Work Text:
Karma takes a breath. The air in his car smells like the interior of a barn, mud and dead grass and slaughter–probably because of where the man was killed.
He’s been driving to Kunigigaoka from Osaka for the past day, arriving just in time for dusk to set in before he drops off the body. The man was shot, a loud, sharp noise in the empty plane that splattered blood on the plants surrounding him. One bullet through his unsuspecting skull, in the middle of a rice field on a farm in the quiet outskirts of Osaka. A short but booming death in a large but silent area.
Rice field. 田. Shiota. 潮田.
He’s seen that name on a letter in the room that was connected to one of Nagisa’s… offices. That’s what he called it, at least. Karma thought of it as what it was. Not an office, or a clinic, but a harvesting room.
It’s not an uncommon surname, though definitely not as frequent as Sato or Tanaka. He wonders what Nagisa’s relation to it is, though. Was it his surname? No, certainly not, even if Nagisa Shiota had a nice ring to it. The ghost wouldn’t be so careless as to let that lie around his office, even if he did seem quite comfortable with Karma as of late. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that–he may have grown used to his presence, but that comfort wasn’t exactly reciprocated, despite his odd interest in the man.
Names in this line of work were complicated. Everyone went by Aliases, so he was certain that, despite Nagisa being what his “friends” called him (his own words), that likely wasn’t his real first name, although it suited him. Nagisa. 渚. Beach, Shore’s edge. Bright blue hair and cerulean eyes, like a lagoon. Thin, pale, yellow skin. Like the sand bank underneath. He can’t enjoy the beach on its own anymore. Every time he’s tried to visit outside of work, the sounds of people drowning fill his head, overpowering the calming noise of waves hitting the shore and seagulls circling the area.
One event in particular came to mind–He, his boss (The Reaper, everyone in the industry called him. Karma thought that was stupid), and his boss’s apprentice were on a boat for a job assigned. They were supposed to tie the man up, shackle his ankle to an 80-pound dumbbell (heavy, but not too heavy, so that he’d sink slowly), dump him into the ocean while he was still conscious, and record it all for his wife (the client).
Of course, something went wrong. That usually happened whenever the Reaper let his apprentice take charge of something.
He got out of his binds and tried to run off the boat. Karma was supposed to wait outside while they took care of the job. He usually dealt with the aftermath (staging the crime scene or transporting bodies), not the murder part, so there were plenty of jobs where he wasn’t a necessary addition, but was told to come along regardless. Upon seeing the man run across the deck of the cheap, rented motorboat, he acted on instinct, grabbing the man by the back of his shirt’s neckline and grabbing a butterfly knife he kept with him from the sheath in his belt.
He got into a lot of fights in junior high–he had no real combat training, but he remembered back then, he had a bad habit of going for the eyes if he was in a tight spot. He’s been told that’s dirty–or whatever. He really couldn’t care less about unspoken rules. Professionals don’t give a shit about playing dirty; he learned that rather quickly as an adult. So he could break the unspoken rules whenever he damn pleased.
He dug the knife’s blade into the man’s eyesocket, pushing it behind the lid and ripping the eye out with ease. It caused a sickening pop that made Karma’s stomach twist. When the Reaper and his apprentice caught up, he spent the next 30 minutes vomiting off the boat’s pier watching while they finished the job.
That was a long time ago. Not that long, only about two years ago. But far too long for him not to be over it by now.
Sighing, Karma pulls into an alley by Nagisa’s clinic. It’s been about three months since they’d last seen each other. He hates to admit it, but he’s missed it a bit, missed their weird, back-and-forth interactions. Karma usually just dropped the bodies off at the buyer's place and sat in the car while he waited for them to finish up. He always found himself staying in the room with Nagisa, though, despite how often he had to try not to hurl at the sound of him cutting up the bodies. Maybe his presence just made sticking around worth it.
After he finally manages to get the covered body carried up to the door, he raps on the door, the steel making a hollow noise against his knuckles. Nagisa answers, beaming upon seeing who it was that knocked.
“You’re here!” He exclaims, smiling as he turns around and gestures for Karma to follow him in. Karma mumbles something intelligible in response–even he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be. He just wanted to make noise. He gets the package onto a hospital gurney and pushes it as he follows Nagisa down the corridor.
Unusually, he’s not dressed for the occasion at all–although, he supposed that made sense, hospital scrubs must get hot in early July. Karma’s not sure how he expected the other to dress outside of his scrubs, but definitely not so casually. Even outside of work, most adults still had a cleaned-up sort of look to them. Nagisa did not. He dressed like a high schooler. Today, he had his hair in a high ponytail (he usually kept it up or put it up before he properly got to work), and he wore sneakers, denim shorts, and a white tank top.
Nagisa grabs an apron and gloves (the less excruciatingly hot alternative to scrubs) from a side cart covered in various papers, skin disinfectant wipes, and surgical tools, slipping them on with relative ease.
“Help me move the body,” He politely demands, taking hold of the ankles. Karma complies, lifting it by the shoulders.
He removes the tarp once he gets the corpse onto his medical table, followed by the plastic bags. He seems pleased with the state of the body, until he removes the bag from the man’s head, and his smile falters–but doesn’t fall. Still, Karma can tell he’s not majorly happy as he stares at the bullet hole in the middle of the corpse’s forehead.
“I know,” Karma puts his hands up defensively. “You’re not a fan of the shooting victims.”
“‘Not a fan’ is a funny way to put it,” He mumbles under his breath. “It’s not terrible, this time, since it’s just one gunshot. It just means the brain won't be intact.”
“I told Mister Reaperman, you know. After you complained when I brought you the aftermath of that terrible job the little one did a while back. He acknowledged it, but I don’t think he actually cares. Same thing happened when I told him of your suggestion to get a fishing truck.”
“It’s his loss.” Nagisa shrugged it off, humming. “His loss of money, I mean. Maybe you should tell him that.”
Karma sighed.
“No matter.” He says, his voice returning to its chipper nature. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
Nagisa opens up the package of wipes, and Karma knows that means he’s getting to work, so he sifts through the collection of CDs in the corner, searching for the church hymns. It was the only thing he played to drown out the noises of organ harvesting. He’d never listen to gospel music on his own time; therefore, he wouldn’t have to think about what goes down in this room by association. Nagisa didn’t seem to mind it, which he supposed made sense; it would be weird to own a CD of music you don’t like.
He’s brought out of his thoughts by the clicking sound of Nagisa removing his scalpel’s plastic cover. The farm-like stench emitting from the body is quickly replaced with the smell of blood and formaldehyde. Karma puts the CD into the stereo and turns it up as loud as it can go.
He can still hear the skin tearing open. He pretends not to. Nagisa sings along to the lyrics of Amazing Grace–apparently, he can speak English. His voice is pretty. Karma focuses on that instead.
Thirty minutes pass. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. He always spaces out. And he can’t keep focusing on his singing when it stops. Instead, Nagisa is calling his name.
“What is it?” He mumbles, exasperated.
“There’s a CD in that pile called In Utero. Put it in the stereo. I’m getting a bit bored of having the gospel blasted at me every time you come over.”
Karma sighs, but fishes through the CD cases, confused as to why Nagisa was singing along if he was apparently sick of it. He finds the album, though. He hasn’t heard it yet, but he’s not surprised Nagisa likes it, judging by the case. The cover is an angel with her innards exposed. He’s fairly certain he’s seen this exact image on one of his jobs in America–maybe the band was popular over there.
He puts it into the stereo, and a stream of grungy rock music emerges from the speakers. He’s definitely heard this somewhere. He didn’t listen to a lot of American rock on his own time that wasn’t from the seventies or eighties.
“Good. Now,” He says. Karma can hear a smile carrying itself on his voice. “Turn around. Look at me.”
Karma obeys, because if he didn’t, that’d mean he was scared to look. And he wasn’t scared to look. No. Of course not.
Nagisa’s on the table, crouched over the corpse’s torso. He lifts the man up by his hair, moving his head back and forth like he’s playing with a puppet.
“I’m nothing to be afraid of, Karma!” He mimics. Karma is far from amused.
Maybe it wouldn’t send such sharp shivers down his spine if he had done it in a sillier voice. But it sounds almost identical to the little bit he’d heard from the man when he was alive. When Nagisa wasn’t even around to hear. It’s entirely possible that Karma’s imagining it, though–he hadn’t gotten any sleep in the past 24 hours.
“That’s not–” Karma sighs. “That’s not funny.”
Nagisa pouts, moving back down to the man’s legs, which reveals the incision in the man’s thorax.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” He huffs when Karma grimaces upon seeing the man's torso sliced through the middle, his skin flayed open to give Nagisa an easier time of getting the organs out. “I don’t understand what your problem is.”
“I don’t have a problem,” He grumbles.
“Then why are you so freaked out? I know you’ve dealt with things far more grotesque.” He points at him with a pair of forceps for emphasis.
“It’s–” You, Karma wanted to say. It’s you. At least, that’s the conclusion he came to a while ago when he was asking himself the same question. He’s dealt with guts and gore a million times before–at worst, he threw up a bit. It’s so much harder to deal with when it’s Nagisa, for some reason. The actions are the same. The scenery’s cleaner than most. The only factor of the equation that could possibly be causing the discomfort was him.
“It’s me, huh?”
Damn it. He always forgets about the freaky mind-reading thing.
“...Stay out of my head.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so easy,” Nagisa retorts, setting his scalpel down and hopping off the table while he removes his apron. “Maybe look into getting a metal plate put in your head?” He laughs to himself, skipping the CD to the fourth song on the album. It leaves a bloody fingerprint on the skip button. A calmer song plays. Calm for rock, at least. “What do you think of this band?”
Karma shrugs. “It’s–okay. I guess.”
“...So boring.” Nagisa sighs. “C’mere,” He whispers, gesturing for Karma to come closer.
He doesn’t take off his gloves before pulling Karma close, and it makes a gross squelch when he grabs both of the other’s hands. Karma shudders at the cold blood sliding between them when Nagisa entwines their fingers. The smaller one pulls them into what could be a slow dance, or a complete bastardization of one. It’s clumsy and erratic, given their awkward size difference and the slippery plastic covering the entire room for cleanliness. Not to mention the song is hard to gain a proper rhythm to, and the flayed-open corpse in the middle of the room kind of dampens the mood.
Nagisa’s head rested on the other’s chest–listening to his heartbeat, if Karma had to guess. That seemed to be one of Nagisa’s favorite things about him, but his eyes in particular were definitely at the top of that list.
Karma loses his balance on the plastic, and Nagisa falls with him, shrieking. They both hit the floor with a thud.
The ghost sighs. “Clumsy.”
“It’s not my fault,” He retorts defensively. Nagisa doesn’t take it seriously, picking himself up and settling comfortably in Karma’s lap. Karma props himself up onto his elbows, far too scared of him to demand that he get off.
…He’s not sure he wants him to, anyway.
Nagisa takes off his gloves, carelessly tossing them to a random corner–they were disposable, so it didn’t matter. He has a full box of them right next to the disinfectant wipes.
He crawls over Karma’s torso, taking the same position he was in when dissecting the corpse. Except this time, he’s not slicing the redhead’s stomach open.
Instead, he takes Karma’s face into both of his hands, connecting their lips.
They’ve kissed only once before. It was short and one-sided. Nagisa initiated that one, too. Karma didn’t kiss him back, but let it happen. That was two meetings ago–in their next meeting, they didn’t talk about it. And now, it’s happening again. This time, Karma reciprocates.
Nagisa runs his tongue over the other’s unusually sharp teeth, grinding down on his lap. Karma makes a soft noise into his mouth at the feeling of the friction sparked from denim-on-denim. He pulls away, and Karma has to bite back an especially shameful whine.
“It’s my birthday soon, you know,” Nagisa said, running his hands under the thin cotton of his shirt, feeling him up beneath the fabric as he continued rubbing on his lap. Karma shudders–his hands were freezing. Everything about him was always so cold. Karma frequently wondered if he was actually human. He tries not to think about how he’d probably feel much warmer on the inside. “July 20th. Guess how old I’m going to be?”
“...Hm. Twenty-five, right?” He estimates. Nagisa looks pleasantly surprised, so he assumes he guessed correctly. “You told me, when we first met, that you were a few months older than me,” He explains. “I’m twenty-four right now, so…”
“...Ah, that’s right. I’m surprised you still remember that.”
Nagisa kisses him again–he assumes it’s supposed to be a reward, but it’s short-lived, because Karma pulls away and moves to his neck. He lingers there–usually, he wouldn’t dare to bite; he can’t afford to overstep his boundaries. But when Nagisa offers no resistance or demand for him to stop, he sinks his teeth into the skin, his cock twitching briefly underneath the confines of his clothing.
Nagisa sighs wistfully, still grinding down on him while he takes hold of the redhead’s shoulders. Karma can never tell what he’s thinking or feeling, but he thinks he’s enjoying it. For some reason, that terrified him–maybe because of how vulnerable that meant Nagisa was being. Surely, this would never happen again. Nagisa’s a mystery to him, and Karma could only assume he intends for it to stay that way. He shivers, running his teeth over the pulse point. He’d never get another chance like this. He has to make the most of it.
Nagisa stops him when he tries to bite again, pushing him back with a hand over his mouth.
“No more. Just one.”
Karma deflates a bit, but the disappointment is quickly replaced with something else when Nagisa shoves him to the ground. Excitement, arousal, or fear, he can’t tell. Maybe all three, particularly the latter.
Nagisa was half his size. He wasn’t even armed. He had no tangible reason to feel fear. He wasn’t quite threatened–it was something primal that he couldn’t put a finger on. Nagisa made him feel like a stray animal. Just being near him made his hair stand on end.
Karma fails to stifle a whine this time when Nagisa lifts off his lap, removing the friction sparking just a few seconds ago. He crawls back over him, leaning down to whisper in his ear.
“My turn. Okay?”
He doesn’t get a chance to brace himself before Nagisa’s teeth are in his neck, digging into the muscle and shaking like he was trying his hardest not to lose control and rip Karma’s soft, vulnerable throat open. He pulls back after what feels like forever, tracing over the bite mark with his thumb.
“Maybe I could take your teeth, instead of your organs.” He says it like a promise, running his finger along one of Karma’s canines. “That’d be okay. Harmless.”
Karma’s breath quickens. Nagisa just stares, then leans back in to whisper to him again.
“Come back here on the 20th. I don’t care if you have work. Make time for me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to come alone.”
He can’t say anything. Robotically, he nods. Nagisa smiles.
“Good,” He says as he pulls himself up. Karma’s not sure if it’s confirmation or praise. He walks in the direction of a side room, presumably to retrieve something. “I’m about done, and you won’t be watching the rest, anyway. You don’t have any reason to stay here.”
So, Karma is kicked out with a trash bag full of money. And still a bit of a hard-on.
The Reaper and his assistant were waiting in the car when he got in. They weren’t with him for the drive, but he’s learned to stop questioning it. Wordlessly, he hands the bag to his boss.
“You smell like sex,” He deadpans, discarding the bag to the back. It hits the apprentice's torso with a loud thud. The man winces.
Karma sputters, fumbling with his keys. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t! They were fully clothed–he didn’t even finish!
“I don’t care about your personal life, but I’d rather it not interfere with work.”
“Your nose must be wrong. We didn’t–” He stammers, jamming the key into the ignition frustratedly. “I-I haven’t done anything.”
“Not yet, then.”
Karma sighs, not bothering to refute it, just biting his tongue and gripping the steering wheel. From the backseat, the apprentice stares at him with disgust.
One of these days he’ll get a vacation.