#izutotsu | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

constastan · 6 years

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kusanagi+totsuka, ~5k, AU where mikoto doesn’t exist, or is a lion in savannah somewhere like God intended, or in jail

The card is the first thing Izumo sees after returning from his day off, for once properly used. Tucked into the door handle, yellow and gaudy, it stands out against the dark wood, relegating everything around it to a background. Turning it over, Izumo doesn’t find any name signed, but the combination of intricate handiwork and cheap materials is telling enough. Bouncy letters on the back read, Happy housewarming!

Not what one would expect after nearly nine months, but then, one generally stops expecting anything about six months in.

“Idiot,” he says later that day, when Totsuka appears at the door with a single tinkle of the doorbell and an expectant smile. “Housewarming’s for when you invite people to your new place. ‘s the opposite of that.”

“But you changed a lot around here,” Totsuka returns. “It’s kinda new!”

“Wonder how you’d figure it from the outside. Peeked through the windows?”

Totsuka laughs. He looks pretty different himself, a couple of inches taller and a certain way that makes Izumo suddenly aware he’s not going to remain a shiftless kid for the entire lifespan, however well he fills the part. His jacket has to be too light, though the bulkiness creates an illusion of warmth. His hair is nearly too long, some of the strands catching on the black cord around his neck that holds a small metallic pendant. That’s a new one: Totsuka accessorizing.

Still, when he says, "Let’s see" and starts admiring all the renovations clockwise, his priorities turn out to be unchanged. He scarcely notices anything about the woodwork but admires the print on curtains, points out the new cushions but misses the tablecloths - Izumo’s particular point of pride — and nearly loses his mind once he reaches the music machine.

"It’s like a stereo system!" he declares when the second song begins, interrupting his singalong for a moment.

"What’d you think it is? A jukebox?"

"Not fair, Kusanagi-san. You know, I learned to play guitar from a busker in Iwaki, she was very good. I thought, ‘when I’m in Shizume I’ll play for Kusanagi-san’s patrons for free’. But I can’t beat this!"

With a smile, Izumo leans on the counter to see what he’s picking for the next turn.

"Why, go ahead and audition anyway. Live music is a whole another tier."

Totsuka beams directly at him before narrowing his eyes at the screen.

"Really? Well, I’ll give it my best. Oh, If I Fell In Love With You, I can play that! Does Mizuomi-san like rock or ballads more, Kusanagi-san?"

"Rock," says Izumo. He thinks his reply sounded easy and even as usual and came without any unnatural delay or strain. Yet Totsuka suddenly lifts his head as if catching a distant sound of something unfamiliar and ominous. He pauses before continuing. "He’d probably appreciate the Beatles. But he’s gone now."

For several long moments Totsuka is silent and looks taken aback. His hand is still hovering over the buttons; slowly, he brings it back to his side, and gives the interior another once-over, maybe trying to tie all the changes together.

Izumo reaches into his pocket for cigarettes.

"He was sick for a long time."

"I’m sorry," Totsuka says a little haltingly, then seems to remember something that brings about an odd flash of animation. "Ah, occhan died too. Last year, in the spring."

"Are you-" Izumo stops, unsure what exactly he meant to ask, gives himself a moment to focus. "Have you moved in with your… with his family?"

Totsuka shakes his head and finally comes over to take a seat at the bar, every motion careful and deliberate, like slipping between the dead they brought in there.

He went away right after the funeral. No reason, he was just thinking about occhan and the wind that always seemed to nudge occhan in the back wherever he went, and realized how little of the world he had seen, himself. It’s weird he had never thought to ask to tag along. His second — or was it third? — cousin is helping to rent out the apartment and they split the money. And now he has been to Saitama, Iwaki and Niigata - Saitama is the best, but the others are fun too. There’s always some kind of job if you aren’t too picky. Now he’s back to Shizume though, to pick up the rent money now that tenants moved out and because he felt like coming back. Who knows for how long. Who knows? That’s the only answer he is willing to give for anything that has to do with future plans, so eventually Izumo has to throw his hands up and stop asking.

Despite Izumo’s reservations on that point, the rent does come through. It’s instantly obvious when Totsuka walks in a couple of days later, all languid airs and exaggerated swagger.

"Well, the deed is done, Kusanagi-san. I’m a rich man now. Bring us the best you have to celebrate, on me!"

Two can play the game, so Izumo makes a show of examining the menu at length with a pondering frown before looking back at him, unimpressed.

"The best I have, huh. Well, that would be an Arizona Sunset for those of us who are underage. As for me, I’ll go for a Blue Arrow, and thanks for the treat."

"Geez," Totsuka says, not quite managing a proper pout. "At least let me watch how you make it. Because, see, I was in fact reflecting on things and I’m not satisfied with my career. I wanna do something creative."

"Following the recipe isn’t exactly an art form," Izumo points out, and comes to regret this warning very soon because Totsuka apparently has an outpour of creativity that garnishes anything he touches. He manages to keep his own cocktail safe, if mildly minted, but the Arizona Sunset goes supernova with fruit and syrups.

"It’s delicious," Totsuka assures him as soon as his lips touch the rim of the glass. He doesn’t return to the customer’s side of the bar. Izumo can see his eyes trailing along the shelves, sliding smoothly over the rows of bottles, sparkling with interest over the equipment. For several sips they savor their respective drinks in silence.

"What kind of job were you thinking?" Izumo asks eventually.

Totsuka hums and twirls his glass. His eyes are half-lidded; in the dim light they look warm, sweet and amber like honey.

"Mhm… a bakery? You know, an old-timey one, ran by some elderly couple. With family recipes and… rustic interior, is it what it’s called?" his voice is sing-song, also honey-textured. "And the same customers come every day for breakfast or lunch, so you make small talk…"

"Totsuka," says Izumo, in an undertone despite himself. "I’m talking prospects. not daydreams."

"Or a food truck. Going around the country, selling street food. Always on the move and everybody’s glad to see you when you come!”

"Food trucks don’t have routes throughout the entire country, idiot." Izumo sighs and goes to rinse off his glass. Totsuka trails after him. "It’s pointless, and nobody has that much gas to waste."

"But carnivals do, don’t they? If I sell street food and also busk, it’ll be like a mini-carnival."

The next day, they make a Kit-Kat milkshake, a Derby and some spicy nuts and bolts for snacking. The day later, it’s mozzarella sticks and plain soda. The food truck comes up occasionally, every time Izumo tries to gauge anything out about Totsuka’s cooking pursuits. After a certain, very early, point it’s all a game, but the kind that gets more amusing as new details come up. The truck is supposed to be orange, medium-sized, with a grill, candy floss machine and some space for the futon, guitar, keepsakes and Totsuka himself. Izumo eyeballs the price for him, just to be mean.

"I’ll put some ads on," Totsuka decides after a brief awestricken pause at the numbers. "Don’t you want to advertise your bar all over Japan, Kusanagi-san?"

"Depends. How much’d you even charge if you hope to cover the costs?"

Totsuka slumps onto the table, half-defeated, half-overdramatic and says:

"Maybe I’ll just sell the apartment."

It takes Izumo a surprising amount of self-restraint to stop himself from childishly retaliating, Well, maybe I’ll just sell the bar.

Not that he actually would, at the present moment. He has given himself until the end of college, so the time isn’t exactly running out yet — though the day when it starts to is already an impending dot on the horizon. It’s like the mid-August of summer holidays, is he’s still allowed to think in high school terms.

Then again, Izumo thinks, as he mops the floors late at night, meticulously studies the damage to the coveted tablecloths and moves expertly through the maze of tables without as much as brushing a chair once, nobody allows or disallows him anything. His family isn’t rushing him, and the money has never been an issue. No, it’s all self-imposed. He knows the bar will have to go eventually, better sooner than later. Better before he has a real reputation in the business world to worry about.

Izumo straightens out, propping the mop against the wall and looks around, taking in the interior, somewhat mismatched from the patchy renovating, a bit too fancy for the people who come there. Ever since his uncle died, it seems to enter deeper and deeper into transitory state. Izumo wouldn’t be able to explain why on earth he decided to upscale it. The theme he should have stuck with is neutrality, a complete lack of anything suggesting affiliations, or even non-basic standards. That’s how the place gained traction, after all. Neutral grounds ruled by a person who is on pleasant, distant terms with every group in your tier. Somewhere to have a drink without any fights erupting and maybe, when the floor grows emptier, take the bartender aside and wheedle a favor out of him. Izumo agrees just often enough to keep the rumor that it’s doable alive without appearing to take sides.

After a week or so and no fewer than twenty cocktail recipes Totsuka unearths the live music plan and proclaims he needs to know his audience.

"Guys who don’t know half a thing about music," Izumo reassures him. "And I don’t permit bottle throwing here, so you’ll do fine with anything."

Naturally, Totsuka is as offended as he hoped.

"I need to know what kind of people they are! You don’t get tips if you play against the grain, Kusanagi-san. And nobody sings or claps along, and it’s just depressing."

"No singalongs is what you should be aiming for, thanks," Izumo says, but Totsuka’s mind is clearly made up. To save him the trouble of climbing through the bathroom windows or trying any other wacky kidbook schemes, Izumo eventually deposits him on a far-end seat at the bar one Thursday night with a Coke and instructions to attract as little attention as possible. To hold out until he’s in the spotlight, guitar and everything.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take a guitar to make someone high-school aged stand out in a half-empty bar. For the first hour nearly everybody who enters greets Izumo with "Oh, and that’s…?". They provide their own helpful suggestions, too. Izumo shoots down ‘little brother’ right away, but accepts ‘cousin’ a couple of times. When Totsuka manages to cut in first, it’s usually ‘intern’.

"Intern?" Izumo asks him via a raised eyebrow after the first time. Totsuka mutters back, “Cause I’m learning cocktails from you,” burying the back part of the sentence in his drink. Izumo only shrugs.

At long last, the novelty of Totsuka starts to wear off. Tables are getting fuller, and by ten Izumo can say with certainty that Totsuka should have been able to collect an accurate sample of the local public already. He’s in no hurry to leave though, glancing around with gleaming eyes and a half-smile. The local public is indeed a sight, especially for those who don’t hang out in certain parts of the town too often. Mohawks, bleached-out do’s, even a couple of pompadours. Leather jackets, clunky jewelry, bandanas. Tattoos and scars, sometimes overlapping. Each gang brought in their own style, contributing to a wild mess of clashing key pieces. It took Izumo some time to get used to that visual cacophony; Totsuka, however, seems to be taking it in stride, like most things.

When Izumo has to go to the back room for a minute, he slips off the chair to follow him and whispers.

"Are they really terrible people, Kusanagi-san? Who do really terrible things?"

"Really terrible people go to the dive bars in another district." Izumo loads off several bags of readymade snacks into his arms. "These are at moderate levels."

"So, they just fight among themselves?"

"Why’d you say that?"

Totsuka ponders a little, then says, "The leather jackets and the punk-style guys definitely fight". Izumo stops for a beat to glance at him because that’s true. This untimely pause must encourage Totsuka and he probes further: "Is there a reason?"

Izumo sighs and goes over the options in his head while his hands collect the utensils and supplies semi-mechanically.

"Look," he says at last. "The reason they come here, drink, chat with me is because it’s comparatively safe. They know I’m not gonna tip anyone off on their business. And so I don’t."

Turning back, he runs smack into Totsuka’s pout, this time full-fledged, and decides to rectify it a bit. Even at this point he knows that decision is more on a wrong side. Too bad there’s no way to predict the scale of wrong sometimes.

"Some smuggle, some have gambling rings, some do bodyguarding. Sort ‘em on your own if you are so curious."

Before heading out he catches a glimpse of Totsuka’s eyes lighting up and a grin beginning to form. Figures: now he’s gone and turned what could be a simple curiosity bone-throw or a flat rejection into a game. If Totsuka doesn’t figure it out, he can’t blame Izumo, and if he somehow does, the subjects of their discussion can’t blame Izumo either.

It appears like a win-win.

The next afternoon sees Totsuka parked on a sturdier chair with a guitar, facing the still-empty room. That’s as good of a stage as the bar can provide, but he seems to be perfectly content.

"It’s a nice observation point," he informs Izumo.

"Weren’t you complaining about the lighting and whatnot earlier?" asks Izumo. "What happened to that?"

He knows perfectly well what happened to that though: the endless circulation of ideas and plans in Totsuka’s world. Technically, he deposed the busking to old news himself, with that espionage schtick. Now Totsuka’s fully ready to lurk in the shadows and sniff out secrets, even if it takes some guitar-playing on the side. His gaze is glued to the door.

The first person to come is Gonzo, the leader of so-called ‘leather jackets’ that Izumo just labels as ‘the north-east one’ in his head, even though that’s also not their proper name. He isn’t entirely sure whether they’re really a biker gang or just dress the part. Gonzo is generally a boisterously good-natured guy, twice as much today, but that doesn’t stop Izumo from taking notice of how uncharacteristically early he is.

And sure enough, Gonzo is barely halfway through his first drink when he suggests Izumo to step out for a smoke while it’s not busy yet. Outside they listen to the buzz of passing trains, watch the sky go a darker shade of pink little by little in what could be called a companiable silence if there were any companions involved. Gonzo’s eyes lazily drift from the cotton-candy clouds to the dark windows way below.

"You keep anything up there?" he asks, nodding at them.

Here it comes, Izumo thinks. Unlike Totsuka he knows pretty well how the north-east gang makes money and what issues come with this kind of business.

"Odds and ends."

"Could they make space for a bit?"

"Should they?"

Gonzo laughs and leans sideways, not quite bumping shoulders. The underworld custom of talking in circles and vague hints clearly isn’t his strong suit. Charisma-laced candor, however, is. The wisps of his cigarette smoke now curl in the air next to Izumo’s own, merging together as they float up.

"They could make you some money, is what I’m saying. There’ll be a shipment in Chiba tonight, and we’re all booked out. Will take it off your hands in twenty hours tops."

"Pretty risky for my business and for yours."

"It’ll pay off, for both," says Gonzo. Through the half-closed door Izumo can hear the doorbell ring and Totsuka greet someone cheerfully. Someone who could be from the central district, or criminal outskirts, or rival dealers and probably expected the presumed neutrality of their go-to for decompressing to span both floors.

He gives a careless shrug.

"Sorry."

Coincidentally, the newly arrived bloke turns out to also be one of the north-east guys. When Izumo and Gonzo reenter, the bar is already tingling with bits and pieces of music. Totsuka is not playing yet, just running his hands against the strings to make them hum, fingers plucking at one or another occasionally. The patron sits at the table nearby with a beer. They seem to be talking about some band; Totsuka breaks off to mouth, "On the counter," at Izumo. He glances there and swipes the coins, an appropriate number of them surprisingly, off into his pocket, making a mental note to teach Totsuka operate the cash register.

"Wait a sec, you got a show on?" says Gonzo, paradoxically less single-minded now that he’s been rejected. "And I have a first row seat, too."

Over the course of the next half an hour he backs up Izumo’s assessment of his good-naturedness, laughing and calling out song titles and occasionally going as far as to clap along. The music now fills the space properly, ringing off the glass edges, oozing into the back room. Customers flow in steadily, and so do drinks. The north-easterners trickle over to where their leader is parked in Totsuka’s corner; the circle gets denser until he starts looking like booked personal entertainment.

Izumo is too busy to really do anything along the lines of watching over, but the music makes it easy enough to keep tabs. It runs on steadily and smoothly for a while, interspersed with claps and shout-outs, starts stumbling a little when Totsuka gets ambitious enough to follow those suggestions; then grows sparser, laxer, gradually making more and more room for the background noise.

He turns his head to get a good look at that point. Totsuka is still at his original spot, but now leaning onto the counter, guitar tossed across his lap carelessly. His cheeks and eyes are overly bright and the grin when he catches Izumo’s eye is positively dazzling. Izumo, a bartender, inadvertently glances at the glass with soda sat near the improvized stage and wonders who dumped their shot in there, also when and for what exact reason. As soon as his look drifts back, Totsuka flings the guitar down and himself off his seat in one motion that has a certain drunken grace to it. To be fair, it barely stretches to see him all the way to Izumo’s end of the counter.

"It’s going really well," he reports blissfully and, before Izumo has the chance to take a jab at some of his riffs, specifies: "The intel gathering. I’ve very nearly figured it out."

"Well?"

"Not yet. Still gotta check. Say, Kusanagi-san, we should bet on it!"

Izumo raises an eyebrow at him.

"Can’t win gamblin’ with a rich man like you. I don’t deal in trucks, and what else can you want? A pudding cup?"

Tosuka is all too happy to use that as an excuse to laugh out, all tipsy merriment. The protests that follow are also fairly stereotypical, if Izumo’s experience counts for something,

"Nope! A drink, a drink! You still haven’t served me your best one. I don’t buy the Arizona Sunset!" And here he leans in to mock-whisper: "Is that Blue Arrow after a-"

They both look up simultaneously as Totsuka’s cut off by something falling over him, something that for a split second looks like a tangible shadow to Izumo. Then he recognizes it for what it is - a high-grade leather jacket — and becomes aware of a smiling Gonzo at the eye level, the likely source of this windfall.

"Sorry ‘bout that. Some of my guys were being funny, overdid it a little. Better get some air outside, that will help with clearing his head."

Totsuka partially scrambles out from under the jacket, letting it fall back onto his shoulders, and in that half-buried state looks between them like a bewildered chipmunk. Izumo takes a moment to pass through the haze of half-formed thoughts of dragging him upstairs, throwing down a blanket and having him sleep it off for a while. But the night air is also good, as he, a bartender, can attest. He stifles a sigh.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Gonzo nods and Totsuka, who’s still in the process of getting the tousled hair out of his face, is pulled to his feet. Before leaving he turns to wink conspiratorially at Izumo through the remaining flyaway strands, and Izumo says to himself, since there’s nobody else, So, not that drunk after all, huh.

They come back in twenty minutes or so. Totsuka does seem more even-keeled, less sparkle and more glow. The leather jacket is sitting on his frame properly now, though it’s hard to say who gets the credit for that. He takes a seat at one of the corner tables this time, smiling absently at Izumo as he motions at the discarded guitar. One of “the guys" picks it up and eventually it finds its way back into the case. Izumo is rather sure he catches a glimpse of it cased at some point between then and the midnight.

Still, the fact remains: they've come back. It’s a good hour, if not more, of partying for the north-easterners that night. They drink and tip remarkably well and Izumo is waiting for his chance to tell Totsuka, See what I told you about the live music. Totsuka, however, seems to be moving with the tidal waves of people around him, never approaching alone. Whenever their eyes meet, he smiles in the same conspiratory way and gesticulates something inarticulate. Izumo only wonders if the night air really worked like they hoped.

It’s after midnight that the people start trickling out. A little early, Izumo thinks, but then recalls they have an overnight job lined up. Two by three, three by four, the group makes its way to the entrance and then outside. From the corner of Izumo’s distracted eye they blend into clusters of black spots against the light-colored walls, then transform into firefly-like tiny bursts of vivid color as each one stops to light a cigarette just out of the doors. The hum of departing slowly fades away to near silence, and when Izumo finally turns away from a desolated customer with a large tab, the bar looks lopsided — the right side is now barren.

Izumo leans against the counter, putting his weight onto it for several seconds: that late-shift feeling, something between lightheadedness and fatigue, starts to settle in. Making use of the downtime, he sorts out the tips, wipes the counter, prepares the trays for dirty glasses and tries to remember what he wanted in the back room. It comes to him like a jolt: the blanket. Only at that point he realizes.

The bar is half-barren and locked in what feels like a unnatural hush: the music is long gone — soaked into the walls, splashed out into the street — and no inane chatter has come to replace it. Belatedly, Izumo remembers Totsuka never swapped from Gonzo’s jacket back to his own bulky excuse of it, and wonders if he, a black dot at the edge of vision, gave Izumo’s back a mischievous smile on his way out.

Twelve hours in, Izumo thinks of all the ways to bastardize Blue Arrow while still retaining the right to call it that and entertains himself by looking up substitutions.

Two days in, he skims the local news column closely and starts straining his ear for any noteworthy gossip during the shifts; there’s none, which is reassuring.

Three days in, he suddenly reaches to turn on the portable radio mid-afternoon while prepping the bar alone.

Five days in, he tries to recall the address even though he knows Totsuka never mentioned it. Nor his cousin’s name, for that matter.

A week in, Gonzo shows up at his usual time.

Just like the last time, he’s alone, but in stark contrast from the last time he isn’t the one determined to have a word. Izumo bids his time and eventually Gonzo catches that prompting undercurrent in his persistent lingering glances. He goes through the trouble of coming over to answer it with a roll of shoulders and a lazy smile.

"The last week’s gig turned out good, by the way. The trouble paid off in full, like I said. Think it over for the future."

Izumo keeps the frustration off his face as he rummages through his memory trying to pinpoint what on earth he could be on about. Eventually, their smoke outside backdropped by cotton candy sky and the upstairs windows floats up to the surface.

"Ah," he says. "Well, looks like you’re making do without me."

Gonzo winks.

"The kid sure came in handy, so thanks for that, too. But we gotta have something more permanent."

"The kid," Izumo repeats slowly.

"Your cousin, was it? His place was perfect for the job. You know, a tiny block, on the outskirts... all warehouse-like, even. Could have fit twice as many crates in. Does he live with your family?"

Izumo, listening as if through the thick layer of something muffling, says, "No".

"Ah. Well, figures, since… Anyway, transporting the stuff was a piece of cake back then. I was gonna chat him up about a couple more shipments I had an eye on, but now that he’s cleared off…"

This time Izumo stops himself from dumbly echoing, "cleared off…", but something of the sentiment must be seeping through on his face anyway as Gonzo’s eyes flicker away. Still keeping them off, he rubs his cheek, the picture of someone’s who’s wondering if they're getting dragged into family drama.

"I mean, he joined us here and there while we were finishing up that business — no harm in that, keeping company. He loves to be on the move, no? Left him in Sendai last, he asked to pick him up Sunday. Said he’ll be staying for some open air schtick. But…"

"I see," says Izumo and somewhat hastily serves him his usual. They talk a bit about the current climate in the city and how the rent’s on the rise and, what movies are on, for Pete’s sake, before Hiroki and some others finally show up. The minutes swell, break off and sink slowly like heavy droplets from a leaking pipe. Izumo goes through the routine with an odd sense of distance, as if his hands move three paces ahead of his consciousness.

Hours later, Gonzo approaches him before calling it a night — half-cautiously, or so it looks to Izumo’s currently lagging mind.

"Can’t promise you anything," he says in a hurried attempt to redirect. "Don’t even know how long this place’s gonna stay in the business."

Gonzo blinks, then just looks at him for a moment — tall, solid and steady on his feet. Not the kind of person you can just hip-check off their chosen track. No knocking the subject out of his hands until he’s ready to drop it, Izumo thinks, and waits for him to keep going.

"Right, just thought I’d mention… Me and some guys, we’re going back to Sendai next week."

"Good luck, but don’t bother," Izumo hands seem to be picking up speed uncontrollably. It’s five paces ahead of the rest now, no less. "He’ll be in Nagasaki by then, or maybe in Europe. There’s no keeping up with him for us who have things to do."

Having blurted that out, he stops for a second – completely, hands and all – mesmerized by the satisfying finality of the words. That didn't just sound like it's over, he thinks, that sounded like it's been over for a week. Like it possibly never even started.

Several days later he re-discovers the card in the pile of mail where he first put it, and feels grateful to have something he can- not dispose of but physically set aside, literally put on the shelf. A gesture like this is the only thing his perfect wrap-up speech was missing.

He pauses for a second, surveying his options, then opens the drawer that holds a purchase agreement and other non-trivial papers. The yellowness and gaudiness of Totsuka’s inverted welcome seems to show through the top sheet, so he buries it deeper in the stack.

In the end of the winter when he starts getting things ready for the deal, it’s still there, unfaded.

#k project #Kusanagi Izumo #totsuka tatara #izutotsu #(fake advertizing )#fic

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