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greennct · 4 years

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license to kill - nakamoto yuta | part 2

part two to my yuta bodyguard!au. heres the link to part one if you haven’t read it yet :)

2.7k words, fluff&angst, slow-burn <3

You woke back in your room, with (surprise, surprise) Nakamoto inches from your face. Gasping in a breath of air, you shot upwards in bed as the boy jumped back with cat-like reflexes. You immediately let out an involuntary groan as pain shot through your leg. Closing your eyes to bear the brunt of your injury, you asked, with gritted teeth,

‘What happened?’

‘You got in the car and passed out.’ Nakamoto replied, infuriatingly neutrally.

‘How did you-’

‘97% of hostages always make a attempt at escape within the first twenty-four hours of captivity.’

‘So you admit it?’

‘W-’

‘That I’m a hostage!’

Nakamoto let out a puff of air. You supposed that was the closest he ever got to a sigh. ‘You’ve added a month of recovery time to your leg.’

‘Why won’t you let me go home?’

‘This is my job.’ He ran his hand through his slicked-back hair. You took the moment of silence to look around the room. Your entire suitcase had been unpacked, from your Burberry trenches in the cupboard, to your stack of Vogue’s fanned out on the desk. Nakamoto himself was still wearing a hideously dad-like knitted sweater, an item of clothing you were beginning to fear he possessed an extensive collection of.

‘Do you want anything?’

‘Huh?’ You snapped your gaze back up to his face.

‘I’m making dinner.’

You were taken aback. ‘Um. Pasta?’

‘Oh. I’ve made curry.’

You swore you could see the first glint of humour in his eyes as he turned around to attend to the kitchen.

Three weeks into being quarantined with Nakamoto, and your leg had still not healed. Apparently you had at least six months before it was normal, and another three until you could even walk with crutches. At the moment, you were being carried around the cabin by your silent bodyguard - which hadn’t stopped you from asking questions at any hour of the day.

You had decided on a different plan of attack. Get to know Nakamoto, butter him up, and then manipulate him into doing anything you wanted. It had worked on every nanny or other bodyguard you had had previously, so there was no reason why it wouldn’t work on him. Besides, without your electronic lifeline to the real world, what else was there to do?

‘What’s your star sign?’ You asked at breakfast.

‘Are you a cat or a dog person?’ As he cleaned the kitchen.

‘What's your favourite Taylor Swift song?’ Whilst piggybacking to the living room.

‘Can you ride a bike?’ Over veggie burgers at lunch.

‘Were you better at Maths or English at school?’ As he hoovered around the sofa.

‘What’s your go-to karaoke song?’ As you tried to peer over his shoulder to peek at his laptop screen.

‘Who’s your celebrity crush?’ Kicked off the (one-sided) dinner conversation.

‘How many languages do you speak?’ As he flicked off your bedroom lights.

You asked questions constantly, relentless in your delivery. You lost sleep wracking your brain to think of new ones to ask the next day. Your persistence had continued for just under a week before finally-

‘Murakami.’

‘What?’ You had been lounging in your favourite armchair, curled up by the fire, but you shot straight up, ignoring the pain in your leg at the sudden movement, to twist around in shock.

Nakamoto had been sitting at the desk in the corner, hunched over his laptop, as always - so still you weren’t sure if he had actually spoken at all.

‘My favourite author is Murakami. You asked this morning.’

‘Oh!’ You felt a grin creep onto your face. ‘Cool!’ You dared not ask another question, for fear of scaring him into silence again.

‘He writes in Japanese. Translates the novels into English himself.’ Nakamoto stood up, walking smoothly across the room to you. He deposited a book on your lap.

‘Colourless-’

‘-Tsuru Tazaki-’ He joined in with you as you finished reading the title together.

‘-And his Years of Pilgrimage.’

‘It’s short.’ You remark, pleased.

‘It’s not my favourite, but its,’ he paused, picking his words, ‘probably more accessible for you.’

You huffed, pretending to be offended in an attempt to hide your relief. You didn’t think you’d read a book since English class in Eighth Grade.

‘Guess I’ll read it then,’ You sighed, as he made his way to the kitchen to start preparing lunch. ‘It’s not like I have anything better to do!’ You called after his retreating figure.

Staring down at the book on your lap, you groaned. Great. You thought. As if my life couldn’t get any worse. Now I have to read to make this stupid boy fall in love with me.

A week later, however, you were singing a different tune. You put the book down, more or less for the first time since you had first picked it up, and screamed at the top of your lungs.

‘NAKAMOTOOOO!’

You could barely finish the word when he materialised at the door, visibly out of breath.

‘What’s wrong? Has someone broken in? Is it your leg? I told you not to slide down the stai-’

‘I finished it!’ You squealed, watching him slump against the doorframe.

‘Jesus, I thought you were-’

‘It was amazing! The best book I’ve ever read! Do you have any more?’

Nakamoto straightened and blinked a few times, frowning at you slightly. ‘Well- I, um- yeah. What did you like about the book?’

‘Oh, um, everything! The characters were amazing, and the dreams were sick! Do you have any more?’

‘Ok.’ He paused, seeming to be mulling over something in his head. ‘How about you write down what was good - on a post-it note. Or whatever. And I’ll find you another one of his books that’s similar.’

Now it was your turn to blanch. ‘You want a book report?’

You thought you could see Nakamoto’s cheeks flush a minute shade darker, however you couldn’t be sure from across the room. ‘No, not like- If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you, it would just be easier if I-’

‘No, no, that’s cool!’

A pause.

‘Ok. Um, get it to me whenever.’ Nakamoto slowly turned, and left the room. You realised that was the first time you have ever seen him even close to flustered.

Damn. You thought to yourself. Who would’ve thought that reading was the way to that man’s heart?

Colourless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage

- Characters multi-dimensional, complex, well-thought-out

- Mystery within plot - ambiguities

- Dreams presented in an unusual way

★★★★★!! Thank you Nakamoto! ☺

You sighed, staring down at the note. For what was essentially three sentences, it came as a surprise to you that it had taken you the majority of the afternoon to craft. You found yourself asking again, whether or not it was too friendly, or too cold. You leaned back in your chair, groaning loudly.

‘Everything ok?’ Nakamoto had materialised in your doorway.

You jumped out of your skin. ‘What?! Oh, um, yeah.’ You let out a vapid giggle. ‘Here’s the review!’ You shoved the book into his hand, staring determinedly down at your feet.

Three months into your prison sentence, you had read pretty much everything Murakami had written. You had surprised even yourself - reading so avidly you were pretty much one of his biggest fans now. This week, you were going so far as to read his memoir.

However, the one thing within your literary awakening that had, frustratingly, stayed completely the same, was Nakamoto’s silence. He stayed stoically monosyllabic despite the fact your persistent questions had continued at the same force as that first week. Your only form of communication was limited to the post-it notes you shoved into the pages of your novels. You had expanded your reviews to include reactions to the happenings within the pages. Every time a character reacted, or event occurred, you added a small post-it note with your shock, elation or anger in response. The books were then returned to Nakamoto in silence, and after a week or so, appeared back on your desk, with tiny, capitalised responses to your post-its.

What?! Noo, Toru, why?!!

ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇʟʟ - ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜɪs ᴡɪғᴇ!! ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴsᴜʟᴛ ʜɪᴍ

Sumire and K better get together - I swear!!

ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ ᴜɴʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜʏ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴsʜɪᴘ ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.... ᴛʏᴘɪᴄᴀʟ

Your banter went on for chapters and chapters. You had discovered Nakamoto was surprisingly smart, not to mention witty - he always had a sharp retort for your comments: it was very rare that the two of you agreed on, well anything. He was infuriatingly stubborn and cynical - always expecting the worst from the characters, always rooting against the couples.

However, that didn’t prevent, despite Nakamoto’s clear resistance, the two of you developing - not a friendship, exactly, but more like a... comradeship, you supposed. He refused to engage in live conversation, but was clearly eager to discuss literature. You suspected he was just as bored as you were.

You were able to walk by yourself now, shuffling around the cabin on crutches, thanking your lucky stars that your bedroom was on the first floor, and so the main contact you had with him was when he brought you meals, and of course, the dialogue you sustained through the post-it notes.

That’s why you were surprised when one evening he paused before leaving your room. He seemed to be internally debating on whether or not to say anything.

‘Nakamoto?’ You dared.

‘I’m going down to the village tomorrow.’ He blurted out, avoiding your gaze. ‘We’re almost out of food, and well, books.’

‘Oh.’ You had to agree, as your dinner for the past few days had essentially consisted of some kind of bean stew, which, no matter how delicious Nakamoto made taste, was starting to get slightly repetitive.

‘You could come. No one will recognise you, and it’s easier than worrying-’ He cleared his throat. ‘-wondering if you’ve tried to kill yourself walking down those steps again.’

Your eyes widened. ‘Really?’

He shrugged. ‘As long as you wear a coat. You seem to reject the cold weather as if catching hypothermia is optional.’

‘A hoe never gets cold!’ You breezed back, out of habit. It was a response you were used to giving when traipsing around cities in the winter in your mini-dresses, all for the pursuit of fashion.

You did not anticipate the way Nakamoto choked, red flushing into his ears. ‘Um, just-’ He collected himself, smoothing back out his posture and facial expression. ‘8AM tomorrow. Be ready.’

And with that, he was gone.

That next morning, you were up by 6:30, dragging yourself to your bedside table to get organised. The majority of last night had been spent picking out an outfit - you were surprised at how much effort you were putting in to go meet a bunch of primitive villagers in the middle of nowhere, But hey, you guessed to yourself, being trapped inside for three months changes a person.

By 7:30 your makeup had been completed, and your outfit donned, aside from the Dior gilet, hat and gloves which you had picked out as a compromise to Nakamoto’s berating. This had surprised you - you were not exactly a person who compromised. It felt strange, but not in a bad way - which surprised you even more.

As soon as Nakamoto walked into your room at 8:55 he scoffed at your outfit.

‘What?’ You recoiled at the twinge of hurt that had stung your stomach.

‘Do you really think walking into that village with a monogrammed-designer-sleeveless-coat-thing is going to help you blend in? Take this.’ He tossed you the plan black coat that had been draped over his arm.

‘What about-’

‘I have a spare. I’ll go get it.’

You sighed, turning towards your mirror as you swapped your coats. You looked... ordinary. A pair of (albeit perfectly tailored) jeans that could easily be passed off as - you shuddered - off-the-rack, a nondescript black coat, and a singular snow shoe - your other leg covered with a medical boot. Applying another coat of lipgloss, you rolled your eyes. Whatever. At least Nakamoto won’t laugh at me again.

Walking through the village, you were forced to lean on Nakamoto’s arm, as he half-dragged you through the snow. You made slow progress, stopping at various butcher shops, bakeries and delis in order to stock up on food for the next few months. It was almost an hour before you had completed your purchases, walking down the singular high street. You were about to turn around, when-

‘Nakamoto! A bookstore!’ You gasped, turning to him with shining eyes.

‘We’re only here for foo-’

‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ You dragged him along, hobbling through the door in your excitement.

Brushing the snow off of your good foot, you abandoned your bodyguard, hopping around the store in pursuit of more Murakami. The small building was deceptively large on the inside, boasting multiple floors, and countless shelves. After having searched for just under ten minutes, you were infuriated to discover you had already read all the Murakami novels in stock - which meant Nakamoto definitely had. Disappointed, but undeterred, you kept sifting through the bookshelf, eagerly searching for something - though you were not sure exactly what. After another few minutes, you turned around triumphantly, ready to barge over to Nakamoto, only to discover he was standing right behind you.

‘Naka- oh!’ You exclaimed, staring up at him. ‘I found this for you - we should read it together!’ You shoved the book into his hands as you rambled on. ‘It’s called Out, and though it’ll be different stylistically it looks like it explores themes that act as the antithesis of-’

‘Thank you.’ He murmured, taking the book from your grasp.

Your gaze shot down as you watched his fingers brush against yours. You almost jumped out of your skin at the electric shock that zipped through his touch.

Nakamoto had turned to bring the book to the cashier, but you were frozen in place. This was like nothing you had ever felt before. Sure, you had had crushes, and boyfriends, but nothing had ever felt the way Nakamoto’s fingertips on yours had.

What the fuck.

‘Are you coming or not?’ He called from the counter, and you limped to his side, now hyperaware of the inches of distance between you.

‘You two look so cute!’ The old lady working the til enthused. ‘You reminded me of my husband and I, right when we first started dating.’

‘Oh, we’re not-’ You tried to clarify.

‘-That serious yet!’ Nakamoto beamed at the woman, throwing his arm around you, and sending another shockwave through your body. ‘But thank you for the compliment, it’s very nice of you!’

He grabbed the paper bag and whisked you out of the store quicker than you thought humanly possible.

‘What was that about?!’ You spluttered, cheeks heating up.

‘What’s going to look more suspicious - a young rich couple holidaying in the alps, or two random strangers appearing in the village?’ He asked.

You didn’t know how to respond, lost for words with your bodyguard for the first time in your entire life. You followed him to the car in silence.

What did this mean? All this time, you had thought that you were skilfully manipulating Nakamoto into developing feelings for you, when it suddenly seemed like all this time, he had been doing this to you. This wasn’t like you. Feelings didn’t sneak up on you like tax payments - you were always the one initiating, and then ending relationships, without a care in the world for consequences. You didn't understand what these new feelings for Nakamoto meant, and you sure as hell didn’t like them.

Dealing with all of your newfound emotions, you barely noticed your stoic bodyguard until the car was parked, and you realised with a start the two of you had been sitting in silence for at least five minutes.

‘Yuta.’ He muttered.

‘What?’ You turned to look at him,

‘It’s my real name. Nakamoto is my surname, but Yuta is my first name.’

You stared into his eyes, his electric gaze crackling the air in the car around you.

‘Yuta,’ you murmured, leaning in slowly.

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