Work Text:
2014
Iwai steps into the alley and takes in the scene with a single skeptical glance.
Ikebukuro, Azuma had told him. Behind Saeki's pawn shop, usually. You know the place, right? Iwai does, in fact, know of Saeki and his new pawn shop. Opening a legitimate business hasn't pushed all his informants away. Just the good ones, which is why he's taking a chance on Azuma's contact; at this point, he's low on options. But there's no mysterious info broker lurking in the back alley—just whirring fans and exposed pipes, discarded crates and the damp stink of the alleyway, and a kid fiddling with his phone.
Well, Azuma did say the broker is usually here. Amamiya must have other business right now. Given the choice between asking the kid, who might have no idea who Iwai is talking about, and having to talk to Saeki about it, Iwai approaches the kid. No-brainer.
The kid looks up from his phone the moment Iwai makes a move. Gunmetal eyes glint from beneath a tangle of black hair. He watches, wire-taut, and doesn't relax his grip on his phone even when Iwai stops a good few meters away.
Iwai could offer reassuring platitudes. It's fine. I'll be out of your way soon. But he remembers being the kid's age, if at an ever-increasing distance, and he can guess what the kid would think of it. "I'm looking for Ren Amamiya," he says instead.
"Why?"
"I need some info. I heard he sells it."
"Yeah," says the kid. He tilts his head, considers Iwai for a moment with a gaze too sharp for his young face. Iwai stares blankly back at him until, abruptly, the kid breaks into a grin. "I do."
Iwai narrows his eyes. The kid smiles wider, like he wants to laugh, though his gaze doesn't for a second lose its intensity. He also doesn't say, Just kidding!
"You're Amamiya," says Iwai at last, not quite a question, not quite disbelieving. Azuma talked Amamiya up like some magical, shadowy figure who can get his hands on any knowledge he wants, and now Iwai is expected to believe that of some scrawny kid? This guy can't be more than a couple years older than Kaoru.
"Yep." Amamiya tucks his phone away, finally, and keeps his hands in his pockets afterwards. "You expected some one-eyed fifty-year-old who talks like this, right?" He drops his voice briefly into the growl of a cynical old chain-smoker. "You and everyone else. But no one would tell a guy like that anything. Who are you, and what are you looking for?"
"Name's Iwai."
Amamiya gives Iwai a quick, businesslike once-over. "The airsoft shop."
"Yep," says Iwai, echoing him, instead of What the hell? or What do you know about my shop? It's weird, and maybe not a good sign, that his business is known to some street kid way up in Ikebukuro. If Untouchable was nearby, he might've expected it, but... well, Amamiya does claim to be an info broker. And Azuma vouched for him. Maybe there's something to it.
"And you want...?"
"There's a guy, Tsuda. Yakuza. He's acting funny. I wanna know what's riding him."
"Akimitsu Tsuda, Hashiba syndicate?"
By this point in the conversation, Iwai doesn't do more than blink at the confidence with which this snot-nosed kid names yakuza figures. Instead, he hesitates. Images flit through his head, memories of the years when he wouldn't have dreamed of buying intel on Tsuda. But that was the past; this is now, and Iwai has a family to think about. "That's him."
"Cool. A hundred thousand yen, half up front."
Iwai sighs. He was expecting a quote like that before he got here—a much higher one, in fact, given the way Azuma talked about Amamiya—but when he saw the kid, he thought maybe he could get away with paying less. "Cash?" he confirms, just to make sure. New contact, never hurts.
That grin slashes across Amamiya's face again. "Nah. Write me a check and I'll stick it in my bank account. My dad made it for me so I could save all my crime money."
Fucking kids. Iwai rolls his eyes and pulls out a roll of banknotes, angling himself so the exchange isn't visible from the street. Watching his face, Amamiya laughs brightly; it's the first time since he noticed Iwai walking towards him that he's looked his age. Quick and practiced, he counts the bills Iwai hands him and tucks them into a hidden pocket in his overshirt. "Come back around this time, the day after tomorrow. I'll have what you need."
A two-day turnaround time for info on the yakuza is a pretty ballsy claim. "You sure?"
"Yeah." The kid tucks his hands into his jeans pockets again. "Nice doing business."
And despite being half a foot taller and decades older than this kid, Iwai gets the feeling he's been dismissed. "Likewise," he says, and turns to leave, because what else is he going to do?
Weird kid. He'd better pull through with that info about Tsuda. And then... Iwai doesn't know what, after that, but he'll figure it out. The current situation isn't sustainable. Sworn brothers or not, Iwai has to draw the line, for the sake of his own kid if nothing else.
2015
Arisa-chan has been sitting in the back booth of Crossroads since opening time, playing games on her phone and glancing up every time the door opens. Lala has a bad feeling about it. Arisa-chan has such a history with men, she just escaped one nightmare, and she expects Lala not to think anything of it when she says she wants to meet yet another man? Already?
But by the early hours of the morning, it's starting to look like the guy won't show. A little frown creases Arisa-chan's brow. Lala has begun to catalog what's in the fridge at home, wondering if there's anything she can use to make a comforting dinner when they get back, when someone ducks into the bar.
"Welcome to—" Lala begins, but then she catches sight of the newcomer. "Hey, this place isn't for kids."
The teenager shoots her a brief, impenetrable look, then steps out of the doorway so that his back is to the wall. He shoves his hands in his pockets, one booted foot propped up against the wall, and rakes his eyes over the room with practiced suspicion; seconds later, he's taken in every darkened corner of the bar. Arisa-chan, meanwhile, has finally brightened in recognition. She waves to the boy as his gaze comes to rest on her, and after a nonplussed second, he makes his way over to join her.
It's not like that, Arisa-chan had told Lala, laughing up from the futon in Lala's living room, as though Lala's worry was ridiculous. I'm not gonna date him. I just want to talk.
People tell me that one a lot, Lala had said dryly.
Trust me.
Lala understands the humor better now. The boy looks like a string bean, like anyone else his age, and traces of baby fat linger in his cheeks, though less of it than she thinks there should be. This is still a damn bar, for adults, but she'll let it slide this time. For Arisa-chan.
The boy slides into the booth and leans in, greeting Arisa-chan in a low voice. And though Lala is curious, she does have customers to take care of; she gets back to work, keeping an eye on the booth as best she can.
The kid asks a serious question, his gaze intense, but Arisa-chan shakes her head. She speaks earnestly, openly. At the bar, a group of rowdy and drunk patrons struggles with their shared tab, and Lala spends nearly a full minute trying to figure out who should pay according to the near-incoherent criteria they explain to her. By the time they've paid and shuffled out to find a few cabs, a couple of other patrons have gone as well, leaving only Ichiko-chan at the bar, and Arisa-chan and the boy in the booth.
The boy's demeanor has changed while Lala was working. He's settled back in his seat, brow furrowed, his gaze flickering uncomfortably between Arisa-chan and the wall behind her. "Uh," he says, audible now in the near-empty room. "No problem? You don't have to... I mean, I didn't give it to you so you'd be grateful, or whatever."
"I know." Arisa-chan shakes her head. Her pretty hair falls over her face, and she tucks it behind one ear. "But I'm grateful anyway. I wanted you to know."
"...Thanks?"
Arisa-chan smiles, in a quiet way that Lala has seen in her before, but only rarely and never recently. "Sure." She slips her phone into her pocket and stretches. "I'm gonna head home. I probably won't see you again," she adds pensively. "But I won't forget you. Or what you did."
The boy takes it with skittish uncertainty, the same way he took her thanks. "...Yeah. Take care."
With a final smile for the boy, Arisa-chan slips out of the booth and out of the door, presumably heading back to her futon at Lala's apartment. The boy stares after her with a complex expression. Lala waits for him to leave, and waits a little longer, and then, finally, running out of chores, she says, "Kid, this is still a bar."
The boy blinks, and all that tangled feeling disappears behind a mask of bright attentiveness. "Yeah." He follows Arisa-chan out of the booth, but instead of leaving, he wanders over and leans against the counter. "Sure is. Can I get a drink?"
A self-possessed smile plays across his lips, as though his talk with Arisa-chan never took place. "No," says Lala, because, and she can't stress this enough, she runs a bar. "You can leave."
He wrinkles his nose at her. "There's not even anyone here," he says, ignoring Ichiko-chan right next to him, but he doesn't push Lala further. He's looking at her with keen-eyed curiosity, studying her eyes, her wig, her kimono. "What if you teach me how to do makeup, then? And wear kimono?"
Lala pauses, a towel and a half-dry tumbler in her hands.
It's on the tip of her tongue to refuse this kid with his too-sharp gaze, this boy who isn't bothered by wandering Shinjuku after midnight and who probably gave Arisa-chan a not-insignificant amount of money as a gift, or else Lala's a complete fool. All that, and he's not of legal age to drive a car; she's not sure he's old enough for high school. No, Lala knows trouble when she sees it.
But the gratitude in Arisa-chan's voice was real. As of today, he's my ex, she'd told Lala in the dead of night, collapsed on the couch, laughing in breathless disbelief. He never let me see a single yen. I didn't know what to do. But I just got hold of enough money to... to support myself until I'm back on my feet. I just. I don't know how. To stand up again.
Of course I'll help. You could've come to me sooner. But about the money... Arisa-chan, where did it come from?
It wasn't anything illegal. And I didn't just swap one kind of trouble for another. Don't worry about— A huge yawn. Sorry. I'm so tired.
And that was all Arisa-chan would ever say about the source of the funds. Well, the kid is trouble, but maybe not for Arisa-chan. And he's waiting for an answer. And... Lala remembers being his age, wishing she had someone to teach her.
She sighs. "Sure. What's your name?"
The boy considers her for a second. "Ren Amamiya."
Ichiko-chan stirs on her stool. Amamiya's gaze flickers sideways, quick and calculating, then dismissive. "Thanks," he adds with a smile for Lala, less sharp than the ones before. "We can talk about it more later, yeah? It's getting kinda late."
"Go home, kid."
Amamiya laughs, like she's said something ridiculous, but he leaves. With a sigh, Lala resumes drying the glass. She already half-regrets saying yes, but it's too late now. Might as well see how it goes.
Once the boy has safely left, a voice rises in strident complaint. "That was Ren Amamiya! You can't teach Ren Amamiya how to do makeup!"
"Why not? Who is he?"
"He's an information broker in Ikebukuro. Everyone swears he's the best, but I've heard if you cross him, you're as good as dead. Some people say—they won't even find your body." A quiet, exhausted sigh.
"Ichiko-chan, don't be ridiculous. He can't be older than fifteen."
The staccato tap-tap-tap of nails against the bar. "Yeah, I'm not sure the details are credible either. But more than one of my contacts has warned me about him. I guess they thought I might try to trade with him." A defiant edge to the words, for a moment; then it dulls again. "He has people nervous."
Another sigh; another equally exhausted person. "Sounds like he needs someone."
"Lala-chan! Have you listened to me at all?"
"Thanks for the warning. I'll keep it in mind."
2016
A boy in a dark school uniform leans across the counter of a certain airsoft shop, listening with veiled alertness as the proprietor speaks.
"I can't give you that name, and I wouldn't if I could. If you're tangled with that branch of the mafia, you're in over your head, kid."
"Thank you for your concern, Iwai-san. If you don't have his name, can you point me towards someone who does?"
A long pause, and then a sigh. "Ren Amamiya. Best info broker in Tokyo. Probably the worst guy in the city to make an enemy of, but as long as you deal with him fairly, he's a good guy to know."
"...All right. Where can I find him?"
"You're serious about this."
"Yes."
"Your funeral. He hangs out in Ikebukuro. You want the alley behind Saeki's Quick Pawn. You'll know Amamiya. You met him your first time here—the kid your age, remember?"
"—What?"
A few weeks later, that same boy renews an old acquaintance. "It's... Lala-chan, right?"
"That's what I go by here. It's good to see you again, Goro."
"You too. It's been... thirteen years?"
"Thirteen, fourteen. Something like that. How's your mother?"
"She's doing well, thank you." The boy moves swiftly on. "On another note, I'm surprised you already knew Amamiya-kun?"
"Oh, Ren-chan." The clink of a glass set on a bar; a pause to murmur to another patron. "He just showed up one day."
"That sounds like him."
"He's not a bad kid. And I'm glad he brought you to see me, honey. But he'd be better if he stopped asking me for drinks."
The boy laughs, quiet but genuine. A moment later, it's matched by a gravelly chuckle.
Streetlights flicker on around Sojiro as he makes his way back to Leblanc under the darkening sky. It's been a long day, and he's not as young as he used to be; he tires more easily now. He's more than ready to deposit his groceries in the fridge and let Goro lock up for the night.
But when he approaches the café, he comes to a stop, caught by the scene in the window. Goro stands behind the counter, of course, apron over a casual outfit, but in the twenty minutes Sojiro's been gone, another kid has materialized. Scruffy clothes and messy hair, tall black boots and earrings; he forms a stark contrast with Sojiro's ward, who tries so hard to look neat and put-together. The boy leans on the counter and talks, while Goro focuses on refilling and straightening the jars of coffee beans sitting centimeters from the boy's elbow.
Goro looks up, his brows arched sardonically, and offers a few curt words; the boy laughs in delight. And as Goro returns to getting the café ready for tomorrow, the look on his face... Sojiro has never seen him wear it before. Not peace, and not exactly happiness.
He heads for the door. The new kid looks up before he ever reaches it, eyes darting to the window; immediately, he pushes back from the counter and slides his hands into his pockets. And, as Goro's gaze flickers from the boy to the door, a change comes over him too, drawing his face into more familiar lines.
Watching it happen as he pushes open the door with one shoulder, Sojiro finds a name for how he looked before. Goro was relaxed, alone in Leblanc with the other kid, and now he's not. A dull dissatisfaction settles in his stomach. He's been congratulating himself for getting through, getting the kid to drop the people-pleasing act, but maybe he hasn't been doing as well as he thought.
"Welcome back, Boss." Goro hurries around the counter. "Let me help you with those."
"Nah, I've got it. You talk to your friend." Sojiro glances sidelong at the new boy, who's watching him with a tilted head and the carefully smooth face of a teenager who doesn't trust Sojiro at all. That's familiar, too. "Haven't seen you around before. You're a friend of his?"
"Something like that," says the kid, in a deep voice better suited to someone five years older. "This your place? It's pretty nice."
It sounds like a compliment, but Goro sighs as if it's not. "Boss, this is Ren Amamiya. We spend time together sometimes," he says, following Sojiro back behind the counter. As Sojiro sets down his grocery bags, he continues, "Ren, this is Sojiro Sakura, my guardian for the year."
Amamiya draws back. Sojiro looks up just in time to see steel shutters slam down over abject shock. He glances between Goro and Sojiro, every muscle rigid like he's getting ready to run.
It's the guardian thing, probably. Sojiro's known enough kids with bad experiences; he can see the signs. The fraying clothes, the tension in his frame the moment he caught sight of an unknown adult—all the kids Sojiro has carried through probation have been like Amamiya, in their own way. Goro is a different case, no legal trouble at all, and even he's been slow to trust.
"Nice to meet you," Sojiro says, brisk, not businesslike but definitely not gentle. With luck, the kids will think he's only halfway paying attention. "Stop by whenever. This kid's friends are always welcome."
"Yeah," says Amamiya, subdued. "Thanks."
He hasn't run off, which is pretty good. Better than some probationers Sojiro's dealt with, and they had more incentive to stick around. Maybe once Amamiya gets a little more comfortable, Sojiro can help him with whatever's made him so skittish. That might be some kind of trouble, or Amamiya might just be touchy after a lifetime of bad experiences. Hard to know.
But either way, Sojiro meant what he said: he trusts Goro's judgment. If Amamiya is Goro's friend, he can't be that bad.