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This Part of Him
Disclaimer: WK belongs to Koyasu and Project Weiß, not me.
He looked in the mirror, buttoning the final button on his dress shirt and running his fingers gently back over a few areas of his dark blond hair to make sure it was well secured in its ponytail. Stepping back, he examined the overall appearance. Not bad… He looked very professional. Rather dignified, almost. With a smirk and a wink to his reflection, he was off, leaving the apartment and walking down the street with a set destination in mind.
Another bar, another act. He had become a master at it, really. Secretly he always thought his true calling was drama, he was just that good of an actor. But, no one ever knew of his talent, because no one ever knew when he was acting. That, of course, simply verified his prowess. Now he was putting his skills to use once again, sitting on a bar stool and looking every bit the part of a depressed businessman. A very attractive depressed businessman, he mentally added. His foreign features also helped to draw attention, and nine times out of ten it was the kind he wanted.
Using himself as the bait, he effectively lured in his prey. Tonight it looked as if it was to be a young woman in her mid twenties with straight black hair cut in a jagged pattern just above her shoulders. Her outfit was an interesting mix of conservative and sexy, with its Oxford style purple button-up that had the first few undone at the top, and its form-fitting black slacks. The hybrid most likely came about from the woman being unaccustomed to going out places that required more racy attire, so had to make do with what she had already. An innocent, his mind whispered to him. She wasn't used to the nightlife or the bars. She was new to it all. Perfect.
Her concerned, almond-shaped eyes looked him over, the dim bar light barely revealing the colors of honey and chestnut that mixed smoothly within them. When she asked him what was wrong, he took a sorrowful gulp from his drink and began his woeful tale. He really prided himself on the stories he was able to weave, and how no matter how unlikely the events in them seemed, he was always able to make them believe it. This girl was no exception. As he spoke of losing his job, his wife of six years leaving him for a used car salesman, his car getting hit by a semi and blowing up while he was thankfully not in it and eating lunch at a nearby café, the girl was reeled in further and further.
Just to be certain, he kept the drinks flowing as he talked, making sure she never had a chance to be thirsty. Of course, he downed his own share, using them as props for his act. He was more than able to hold his liquor, though. His head would remain clear, while hers, he knew, would get more and more clouded and easier to manipulate. Of course, there were some nights when he didn't get them quite so drunk, feeling it was more of an interesting challenge that way. Tonight, however, he simply wanted to get this part over with and get her home.
When she noticed a dark spot on his shoulder, under the white sleeve of his shirt, he amicably rolled up the sleeve to reveal his tattoo. She mused over the English words, not entirely certain what they meant. He told her, making his eyes suitably sad, that they were a reminder of the past. She cooed sympathetically and caressed his shoulder and arm, even though he knew she was too drunk to even understand his intentionally cryptic words.
Still petting his arm, and her cheeks flushing from more than the alcohol, she leaned in and whispered into his ear. Grinning like mad inside, he showed only a small, almost shy smile when she asked if he'd like to go somewhere else. Informing her that his apartment wasn't too far from the bar, they took a cab and headed that way.
He sat up in bed and held his head, his breathing a little irregular. Memories. A nightmare. Both. God, he hated sleeping. If he didn't need it in order to function properly, he wouldn't do it at all. There was a soft moan beside him and he stilled, his body tense. Slowly he moved his eyes to the side, looking to see who was beside him without moving a muscle so as not to rouse the person. Shoulder length black hair was fanned over a white pillow, and a slender back was facing him. Of course. Keiko or Kiko or…or whatever the hell her name was. Not like he was really paying attention in the first place…
Feeling a twinge of pain in his right arm, he lowered it from his head and rubbed at the soreness with his left hand. The area was still red, but the wounds had long since healed and the bruises had faded quickly. There wasn't even much of a scar, if any. But it still hurt a bit. He had been so stupid. It was a month or so ago, the night black and rainy. He, Aya, and Ken had managed to corner the current dark beast against the tarp-covered wall of an unfinished building. The three edged ever nearer, all aware of the large, jagged piece of broken plank the man was using as a weapon. Being able to clearly see Aya's katana and Ken's bugnuks, the desperate man charged the only one of the three that didn't appear to be armed—Yohji. Stepping back in momentary alarm, he'd slipped on the rain-slicked ground and fell backwards. He barely managed to raise his arm in time to take the blow from the other man's makeshift weapon, saving his face from a painfully messy fate. It didn't matter that he had nearly broken his arm, his face was saved.
He snorted in bitter amusement at the thought. Really, he was starting to sound just like his old man… A frown tugged at his lips when he thought of him. That was someone he never wanted to be. Glancing at the woman in bed beside him, he felt sick as he realized how alike he and his father truly were. Being as careful and silent as he could, he slipped out of bed, dressed, and left. Thank god he had been smart enough to make sure they went to her place last night instead of his. Unfortunately, he had left his car at the bar, and spent all his cash on drinks and cab fare to her place. With a resigned sigh, he started walking down the street in the direction he was only fairly sure they had come from last night.
They nearly stumbled as they crossed the threshold, the girl giggling drunkenly as he sported a silly grin. “I think I've had a bit too much,” she said through her giggles. Her arm was draped around his shoulders as his arm held her around her middle in order to keep her standing. Her Oxford shirt had two more buttons undone, and her white lacy bra peeked out whenever she moved.
“Perhaps we should get you to bed, then,” was his helpful suggestion as he led her towards the bedroom. She only giggled in response, leaning heavily on him as they walked.
“Papa?” The child's sleepy voice caused them both to shuffle to a stop. He turned his head to see his son standing in the open doorway to his own room, rubbing at one eye sleepily as he looked on at the adults in confusion. For a nightshirt, the little boy was wearing one of his mother's old T-shirts again. The sight caused him to frown. Someday he'd have to go through that boy's room and throw out all of that woman's clothing.
“Who's that?” asked the girl as she continued to cling to him.
“That's my son,” he sighed with just enough sadness, “His mother abandoned him when she ran off. I do my best to raise him, but sometimes I feel like I could do better…” Yes, start the waterworks. But not too much, just a drop or two so she could see how sincere he was.
“Sh sh shhh, there now… I'm sure you do the best you can, and that's all any child really needs. You're so amazing… Dealing with all that hardship and still striving to make a good life for your son…” Strong, dependable men always made the girls wet, he learned. Even wetter if said men could express emotions of pain but continue to forge on regardless. She was putty in his hands. It was all he could do not to break out into a wide grin.
“Thank you… But I'm nothing special… Just a lowly businessman trying to be a single father. Speaking of which...” He looked back at his son. “Yohji, you need to be in bed.”
Big green eyes stared up at him for a moment. With each passing second, he could feel his anger rising and it took more and more restraint to keep it hidden. Finally, the child's head nodded in acceptance and the bedroom door was closed. That out of the way, he turned his attention back to the woman on his arm.
Yohji tossed back another shot of vodka and set the empty class on the bar. Hunching over himself, he fiddled with the glass, staring at it but not really looking at it. This wasn't his usual haunt. He came here to drink the memories away, not to find a bedmate for the night. With a heavy sigh, he motioned for the bartender to bring him another one. No, make that two.
“Something troubling you?” a gentle voice asked in heavily accented English.
He glanced at the woman who had taken a seat at the stool next to him, then eagerly welcomed the new shots. “No need for English,” he responded after finishing the first and reaching for the second, “I'm Japanese.”
“Oh?” She switched over to her native language, much to Yohji's relief. Her accent would have gotten on his nerves. “Sorry, you didn't look it.”
“Hn,” was his only response as the second shot, cold as the vodka was, warmed his throat.
“So, what's troubling you?”
Again he stared blankly at his shot glass. Then, as if something just sort of clicked in his head, he set it aside and turned to face her. “A lot of things, really. I was just thinking about my old girlfriend. She died.”
“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,” came the woman's instant and very sympathy-filled reply.
“Thank you. It's been hard, but I'm doing my best to cope…”
“I'm sure you are. You poor thing…” She reached out and touched his arm, caressing it through the fabric of his shirt. It was then that she noticed the dark area on his upper arm, near the shoulder. “Is that a tattoo?” she asked, intrigued. The idea that he could be yakuza didn't seem to turn her off at all. If anything, the possibility seemed to excite her more. If only she knew, he mused to himself, that he was something far darker than a yakuza punk.
“Yeah, it is…” His shirt was rather form-fitting, but he managed to pull the sleeve up far enough to show the tattoo. The woman understood the English words and the symbolism of the upside-down cross and wings. Running her fingers over the design, she looked at him with questioning eyes. “It's a reminder,” he said simply, “It's a reminder of the past.”
Nodding in understanding, although he knew she never really would, she went back to stroking his arm. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” The question gave him pause, though it never had before. He didn't really understand why he was hesitating. She was attractive and willing, his favorite kind. And yet…
Giving himself a slight shake, he plastered on a smile for her and nodded. “Yeah, I'd like that.”