might scruff a cat. It’s a terrifying thought to realise that he can place its entire hand around Nirei’s throat without much effort, that he doesn’t even need to flex his fingers to threaten him because Nirei can feel the power in his hands from where the motion stops him dead.
“Oi. You try anything—”
“You’re cowards,” Nirei gasps, even though he knows he should keep his mouth shut. He’s spent long enough of his middle school years at the beck and call of stronger, meaner peers, and he knows that talking back is going to earn him pain, but finally making steps to his dream, to joining Furin and watching his friends fighting for what they believe in, Nirei is emboldened.
“Both of you. All of you,” he sneers—or tries to—but it probably looks pitiful on him, given the way that Black-Eyes starts laughing at him, hands over his chest like he’s trying to stop the laughter from bursting out.
It’s eery and unsettling and entirely creepy. Nirei tries to move back, never mind the hand collaring his neck that holds him fast. He hardly thinks about it—doesn’t even flinch when Kirishima grips hold of him even tighter.
“Watch it,” he snarls, lips a breath from Nirei’s ear. “Natori told us that we weren’t allowed to touch Kaji. He didn’t say that we couldn’t lay our hands on you.”
Somehow the vice around his throat isn’t choking him. It’s strong, strong enough to be painful, but it’s not actually preventing Nirei from getting any air. It’s actually a little surprising, given how much the KEEL members have shown that they’re so willing towards their violence, but then, maybe an unconscious victim isn’t as fun as one that’s awake to fear the unavoidable brutality.
“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to carry your ass all the way out of town, but I will if I have to,” Kirishima snarls, hand growing imperceptibly tighter, yanking Nirei closer even as he looms. “So walk.”
Nirei doesn’t know what makes him do it.
He doesn’t listen.
“No,” he says—half yelping the sound, because for all the defiance that bubbles up inside of him, he’s still scared and he’s still confused; he still can’t clearly understand what’s going on even as he’s being dragged further from the school.
“What you’re doing—it’s too much. You’re going too far,” Nirei shouts, as if the obvious needs to be pointed out. What KEEL are doing, this is more than just the normal gang violence of teams facing off against each other, to prove that they’re stronger-better-tougher than anyone else.
Revenge isn’t unexpected, and Furin’s history isn’t free of it, long before Umemiya stepped up and made it what it is today. Even the most recent brawl-tournament with many of Shishitoren’s top fighters devolved from a spat in the streets to Tomiyama’s twisted version of entertainment; that he had invited Umemiya to the brawl after fighting his way through Furin’s territory, dropping bodies left and right, given the excuse because Sakura and Sugishita had laid out one of theirs first.
If they hadn’t disbanded like Sakura and Kaji assumed they would, KEEL’s retaliation should be something like that: brawls in the streets; unprejudiced violence against the shops in the market street; graffiti tags baiting Bofurin beyond their territory lines to tease and goad and devolve into physical blows.
That’s how it’s meant to go. That’s how it goes with everyone else.
But KEEL are worse.
KEEL are making things personal.
For some reason they’re blaming Kaji. For some reason they’re focusing on Kaji.
Nirei doesn’t want to know why he’s suddenly at the centre of it, but there’s a grating in the back of his mind that the only reason that he’s been taken is because he’s the weakest among all of his classmates; that he’s the weakest in school; that he’s the easiest to grab and thus he is endangering his friends and his senpai because he can’t fight back to protect himself. It’s already been proven given that Sakura saved him from the street thugs on their first meeting and subsequently during other run-ins with brawlers.
Nirei’s already gone to Suo to ask for help, so that he can better learn. It’s slow going.
He still hasn’t managed to make use of his newfound knowledge in any of the basic scuffles that thugs and low gangs make when they come to Makochi looking for trouble and entertainment both; and Nirei’s attempts are still a secret he’s kept from Sakura, because he doesn’t want to get his friend’s hopes up, only to see the disappointment on his face when he lets him down.
And yet that’s exactly what he’s doing isn’t it.
Right now, in this moment, he’s letting everyone down. Even himself.
Except he doesn’t want to and he’s already decided that he’s going to keep moving forward just as Sakura is—just as the rest of them are.
He’s going to get stronger. He’s going to learn how to fight.
He’s going to be able to defend himself so that what happened in KEEL would never happen again.
So what’s happening right now should never happen in the first place.
Nirei isn’t strong and he knows it, but he’s not thinking about that when he reels back a fist. It’s probably not even the correct way that he should make one, with his thumb curled under his fingers, knuckles angled too far back so that when he does lash out at Black-Eyes, it’s the point of his bent fingers that make the connection, not the flat of his fist.
It makes no difference either way.
Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t. It would hurt less, for sure, because Kirishima’s first reaction is to snap his own fist in response; his attack bigger, heavier, faster, denser.
It cracks against the side of Nirei’s skull, his head snapping back as if on a spring-loaded hinge that sends a jolt of pain down his spine, heavy as lightning and just as permeating. Dark spots flood his eyes, and for a moment, Nirei can’t see anything.
The world topples, gravity suddenly pulling to the right, but the same hand around his neck prevents him from crumpling down into a pile of useless limbs as another weight slams into the space beneath his ribs.
He’s lucky he hasn’t eaten lunch yet, or he would’ve thrown up.
There’s noise around him. Voices. Laughter.
Something touches the side of his face but sight and mind won’t make a connection, and Nirei can’t tell what it is. All he can focus on is the pain in his blood like liquid lightning and the way the world spins dangerously, He can feel the solid weight of a shoulder pressed into his gut, arms swinging above his head and their small group begins moving once more, now with Nirei slung over Kirishima’s shoulder and unable to fight back.
Not that he’d call his punch “fighting back.” Desperate anger. An unthought action.
It’s all he can do to breathe; winded painfully by the second punch and large though he may be, Kirishima’s shoulders aren’t broad enough to be any kind of comfortable. Not like Tsugeura’s had been when he’d had to carry Nirei last time, although it’s not like his captors want to make the journey any easier.
Quick, yes, so that they’re not seen by anyone that would derail their plans to quietly kidnap Nirei, and he’s left to grapple his conscious and fight his lungs back into working order as the familiar streets of Furin’s territory slips away into dockside industry.
It must be familiar to Kirishima and Black-Eyes because they move with single-minded purpose, following train tracks, back alleys, side streets and cutting through what looks like abandoned facilities without drawing the attention of anyone around them; construction workers and adults too busy with their jobs to take the moment to look up.
Not that Nirei would expect it to change anything. The reason that Bofurin exists is because the police gave up on governing Makochi’s constant infighting. Even if this abduction was reported, he’d probably just become another statistic to them. Another police report gone uninvestigated.
By the time that Nirei’s lungs are back in working order and Kirishima has grown tired of carrying him enough to force him to walk once more, he doesn’t recognise the buildings and work site that surrounds them. It’s not the shipyard that KEEL had held Nagato in, but it’s similar enough with rusting metal, water marks and peeling paint. There are enough weeds growing through the cracks of the concrete that they’ve practically blanketed the loading bay and exterior; curling up one wall and lattice across the broken frames of the upper windows. It’s a condemned building, with all the usual signage, chain link fence and chained gates, but Kirishima and Black-Eyes ignore all of it, shoving at the fence until there’s gap enough between one panel and the next, before ducking through.
Nirei has no other choice than to follow, penned in by them both.
He’s unsteady on his feet—a lingering consequence of the blow to his head—and his hands itch for his phone, or even his little book of notes that he’s got preciously tucked on the inside of his jacket for a sense of comfort, but reaching for either now is only going to lose them both. If anything, KEEL will be too focused on their victory of having snatched him to think beyond, and the moment that they turn their backs he can get out a distress call.
Not that he has a clear understanding of where they are. There’s no real signage either, aside from old printed lettering on one of the walls, but it’s hidden behind a curtain of ivy and chipped paint, and with how far Kirishima carried him, it’s hard to get a pinpoint on where he would’ve expected them to bring him.
Right now, all he’d be able to tell anyone is that they’re not at Senkan Shipyard.
Nirei doesn’t know why KEEL have chosen somewhere else rather than their old hideout, or if there’s something more to the choice—that maybe instead it’s that they’ve lost control of it, perhaps, in the few weeks it’s been since the incident with Anzai and Nagato. It wouldn’t be surprising; there are always power struggles throughout Makochi and the outlying city provinces, and if another group had taken advantage of KEEL being weakened following the beatdown, and kicked out of their claim, then it would make more sense for a want of revenge if what Sakura did had caused them to drop a few rungs on the power scale.
Senkan was large too, and out of the way enough that they’d have a much easier time pulling shit like they did with Nagato; not just beating him senseless for fun and profit, but building numbers without people being able to keep a close eye on them.
That’s not to say this warehouse is any better, given that they’re able to duck through the “no trespassing” orders without being spotted, but it is noticeably smaller.
Rather than having large loading dock doors chained shut out front, all of the shutter-roller doors have been bolted down and boarded over.
Black-Eyes leads the way around the side of the building, stepping around discarded tarps, crates, oil drums and tangles of vegetation that spill out from untamed back alleys. Coils of rope and piping make it difficult as Nirei is shoved from behind to force him to keep up: Kirishima growling low and cracking his knuckles when Nirei hesitates long enough on the wrong side of a muddy puddle deep enough to splash his ankles.
Black-Eyes leads them to a hole in the wall that has been partially hidden behind sheets of corrugated metal and moulding wood pallets propped up and stacked; large enough that he’s able to duck through with ease. Nirei struggles a little, given his balance is still a little shot, and Kirishima’s patience is all but gone as he kicks Nirei through when he’s only got one foot on the ground. It sends him sprawling—not quite quick enough to be able to shove his hands underneath him to catch himself; chin grating along concentrate, skin scraping as he hisses at the pain.
Above him, someone laughs.
“Kirishima, Kongo, hey! And look. Our guest of honour is finally here,” a new voice crows, malignant and somehow far more terrifying than Black-Eye’s goading taunts. Nirei snaps his head upright as Kirishima drags the metal and palettes back into the place like a makeshift door, blocking off the outside world before dusting off his hands and moving deeper into the factory space without so much as a second glance.
It’s a little bigger than Nirei thought, but not by much. The room is roughly divided into three spaces by pillars and frames that holds up what remains of the roof. As much of the outside has invaded inside, because there's more vegetation in here, growing thick in places where sun pools across the floor like liquid light, pouring in through windows and the scattered holes in the ceiling; large puddles clinging to the left side the factory floor, some of which that have grown deep enough to be considered ponds.
There’s an old forklift, rust-eaten and bedded in moss left stranded in water; shipping containers stacked two high against the far corner in the only dry patch of the room, and what looks like reclaimed furniture strung about outside their open doors. There’s an old two-seater sofa with its stuffing poking out and a near-matching armchair of similar disrepair. Opposite, against the far wall, there’s a tv propped up on cinderblocks with the wire duct-taped above, snaking up the wall between a mix of posters, crass drawings and graffiti that shows the warehouse hasn’t always belonged to KEEL.
It doesn’t look like anyone else is here.
Nirei doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
“I was starting to think you might never turn up,” the new voice is saying, and Nirei drags his attention to what’s before him, flinching almost when he realises that there is someone crouched right in front of him.
Kirishima’s punch must’ve done more damage than he’d realised if he’d let another member of KEEL so close without even realising it.
“Why are you doing this?” Nirei stammers, not desperate enough yet to beg, but being surrounded by four walls, with a makeshift door pulled shut behind him, another malicious face of KEEL leering over him….
It’s too much.
He can’t—he doesn’t know how to get out of this. He doesn’t know how to warn the others.
They should’ve noticed his disappearance by now; that he didn’t turn up to the restaurant even though he’d promised to meet them. Or maybe they thought that he was still with the others, that maybe he’d changed his mind and was grabbing lunch with Anzai and the others. It wouldn’t be too weird—they’re all friends, they’re all close—but Nirei would’ve at least text their group chat to give them a heads up, and if not then Kiryu is on his phone enough that he’d shoot a text, or Suo would say something because he’s more observant than anyone, and they’d want to know where he was—
“Hey, what’s the matter?” A weight lands on Nirei’s shoulder, not close enough to his neck, but he still flinches, not able to move far where he’s still sprawled on his stomach, curled backwards away from the newcomer’s sneer, moving too close to Black-Eyes, whom must be Kongo, who is crouched beside him, balanced on his haunches and leaning in like he’s never heard of personal space.
“You’ve gone all quiet. You were so fired up earlier,” he leers, eyes glazed almost, like he’s not quite looking at Nirei. “Kirishima, I think you broke him,” he adds, tilting his head back and glancing in the direction the other has gone. He’s on the other side of the warehouse floor, near to the sofas, having deposited himself on one like his business is finished now that he’s kidnapped Nirei and delivered him to those that wanted him.
He barely lifts a hand to acknowledge that he’s being spoken to, but Black-Eyes—Kongo, doesn’t seem interested in conversation.
“Oh? He fought back?” the newcomer asks. He might be Natori; KEEL’s leader, and the one that ordered Kirishima and Kongo to grab him.
He sounds surprised, but amused, as if the thought is funny to him. Some inner part of Nirei bristles (Sakura has been rubbing off on him), but he’s too panicked to react as much out loud and it’s all he can do to curl his fingers tight to his palms and try and keep his breathing even and measured.
Above, Kongo is telling the other what happened, but somehow, in the way that he frames Nirei’s panicked attempts to escape, he makes him sound pitiful.
Yes, Nirei is weak, especially compared to his friends, and everyone in Bofurin. Yes, Nirei doesn’t know how to fight back, or protect himself, and he knows what others think of him. And yet Sakura has never looked down on him. Suo is willing to teach him. No one in class thinks him unworthy of being Bofurin just because he doesn’t know how to properly throw a punch—
“I wouldn’t have expected that,” maybe-Natori laughs, hand creeping over his smile that lifts up the corners of his mouth, pulling the skin tight around his eyes.
The expression spells trouble. Nirei’s breath catches in his throat.
“Then again, he does go to Furin,” maybe-Natori continues, his sneer growing larger as the words curl out of his mouth, serpentine and slippery. “Being surrounded by all those self-righteous idiots was bound to rub off on him eventually. And yet when it comes down to it, you’re still weak.” He tilts his head, eyes drifting up and down, like he’s appraising Nirei now that he’s lying before him.
“You wouldn’t even be worth my time if you weren’t important to Kaji.”
Kaji again.
Not Sakura, for bringing the class to KEEL’s hideout. Not Anzai for telling the Sakura in the first place (even though Sakura had been the one to force Anzai’s hand) which had forced a beating on them.
“Last time wasn’t Kaji’s fault,” Nirei breathes around sudden fear cloying at his throat, but he shoves it down, refusing to choke. He’s scared and he’s trembling, and his voice isn’t all that loud, but pressed close to the floor with his heart pounding in his ears, it’s all Nirei is able to focus on.
It was no one’s fault but he doesn’t expect any of KEEL to listen to him. It could actually be argued that it’s KEEL’s fault for bating Furin in the way that they had, but for the left side of Nirei’s face is still burning and though he doesn’t want to invite anymore violence against him for the simple act of opening his mouth, for some reason, he doesn’t stop himself.
He knows, if they did want to hurt him there’s nothing holding them back. They’ve already crossed the line of kidnapping him.
He doesn’t wanna see how far they’re willing to go.
Natori lets out a laugh, but it’s more of a burst of expelled air than anything truly cheerful. “You might be right,” he hums, hand shifting like he’s gripping his chin in thought; his tone sending another shiver of fear rolling down Nirei’s spine.
“But you see the last time we fought we had a little chat,” Natori continues, confirming that he is indeed the leader of KEEL—or what remains of them at least, given that they’ve been quiet these past few weeks. Only now, Nirei realises they’d only been licking their wounds.
“And you know,” Natori continues, rocking slightly on the balls of his heels, bringing himself closer to Nirei’s personal space, managing to loom even with the way he’s crouched, hands splayed over the curve of his knees, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, “I realised that Furin isn’t a good fit for someone like Kaji.”
“What—?”
“You’ve seen him haven’t you? You’ve heard the rumours. You know how violent he can be,” Natori grins, speaking over Nirei’s confusion, face twisting like his reaction is amusing all on its own. Beside him, Kongo is also grinning at the way that Nirei’s face is washed blank by Natori’s words.
“You know he hit your friend right? The one with the black and white hair,” he says, like Nirei should remember, when he’d already been put out of the fight by his own weakness, Kasumi having helped carry him outside so that he wouldn’t get caught underfoot by the rest of Bofurin who were all continuing to fight.
“All you Furin were fighting KEEL, and your Kaji decided that was the best time to beat some sense into your friend. I’m surprised you let him stay with all of you, if he’s so willing to turn against you.”
Nirei shakes his head, rapid. “He’s not—” he begins, but it’s all he’s able to get out before Natori moves; his hand viper-quick as it snags a hold of his hair; fringe caught in his sweaty grasp as he yanks Nirei’s head up. It strains his neck, pulls tight the skin of his throat, but before Nirei can get used to the burning, Natori yanks his hand down, hard, and slams Nirei’s face into the concrete beneath him. He catches his nose and it explodes in pain-blood-heat immediately, the taste of iron sinking into the creases of Nirei’s skin and washing over his tongue.
It brings back bad memories.
It makes him want to hurl.
“He is,” Natori snarls, peeling back the edges of his mask to reveal the monster underneath. His eyes are no longer scrunched in mirth. He looks dangerous.
“You know, I would bet it isn’t the first time either. That’s why Umemiya has to put him on such a tight leash,” he continues, hand curling tighter in Nirei’s fringe, ignoring the whimper in the back of his throat when he jerks his head up again, so that Nirei can’t turn away from him and the false-truth he spits.
“But don’t you think that’s cruel? Don’t you think that goes against everything that your leader says he stands for? You protect your town you protect your people you protect your friends—”
“If he was strong enough,” Kongo interjects, sniggering at his own joke.
“—and Umemiya makes you all act like neighbourhood heroes even though you’re all only pretending,” Natori continues, without falter.
He’s wrong. He doesn’t understand Furin. Bofurin.
He doesn’t understand Umemiya’s mission, or the promise that he made to Makochi, or the responsibility that everyone at Furin has shouldered alongside him to make the town somewhere safe and protected.
But any effort to say as much is lodged in the back of Nirei’s throat, blood-soaked and suffocating.
“I don’t want to break Kaji,” Natori purrs, while tugging harsher on Nirei’s hair, pulling him up instead of bowing down into his space. It hurts.
“I want to free him,” he says, voice dropping with threat and excitement both. “And you’re gonna help me.”
Nirei jerks his head as much as Natori’s grip in his hair allows. It’s not much.
“I won’t,” he says, even if the words sound more like a sob. His vision is blurred at the edges, and he hopes the others think his tears are from where they cracked his face against the ground rather than fearful tears, and he’s torn between wishing he couldn’t see anything and panicking because that would surely make everything worse.
Natori drags him up, a burning igniting through his scalp and down behind his ears.
“Ah, but you don’t understand,” he purrs, harmonised by Kongo’s sadistic laughter. “You don’t have a choice—”
Plink!
All three of their eyes widen in the same instant. And then slowly, Kongo and Natori’s eyes shift to somewhere beneath Nirei’s chin. His own hand comes up on instinct, to his chest and the weight of his phone hidden on the inner pocket of his jacket.
Plink!
Plink-plink-plink!
Nirei jerks backwards, but it’s useless where Natori still has a hold of him, and he’s far stronger than most people; compact rather than intimidating like Sugishita or Tsugeura. He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t earn any punishment from the action because Natori’s attention is abruptly pivoted onto the boy crouched beside them.
“Kongo. I thought I told you to take his phone,” he says low, rolling the words between his teeth with the echoes of a growl that only hints at the broiling anger suddenly sparked. Or maybe, it’s that it’s always been there, and his mask has simply slipped a little further.
Kongo, however, seems entirely unbothered by the threat mere inches from his body, tilting his head like he’s playing cute, eyes blinking wide in fake confusion.
“Whoops. It must’ve slipped my mind,” he says, steepling his hands in an apology. But there’s a disconnect between his tone and the way his lips quirk at the corners; the way his eyes slink back to where Nirei is still laid on his front, blood dripping down his face and clinging to his chin. His expression tells him that he didn’t forget. That he didn’t take Nirei’s phone deliberately.
But why? What could he possibly gain from giving Nirei a chance to call his friends?
It’s not like they’re not going to tell them. He’s bait, after all, to get to Kaji, and Natori at least has a plan because he wanted Nirei taken quietly, and he didn’t want him to be able to contact others, and yet Kongo—
Natori releases his grip on Nirei, standing in the same instance. He’s surprisingly fluid with his movements, easily able to shift from balancing on his haunches to standing upright, weight shifting easily to one foot as he brings his body round in a spin that looks oddly like Sakura’s deadly elegance—Nirei slow to realise what’s happening; Kongo slower still—until Natori’s foot collides with the underside of his jaw. There’s no more power than his spin, no more strength than the hinge between his knee and his ankle, and yet there’s enough power in the kick that Kongo is lifted clean of his feet and goes flying back across the concrete, rolling into another pile of discarded palettes with a shout of surprise and pain both.
Kirishima doesn’t look up from where he’s lounging on the beaten-up couch.
“I told you,” Natori snarls, not bothering to advance and beat his words into Kongo’s flesh, scowling where he’s trying to right himself, groaning low at the pain of both being kicked, and being launched into splintered wood.
“I didn’t want Furin knowing yet. You’ll get your chance to fight, but if you jump the gun, you’re going to get your ass beat the same as last time, and you won’t get a chance to dogpile the split-dyed kid.”
They’re talking about Sakura.
They’re not just targeting Kaji.
They’re also targeting Sakura.
Nirei refuses to roll over and let it happen. He might not be able to do much, but he won’t do nothing, and Natori’s anger is currently focused on Kongo. He doesn’t immediately see it when Nirei shoves a hand into his pocket, grabbing hold of his phone. He has to thumb the pin number—his thumb is at the wrong angle to get a decent read on his fingerprint, and it’s much faster to jam the code than try and angle his hand in the spike of panic that feels like a vice around his throat, far more dangerous than Kirishima’s.
Furin doesn’t have an SOS code. They’ve got one another’s numbers, and routines for patrol, and lookouts even on weekends, and it’s worked so far. But it’s not enough.
They need one, Nirei thinks, amidst panic, for the sake of getting an emergency message out to as many people as they can: a group chat that the entire school is a part of, with the explicit understanding that it’s only used in dire emergencies. Like right here, right now, with Nirei pinned to the floor by his own fear, nose streaming blood, eyes streaming tears, hands shaking as he pulls up the group chat he’s got with Suo, Sakura, Kiryu and Tsugeura, thumb swiping the text box—
“Not so fast.”
Nirei’s hand explodes in pain as Natori crushes it under his heel, not bothering to be mindful of his phone as it clatters out of his grip. His cry for help is half-written in the message box, unsent.
“N-no,” Nirei whimpers, but the word doesn’t sound quite right; nose blocked from blood, lip swollen from where Natori had slammed him into the ground, having already spoken with violence rather than simply the threat of it.
He’s shaking too much to try and reach out, even though his phone is right there, the message he didn’t get out right there—
But with Natori’s heel still crushing down on his right hand and the sneer once again stretched across his face; the taste of iron on his tongue and vivid pain racing up his arm, any thought of fighting is smothered.
Nirei can barely tremble, cowering. His neck aches with the angle that he’s looking up at his captor, but he can’t look away. He can’t stop the pain that’s coming, but he can’t close his eyes.
Suo told him.
He’s got to keep his eyes open.
Natori sneers.
Curls his hand.
Nirei flinches.
Shuts his eyes.
But the pain doesn’t come.
Not anymore than what’s coiling behind his eyes or burning from his elbow to his fingertips; Natori’s show shifting just enough the skin jerks, but there’s no punch. No kick. No hand in his hair to lift him up and slam him back down onto the ground, to try and break his nose a second time.
There’s a clatter, and Nirei opens his eyes in time to watch Natori standing back up again, having ducked only to pick up his phone. It was still open on the group chat, with the message unsent. Unlocked.
“Aww, how cute. Your friends are pretty worried about you,” Natori grins, taking a half step back. The moment his foot is no longer pinning Nirei’s hand to the floor, he tucks it close; his own weight shifting to one side so that he can bring it in, hide it away. At a quick glance, nothing is broken; his fingers still curl and although they sting like they’re being stabbed, they move as they should and none are crooked, which is a good thing, because it’s his right hand—it would complicate things a lot if Natori were to break any of his fingers.
Especially if he’s planning on keeping Nirei here for any length of time and offer him nothing to patch himself up with.
“Aww,” Natori is still humming, thumb swiping on the phone screen, reading through the messages that Nirei’s friends have been posting. He feels his cheeks heat at the thought of the invasion of privacy; his gut twisting with guilt at the thought of his friends’ messages being read. He can’t do anything to stop it.
“They’re wondering where you are,” Natori informs him, obviously enjoying himself as he keeps looking back and forth between the phone and the growing horror on Nirei’s face. “They even brought leftovers from the monja restaurant back to school. They’re looking for you, you know.”
Is it that late already? It doesn’t feel like it’s been long enough for lunch to be over.
But then, Nirei was late starting, given that he was with Takanashi and Kurita, helping them with schoolwork for the beginning of lunch. And Kirishima’s fist was heavy enough to nearly knock him out in one blow, disorientating enough that he hadn’t been able to keep track of where he’d been taken to, let alone how long it was.
Nirei’s breathing is coming too fast. Even if it’s difficult, air hot in his throat, blood having begun to slow now, drying sticky on his face and stringy between his lips as he chokes on an inhale.
His mind is empty of thought, but tangled in panic and rampant imagination both, because although parts are familiar thanks to middle school bullies making his life all the more difficult, he’s never experienced anything on this level.
He’s never been in this kind of danger, and worse, he’s never been responsible for getting others wrapped up in his mess.
Natori is still messing with his phone, grin growing all the wider as he taps at the screen, ignoring Nirei’s not-quite-begging for him to stop; the sounds of his attempts snuffed out beneath Kongo muttering to himself as he extracts himself from the splintered palettes, once more on his feet and dusting himself off, like he’s far too used to being punted like a sack of flour. He doesn’t even look hurt, despite his earlier groans; more annoyed by the dirt on his elbows and the grime that has marked up his jacket, and entirely unbothered that Natori had kicked him across the room because he comes to stand by him, head tilted in mild curiosity.
There’s the sound of a message being sent, and the idle vibrations of more incoming.
Nirei feels his heart twist itself into a knot and bury itself where his stomach is meant to be as Natori lifts his head, running the tip of his tongue over his lips, like he’s savouring the taste of terror on Nirei’s face.
“There,” he purrs, all malicious humour. “That will keep them satisfied for a while.”
“W-what did—what did you—?” Nirei tries to ask, but his voice stammers; words and blood alike thick on his tongue. He didn’t take a picture. He would’ve seen him take a picture. He would’ve heard the shutter snap, would’ve heard the click.
With the blood surely coating the lower half of Nirei’s face and his skin pale in panic, he probably looks a mess. The fact the others don’t know where he is, or how long he’s been missing would make it worse, because they’d know that they wouldn’t be able to protect Nirei if Natori wanted to hurt him more—
“You went home. You were feeling sick. That way, your friends won’t worry where you might’ve gone. They won’t interfere until we want them to,” Natori shrugs, eye jumping back and forth between him and Nirei’s phone, casting a cursory glance as his phone vibrates rapidly where the group chat immediately becomes active.
Even without being able to see, Nirei can imagine the well-wishes he’s being given, with the usual dozen or so stickers from Kiryu. There’ll be nothing from Suo just yet—he’s particular about using his phone in front of them, quoting that it feels rude and improper—and the thirty-second-delay vibration has to be from Sakura, who takes much longer to text given that he’s not good at it. It’s like he’s only just learning how to do it, but none of their friends hold it against him.
Nirei doesn’t either. In fact, he’s almost grateful for it; a moment of comfort found when he’s still sprawled on his stomach beneath the malevolent grins of upper KEEL members out looking for revenge.
They’re going to be hurt, later, when they learn the truth. But for now, Nirei can’t help but be glad that his friends still don’t know the truth.
“There,” Natori says, reading the final few texts before the group chat dies down—probably wanting to give Nirei a chance to rest up, or maybe it’s late enough for the afternoon lessons to begin—before pocketing the phone, making sure Nirei can’t get his hands on it.
“Aren’t your friends cute, worrying about you,” he leers, the words kind but the tone baiting. “Imagine what they’d look like if they realised where you actually were.”
Nirei’s panic briefly blinks into self-satisfied anger. If his friends knew where he was, it would only be a matter of time before all of them wiped that smirk off Natori’s smarmy face.
They probably wouldn’t even bother waiting to take turns.
But that doesn’t change the here-and-now.
Slowly, Nirei shifts. He half expects Natori to lash out at him for it, or maybe for Kongo to take a turn—the only one out of the currently-gathered KEEL yet to take a swing at him—but they simply watch him as he pushes himself up off his chest, right hand still curled against his ribcage where pain throbs in time to his heartbeat, until he’s on his knees.
Natori and Kongo still loom, and Nirei hasn’t done anything, but at least he’s no longer on his stomach anymore.
“What are you doing? This is the same as when you took Nagato,” Nirei says, and is pleased with himself when his voice doesn’t shake. He doubts that he’ll actually get answers. He’s more likely to be beaten for this, but at least something will actually be happening. He’s familiar with being hit. Punched. Kicked.
It will hurt, but at least it’s familiar enough he knows what to expect.
They’ll probably go for his face. They might even break his nose, if Nirei can’t defend himself properly, although for nothing more than inflicting visible damage on him.
Nirei never saw the picture that Anzai got sent, and Sakura was very clear that it was not something to be discussed, but given his reaction, it was bad.
But this time it’s different.
They want Kaji.
At least Natori does.
Nirei’s eyes flicker brief to where his now-silent phone sits in Natori’s back pocket. He hopes that Natori doesn’t pay too much attention to it, or wants Nirei to give him access later to continue snooping. Although they may not realise it, Nirei is more perfect than they realise.
They might’ve only grabbed him because he’s the weakest member of Bofurin and unable to put up any decent kind of fight, but he’s also a vice captain of the first year’s team Tamon. Which means he’s been given the contact information of the second year’s captains and vice captains.
Meaning, if they only wanted to lure out Kaji….
“Sounds fun doesn’t it?” Natori laughs, folding his hands over his chest. At least he’s not aiming to throw a punch.
“We could show the guardians of the neighbourhood just how truly useless they are. You got snatched right under their noses and they’re none the wiser.”
“That black-and-white kid looked pretty panicked last time,” Kongo joins in, not quite as terrifying as Natori, but his sneer is just as mean and Nirei doesn’t doubt that his punches will land just as hard.
“Hey, hey Natori, don’t do it yet. I want to be there when the kid figures it out,” he says, like he hadn’t been about to derail the entire plan by allowing Nirei to keep his phone, moving closer to nudge him with his elbow. Natori doesn’t shove him off, or gather distance, almost like they are friends. Like violence is their language: shared between themselves as much as they inflict it on everyone else.
Natori tilts his head to lean it on one shoulder, staring off into the middle distance like he’s actually considering it. Nirei can’t tell if he’s doing it to mess with him, or if he’s genuinely interested in starting up another fight with more of Furin. Like Kaji isn’t enough to keep his attention.
“If it comes to that.”
“If… it comes to that?”
Kongo’s eyes flash with anticipation and glee both.
“What? You want to get beat up?” he asks, taking a step forward.
Nirei shoves his body back, unthinking. “N-no—no—” he all but yells, raising both hands like he could place a physical boundary between himself and the oncoming threat. It’s pitiful, but it’s all he’s got, and though he’s scared, it’s not because he might get hurt.
He doesn’t want to be the reason that his friends suffer. Sakura has been protective of them all lately, and he’s going to blame himself for all of this.
After this is all over, he’s going to put more effort into training with Suo.
He’s never going to let himself be used to hurt anyone else ever again.
Natori’s hand snags around his wrist, fingers instantly crushing. It’s his right wrist too, already pained from where he’d crushed it under his heel; the pain searing when Natori yanks with a measly show of strength and yet Nirei is dragged forward without a chance to fight back. He yelps, but it’s as pitiful as the punch he tried to throw earlier.
Natori doesn’t care he’s hurt, and neither does Kongo, who moves with him, his own hand wrapping around Nirei’s upper arm, and between the two of them, they half lift, half drag Nirei to the back wall that isn’t an outer wall, but has two small rooms built against it.
Above are ledges covered in vegetation and streaming sunlight from back windows that have been smashed, but that’s all Nirei manages to see before he comes face to face with a door that Natori shoves open; a square of shadow and cold air rushing up to meet him as Nirei is thrown in.
The door slams shut behind him.
“Wait—wait, what are you—?” Nirei stammers before his chest hits something solid and all the air is punched out of his lungs at once. It’s much darker in here than the factory; dust thick in the air that smells old, thick enough he can almost choke on it. There’s a clunk, echoing; like that of something heavy falling in place and though Nirei doesn’t recognise it, a thrill of fear races up his spine.
Shapes loom as he tries to scramble upright, hands catching on the cold floor, on shattered glass, on paper and metal and wood that tells him nothing of what surrounds him. He can only think of the door behind him and the barely-muffled laughter that sounds through the packed wood.
He gives himself no time for his eyes to adjust so that he can see; needing only to twist in place and spin around to get his hands on the door. It looks tight; heavy enough that Nirei’s weight doesn’t even make it shudder. It thuds dully when his fists bang against it, but they’re no use either.
The laughter only gets louder.
“You can shout and fuss all you like,” Natori says, raising his voice just enough that he’s able to be heard through the thick wood and the sounds of Nirei’s breath getting caught in his lungs, stuttering even as it feels as through the darkness is crowding in on him.
“We’re far enough from anyone that no one will be able to hear you even if you do,” he continues, teasing, his voice beginning to grow softer, like he’s moving away from the door; Kongo’s amusement accompanying him. “Now be a good boy and wait here.”
Nirei waits for more, for half a heartbeat, but the muffled sounds are too distant for him to make shapes out of the noise. They’re… leaving? They’ve locked him in here and now they’re leaving?
“Wait—you can’t just—come back!” Nirei shouts, voice tight in his throat as he raises his hands and slams them against the door, ignoring the way the dust cloys, as disarming as the hands he’d had around his throat. There’s no sound from the others, no matter how much Nirei bangs on the door, or shouts as loud as he’s able.
His voice echoes in the small room around him, but no one comes back to force him to shut up, or threaten him, or anything.
Nirei shudders.
He hadn’t thought anything about the warehouse in the industry district being isolated, but that the members of KEEL are content to allow Nirei to make this much noise….
The key is not to panic.
Or, panic any more than he is, Nirei thinks; his focus zeroing in on the way his chest heaves fierce enough for it to be painful. He can’t breathe through his nose thanks to Natori’s earlier violence, so his shoves his hands over his face instead, stifling the air flow and forcing his body to take deeper, slower breaths until his chest is no longer jumping and his heart is no longer throwing itself against his ribcage in an attempt to break free.
Think. Think.
What can he do? How can he escape? How can he warn the others?
Nirei turns, pressing his back to the door, hoping the solid weight would keep him up, and looks to the room around him. He’s looking for a distraction more than anything, but if there’s something here that can help him….
The room isn’t as dark as it could’ve been, if the room were windowless. As it stands, the two windows there have been boarded up roughly; two sheets of plywood hammered into the lower half of the frames with slats to fill the space above, although it’s been poorly done, with large gaps between them that allows enough light in to bring depth to the room. It crawls along the floor, casting odd shapes and deep shadows between broken furniture, rusted filing cabinets and old materials that have been piled up and left to rot. Paper beds the floor, and broken shards of glass from lights above that have been smashed, either by vandalism or age, or both, but Nirei’s focus is on any potential escape route.
He doubts.
Natori has a plan after all, and had considered it enough for Nirei to be targeted; to give orders that Nirei’s phone be taken from him; that their hideout can allow to hold him captive if there’s no one close enough to witness his capture. Worse still, with his Mom busy with work enough that they often miss each other except if Nirei deliberately stays up late, or extended weekends, she’s not going to notice Nirei’s disappearance for a few days at least.
Nirei doesn’t want to consider what Natori can get away with during that time, but there’s little else in the darkness that can distract him.
He’s not afraid of the dark, weak though he may be, his fears are far more logical, and yet this isn’t anything he’s ever considered, and it’s near-paralysing in its intensity.
He has to hope that his friends realise something is wrong sooner rather than later, if only for the fact that it will hurt worse the longer that everything is dragged out. He knows that they will, and even if not, Natori’s focus on Kaji means that more of Furin are going to be involved in his mess, and when that happens, the truth about Nirei’s abduction will come out.
But with his hand hurting and the blood on his face and the fear still pounding in his heart like a drum without a beat, Nirei decides that he can be strong, later.
Right now, he’s only got the strength to sink down to the gritty, dirty floor, bringing his knees up to his chest and curling his arms around them. His eyes burn with tears, but there’s no one to laugh at him, or mock him in the cold darkness.