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perfeggso · 4 years

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Noir (yutae)

Week I pt. 2

Tokyo – fall of 1983: Nakamoto Yuta is quickly rising in the ranks of one of Japan’s most notorious yakuza families, and he’s poised to climb even further if he can stop himself from being ruined by the pretty Korean boy who’s shown up out of nowhere.

Glossary of Japanese words

Characters: Yuta x Taeyong + NCT ensemble, Twice J-line (for funsies)

Genres: Gang!AU, angst, smut, fluff, 1980s!AU

Warnings: graphic violence, swearing, minor character death, alcohol use, mentions of drugs, period-typical homophobia, xenophobia, BDSM

Rating: 18+

Length: 2k (will progressively get way longer)

They had beaten Taeyong when he had asked. He had gotten on his knees before the leader of the Specters and implored him humbly to let him join. He would be a model warrior, he had assured: would fight unquestioningly anyone who challenged the gang and never run away. He could prove himself. The Spectors’ leader had pointed to the full red circle on his white headband. Don’t you know we don’t accept gaijin ? I’m not a gaijin , Taeyong had argued, only to be met with a venomous cackle. Taeyong was sure he had felt a thin rain of spit land on him from the force of the laugh. What are you then, Zainichi? That’s worse! Then they beat him. That was seven years ago, but it still carried trauma for Taeyong.

Gassan-ya was not Taeyong’s favorite bar, but it was doing him good to laze there at the counter drinking alone, eating peanuts, and listening to a mixture of citypop hits from the jukebox behind him and a report on Mitsubishi’s rising stock values on the television hanging from the ceiling. That’s what he had been doing, until the Specters came zooming on their souped-up bikes past the front windows, hooting and hollering in their white uniforms, and banging baseball bats and rusty pipes against the pavement as they went. Taeyong cursed to himself upon seeing the group of boys speeding off to a battle, shoving a handful of peanuts in his mouth and swigging the rest of his beer before ordering another.

He could never figure out why he was always so enamored with the Bosozoku boys he saw; why he had felt a need to become one. Was it his desire for a sense of identity and belonging? A need to act out against his parents’ authority? The terrifying thrill he got from imagining himself in battle, taking a bat to some poor young man’s head? Was it self-hatred? He figured the correct answer was probably all of the above. Walking around for almost a quarter century in Japan with the name Lee Taeyong had naturally brought him nothing but rejection – professional, academic, romantic, you name it. And those who had accepted him were often no better off in life than he was. Two of his best friends were locked away for petty theft, after all.

So, Taeyong had tried to join a violent biker gang at the age of seventeen, learning to ride his dad’s old motorbike, style a pompadour, and roll his R’s in preparation to make his case. He did it because if he was going to be an outcast he at least wanted to be an outcast that someone could give a damn about. He liked the thought of letting off some steam in a grand way, of being a source of fear for prosperous average Japanese people, of claiming his own place in the warrior tradition. And it would have pleased him to have one of those bikes too.

But it had gone horribly wrong when he did make his case, and now he was too old for the Bosozoku anyway. He spent his days working at an autobody shop and his nights drinking and trying not to get too close to anyone. You see, Taeyong was a sensitive boy, but he lived in a world where it didn’t pay to be sensitive.

The bartender slid Taeyong his Sapporo over the counter as the rumble of twenty Bosozoku bikes was finally fading into the night, and he downed the drink as quickly as he possibly could. It was a nice night and he needed to get out into the fresh air.

Taeyong left the bar on the outskirts of Tokyo and rounded the corner to a sidewalk perpendicular to a small alleyway. Taeyong noticed curiously the sound of what he could only assume was an interpersonal struggle coming from the alley behind Gassan-ya: feet scraping against asphalt, heavy breaths, and urgent growled arguing. Against his better judgement, perhaps because he had exceeded his usual drink limit, Taeyong decided to investigate, clutching the switchblade he kept in his pocket and tiptoeing cautiously as if attempting to approach a spooked deer. When he got close enough to see, he found two men in trench coats hovering over the man Taeyong recognized as managing the bar in some capacity. In the dusky light it was hard to make out anything clearly, but Taeyong was pretty sure at least one of the men held a revolver. Taeyong tightened his grip on the knife and peeked out from behind a stack of liquor crates since he didn’t know what else to do and his curiosity was getting the best of him. As if that would save him.

“I’m sorry, we’re just a little short!” The man on the ground was attempting to explain – his voice hoarse.

“Well we’re sorry, but we need 30,000 for this week.”

“Please!” protested the apparent victim. “We’ll get it to you soon. Just – just give us a couple days. I’ll do anything you need and we won’t be late again!”

Taeyong assumed the assailants would respond with something, but instead, the man on the ground seemed to spot him spying, their eyes locking, and Taeyong’s heart plunged into his stomach as the men in trench coats turned around and aimed at him.

“Come out, whoever you are,” said the closer one, “hands above your head!” Were they cops?

Hesitantly, Taeyong crept out from his hiding spot and raised his arms as his lips attempted to form something coherent to say.

“What are you doing here?” Asked the other one.

What was he doing there?

“I – I heard something. I thought it might be a mugging…I’m sorry, I’ll just go.”

“Don’t move,” said the first one. He turned to his partner. “Take him to the van. Kid’s a liability.”

“Yes sir!” The farther one approached Taeyong and all of a sudden, his mind was spinning not just from the alcohol but also from the battle raging in his mind between the urge to run and the knowledge that he could very well lose his life. If he were a wild animal, he would be playing dead.

Evidently, Taeyong didn’t think quickly enough, because his kidnapper had already reached him and taken off his hat to cover Taeyong’s face with. He was led to a van, then formally blindfolded and handcuffed and left to wait for the two men to finish doing whatever they planned to do to that poor bar-owner.

The next several hours were the most terrifying and disconcerting thing that Taeyong had ever experienced. First, they took him into the city to somewhere in Aoyama, he was pretty sure, and proceeded to have a conversation about him as if he weren’t right there with a man named Gwang-suk (Taeyong noted the Korean name with a mixture of comfort and dread). Should they kill him? Please, no . Should they let him go? That would be greatly appreciated . Should they recruit him? To do what exactly??? Taeyong had deduced at this point that he was being held by one or another yakuza syndicate, but beyond that he could not have been more lost. Then, Gwang-suk suggested they take Taeyong to someone named Nakamoto and that was that: back in the car.

A twenty-minute drive and he was marched into another building and shoved into a chair at an oak desk and finally allowed to see his surroundings. Taeyong heard a man and a woman talking muffled through a wooden door behind the desk which, when it slid open, revealed a handsome man with white hair and piercings wearing a snakeskin suit. In fact, Taeyong was briefly distracted by just how handsome the man was.

“ Shategashira !” Taeyong’s kidnappers bellowed, saluting the younger man who was now seated at the desk facing Taeyong.

“At ease,” he said coolly in a rounded Osaka accent.

The man on Taeyong’s left spoke. “We’re sorry to interrupt you and Ms. Hirai, sir!”

“That’s no problem,” said the man Taeyong could only assume was “Nakamoto.” “Work is always my priority as you know.”

“Of course, sir!”

The two men recounted their version of events with great enthusiasm and Nakamoto listened. When they were done, he looked at Taeyong straight-on and asked, “is this all accurate?”

The directness startled Taeyong. “Um – yes, factually that’s more or less it. But I was never trying to get into any trouble! I promise I would never talk!”

“Yes,” said Nakamoto, seeming to search Taeyong’s face. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But you see, the Inagawa-kai simply can’t afford any loose ends, as I hope you understand.” So that’s whose custody he was in, Taeyong realized, only the third largest and second most powerful criminal organization in Japan – maybe in Asia. No sweat.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what is your name?” Nakamoto asked.

“Taeyong. Lee Taeyong.”

Nakamoto nodded knowingly. “Mm, I figured that’s why you ended up here. I deal with all the zainichi .”

Nakamoto was the first Japanese person Taeyong had heard say that word without even a hint of distaste and this fact only confused his fear even further. Taeyong had never felt more helpless. Here he was, with no idea how anything around him worked nor what it meant, his life so fully in the hands of this beautiful man across from him that it made his head pound.

“So, Taeyong. Let’s figure this out. Where are you from? What do you do? Tell me a bit about yourself.”

What is this, a job interview?

“I…well…um, I grew up in Shin-Ōkubo and I uh, still live there. I work in an auto shop fixing cars. I’m 24? What else do you need to know?”

“We’re the same age,” remarked Nakamoto with a slight smile, and Taeyong wasn’t sure if this was supposed to be a means of connection between the two men or a subtle jab at Taeyong’s relative lack of status. Either way, the nervous shaking in Taeyong’s body was beginning to fade as he became more and more confident he was not in imminent danger of death. However, he couldn’t completely rule out the possibility he was being toyed with.

Nakamoto spoke again. “How about your family?”

“We’re not very close,” said Taeyong. “We only speak very occasionally.”

“Well,” Nakamoto responded, “we’re similar in that regard as well. Do you have a criminal record?”

Taeyong was a bit taken aback by the question, but he was speaking with a gangster, so it wasn’t too out of the blue. “I’ve stolen some shit, but I don’t usually get caught. Spent a couple nights in jail for property damage a while ago. Things like that, I guess? I was sort of in a gang with my close friends in high school, but we didn’t do much other than loiter. When I tried to join more established gangs I was rejected.”

“I see,” said Nakamoto, “well you could still always join a gang, if you haven’t already outgrown that impulse.”

Was this the recruitment his kidnappers had mentioned? How on earth to respond? “Oh?”

Nakamoto laughed, a sharp sound. He was apparently done dealing with his victim and turned to the larger of the men who had abducted Taeyong. “Find someone to go back home with him and monitor him tonight. I think we’ll make him a foot soldier. It’s better than the alternatives. Understood?”

“Yes, Shategashira !”

Yuta turned back to Taeyong, who had gone tense against his chair. What’s a foot soldier? For Inagawa-kai? Would he have a gun? Could he even fire a gun?? What were those alternatives that would be unspeakably worse??? And what was he supposed to say to his boss????

Nakamoto addressed Taeyong one more time. “I hope you understand that this is for your own good and that you won’t resent me. I'm confident that we can come to an understanding. I’ll be seeing you soon.” And with that, Nakamoto was back out the door and Taeyong was once more being hauled to his feet.

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