ango/mafia!reader.
songfic, inspired by au/ra's medicine, for fyowyn, unconventional narration ahoi - mcd tag because it's me we're talking of

band-aids for all my scraped knees,
blankets when I had bad dreams -

“ - Sakaguchi speaking, from the Special Abilities Department. Meet-up with Ability User A5672 -“

“I've got a name too, you know. An actual name that you can use.“

“- as I was saying, this is the first meet-up with A5672, classified as an immediate, lethal danger due to their naturally destructive ability. Their former occupation-“

“Current occupation, Glasses.“

“- is listed as the Port Mafia in their file. They are to be detained until further stabilization, as per orders from their boss.“

“...man, you really are focused on your job. Wish I had that willpower with paperwork."

0

“Hey, hey, hey, Glasses. What are you drinking all the time?“

“Tomato juice.“

“Pardon, the fuck? I thought it was something exciting, like a Bloody Mary. Or literal blood, since you're so pale.“

“My complexion is fine enough, and I can be exciting, if I want to be.“

“I'll believe that when I see it.“

0

“Glasses man. Who are you?“

“Well...? My name is Sakaguchi Ango and I work here? With you. Since, like, two weeks.“

“Yeah, yeah, I know that skidaddle, but who are you? What's your favourite song? Have you ever been to another country? Do you have a sleep schedule?“

“My sleep is good-“

“Say that to the Valentino bags under your eyes. How many cups of coffee did you have today?“

“...this one's my seventh.“

Finally. Some progress.

0

i wish there was a sugarcoated pill for it
i wish you had some words that wouldn't make me sick

“Are you nauseous again?“

“Mmh.“

“Your ability... it makes you sick, doesn't it?“

“Yeah. Guess that happens when you fuel your powers via other people's bad karma and end up creating a nuclear meltdown in your internal organs as a side-effect of that.“

This time, he refrains from correcting their quite... creative usage of not-so-accurate terms.

“Do you take something for that?“

“You mean, medicine to stop my intestines from melting faster each day? Yeah, sure.“

“No way. No way you aren't on, like... morphine?“

“On my worse days, I have an IV drip around with that.“

“Your worse days?“

“What can I say, today is a good one. I'm not puking blood, besides, your mole makes me hyperfixate so I'm too busy breathing. Is it glued on or real?“

“Ah, it's real.“

“The clarification was needed, otherwise I would've jumped over this table for it.“

“...you're really an interesting one, I must say.“

0

“...Ango?“

“Yeah?“

“I will die, right? I got sent here to die, right? So I wouldn't, I don't know, burn this city down. Right?“

“We're sorry. We didn't want you to get behind the real reason so... quickly.“

“Eh, don't worry. Neither of you can be my medicine, can you? Speaking of that... how long do I have?“

“Our doctors estimated a remaining lifespan of nine weeks. We're really sorry.“

Jeez, just say you're sorry. I won't leave this life without getting past your emotional constipation, Glasses Man.

“What will happen, then? Am I gonna implode? Go down in a nuclear explosion? Will my organs melt?“

“Something like the last one. Our scientists think that, the more time passes, the worse it'll get: one by one, your organs will fail, and to accompany that, your Ability will run rampant in the end. If you want... here are all your medical records up until now.“

The manila folder is beige, without a title, only a thin stack of papers haphazardly shuffled inside.

The reports go on and on about brain damage, internal bleedings, visual hallucinations and the slow, dripping progress of failing bodily functions.

And, a total loss of control over their powers, towards the end.

“That's just my luck,“ you whisper, eyes flitting over each page. “Just my luck, Ango. How fitting for the harbinger of karma."

"I am-"

"I have just one last question," you interrupt him. "Then I'll shut up."

"I- yes. Go on."

"...can I die somewhere peaceful?"

"That. That can be arranged, yeah."

0

Which is how you end up on a boat in Kyushu's Takachiho Gorge, a few weeks later, and close to the estimated time. The last sixty-three days were the calmest you ever had in your life, albeit the saddest.

(Even in death, you won't quite forget the sight of your friends and found family biding you their goodbyes, with one redheaded executive pulling his hat over his suspiciously glistening eyes.

Nor will you forget the way he slipped the decorative chain into your palm before you departed with Ango, or the way he's been nothing but the brother you always wished for.)

You fiddle with the thin chain around your neck, a constant reminder that no matter what, no matter where you would go, your family would always follow close by. It was soothing to know, just like the way Ango's hand seemed to perfectly fit on your shoulder, then your upper arm, then your wrist, until his whole arm came to a stop around your waist after all those months.

It's the same setting now. A boat, the clear water beneath, and enormous trees above your heads.

"It's very beautiful," he states softly, sitting right beside you. It's been an interesting change in pattern too; he would switch out his plain suit for something more casual, or leave his hair unkempt, or smile more. You like the last point more than anything else.

You nod once. The splitting headache you nursed since yesterday prevents you from moving it too much, too. God. You will die. You will truly die. You don't want to die.

"No one wants to," he whispers, and it's only then that you realize you've spoken the last part out loud. "And no one's ever ready for it. Not the dying person, nor their relatives. That's how life is."

"But I don't want it to be that way," you say, knowing fully well how childish you sound. "I don't want to go yet."

"I know."

"There are still lots of things I haven't done. Lots of promises I couldn't keep, I-"

"I know, y/n. Good lord, I know," he grits out quietly and winds his arms around your body. "No one is ever finished with their life before they have to leave it behind."

Something breaks, then.

It makes you weep into his shoulder, the tears staining his cardigan. It's not the loud, deafening kind of sobbing. It's silent, deaf and numb and blind all over. The kind of sobbing you see on people after their dog has been put to sleep.

Even if you know they're free from misery, it doesn't make grief any easier. Grief is not only about the deceased, it's also about the aftermath of the people staying behind. The people without a boarding ticket. The people who have to fight to get out of bed every day after and still manage to.

You don't want any of the lives you leave behind to go on like this. So you whisper into his ear, a promise each for everyone you hold dear.

Go to that new arcade in Tokyo with Chuuya. I swore I would go, but I guess I can't.

Have tea with Kouyou tomorrow for me. Bring her the packet of jasmine incense I made for her.

Get Ryuunosuke to his appointments. He'll need the meds, that stubborn kid.

To Osamu, the notebook with that stupid crab pattern he got me. Inside are recipes I thought of when we worked together because he couldn't eat things with much spice or too overbearing smells.

To Higuchi, my assortment of weapons and old vinyls, plus that old creaky record player in the corner she always use to eye.

To Gin, my entire wardrobe plus the suits. Oh, and the gift card I got for that famous bakery awhile ago. I know they enjoy macarons, so get them a few boxes of those.

For Hirotsu, the last package of cigarettes in my bedside drawer. You know those, the brand that stopped producing a couple years into the 20th century and became pretty expensive. I salvaged it for him as a gift for his birthday.

"To you," whispered against his mouth, "my bucket list of things I couldn't achieve. I want you to take a year, or two, or however many you want, off of work and do those things. For me."

"y/n, I don't think-"

"Stop thinking then," you murmur, and, well. He's done for. He's so done for.

"Travel somewhere nice," against his forehead.

"Eat good food, and sleep longer," against his lips.

"Fill your life to the absolute brim," between kisses, soft and slow. You don't have much energy left for anything more.

"And make sure to write me postcards, and send them to the moon," with your last breath.

It was quick. It was surprising, the way none of you actually felt it coming. Maybe death finally has mercy with you, lets you rest on a golden field instead of a bloodied sidewalk.

To Ango, it was nothing short of jarring. To him, it was like he had felt something yank at a hook in the water, only for the something to drown the moment he let it rise to the surface.

He cradles your limp form in his arms, your very last heartbeats still pounding behind his eyes, your very last breaths still wafting across his lips, and -

He grieves.
In the midst of Takachiho Gorge, perched on a boat, and he grieves.

FIVE YEARS LATER.

to y/n,

it's been five years already. I never took my spot in the Department back, and I think that was the best decision I could have made at that moment.

This is just one of many cards I'm writing to you, but I'm sure you know that, somehow. You always knew the answer to everything. I hope this reaches you on the moon.

I'm in Italy right now, and it's beautiful here. The weather is calm, pretty warm for spring, and last week, I spent a few days in Paris to visit Chuuya on his birthday. He is twenty-seven now.

I feel old, too. Maybe it's because I miss you every day and night, every waking second of my life, without a break.

If there's one thing I wish I could have told you before you died, it would be that, no matter how much good or bad or grey karma you accumulated in your life, you would always deserve someone to love you.

I did. And I still do. I'm just happy that, at the very least, your last few precious seconds here were glorious.

from the earth to the moon,
ango.

×××

on a scale from 1 to 10, how obvious is it that i got inspiration for the second half of this from rereading everything or nothing on ao3 for the 97382749th time

i mean. its fucking PERFECT AND HOW COULD YOU BLAME ME -