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Tokio Love Monogatari	By : kamorgana Category: Rurouni Kenshin > General Views: 4092 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Rurouni Kenshin, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Disclaimer: I don't own Rurouni Kenshin, but the ideas, plots, text and OCs are *mine*.

(for some reason this chapter's format had been messed up, it's corrected)

Tokio Love Monogatari

Chapter 2: The rules of attraction

That night, I arrived to Enishi's club, "Sweet Revenge", for a party that Yumi was organizing to promote her rock star. I can say "her" as she sent me a mail in the afternoon, with nothing but (^0^)/. It��s a part of our secret code, when we want to share the latest developments of our sex lives, savings words for a later discussion. And to know if we can approach the subject: you don't want to ask Megumi how she feels after a (?-?) mail. "Our" doesn't include Tomoe, who never uses it, though Yumi says that it's because she never experienced more than the (^-^) level.
In summary, the rock star guy, Tsukioka Tsunan, alias Katsu, lead vocal of "Major Explosion", was quite of a little bomb himself. He wasn't the ultimate (*0*)/ one, but that was reassuring, in a way. Not only because you prefer to have a (*0*)/ guy in your bed instead of your friend's (typical feminine petty jealousy, hey, I never said I was a saint) but because, thankfully, Yumi wouldn't spend her night in a closet with him, neither would she be on the hunt to compensate a bad experiment, instead of actually paying attention to her guests. There is nothing that Yumi hates more than disappointing sex. I know: there is nothing that any woman hates more than bad sex, but in her case, it's pathological. Once, after a particularly frustrating encounter, she even made a pass at Tomoe's ugly Chinese driver, Wu, under the pretext that dwarfs are supposedly well endowed.
I had arrived early, as always when I was myself on the hunt (not to let to any other the opportunity of getting a possible (*0*)/ before I had a look) and Enishi was talking to the bouncer. I waited until he was done, observing the pamphlets of the party, the logo of the club attracting my attention again. It was a reproduction of Tomoe's ex in pink lacy panties. When he opened the place, I began to think that maybe Enishi was a bit over the top with that vendetta thingy. Yet, I will never say it aloud. He's hot, he's my friend's brother, and I know that if a guy dumps me, all I have to do is crying on his shoulder. Never felt like having garbage spread over your ex's apartment, his CDs burnt in a fry pan, his sports trophies decapitated? Enishi can do that for you, and more. He's such a sweetheart.
Really a sweetheart, I thought as he hugged me, giving me that sexy grin of his.
"Tokio-chan, my favorite person. You look so great. Black is your color."
Too young, too young, too young, I had to remind myself. 10 years. He was born after the Rubik cube, didn't really remember a life without cell phone, and his nightmare was accompanying his girl to see "Titanic" and not "Dirty Dancing".
"Thanks. It's your color, too," I answered with a smile, getting a good look at his black suit and silk shirt, opened low enough to let the muscles of his collarbone to the view (as if I didn't ogle already, while waiting).
"It seems that we're a pair tonight," he suggested. He wasn't really serious; it was just in case, but why oh why did he have to be so charming?
I happen to have a deep sympathy for Mrs. Robinson. And I'm not THAT old. Too young? Whatever. He wasn't suggesting dating. He had a girlfriend, though. Well, she wasn't *my* friend, I had no moral obligation. Tomoe's brother. That was much more efficient. I'm not so eager to know what kind of revenge Tomoe would come up with, to want to experience it myself.
"That's tempting. But I don't want to take the risk of upsetting Tomoe."
I knew that he wouldn't get the real meaning of my words.
"Yes, you're a good friend to her," he said, letting go of his rakish manners to look at me with genuine affection.
It always works.
Damn it, I cursed inwardly, leaving him to walk in the direction of the bar. I was about to order a Screw Driver, but the memories of Yumi trying to seduce Wu deterred me, and I finally went for a Cuba Libre. Viva la Revolucion, I thought after three of them, sitting at the counter in a still rather empty club. It's not because my life turns around fashion that I have no political conscience.
But maybe, the bartender's tales were influencing me. If Tomoe is a serial engager, and Yumi a serial fucker, Sano is a serial tripper. He's Enishi's best friend, and a celebrity of Tokyo's nights. Every once in a while, he disappears for any exotic country, to come back with new stories, "funny cigarettes", and his main destination being Latin America, really good coffee, which he distillates himself, to make the best coffee flavored cocktails ever. He always wears the infamous Che Guevara white and red T-shirt, a red bandana, and talks about the fight against imperialism, power to the people, etc��.Though I suspect that what he really likes about Latin America are the beautiful, bold and hot senoritas.
"Tokio-chaaaaan!" a familiar voice called.
I was almost projected out of my seat by the heartfelt hug of my other best friend. A look at his outfit, nevertheless, made my legs go limp with surprise, and, my early state of inebriety not helping, I had to hold on to the counter to avoid my ass hitting the floor ungraciously. While I was concentrating on saving what I could of my dignity, trying not to yell like the dumb blond chicks in horror flicks facing the grotesque serial killer (or like schoolgirls squealing over the last photo album of Kimura Takuya, which reaches exactly the same level of decibels, and is way more scary, in my humble opinion) AND glancing around to check that I didn't waste my chance with any of the guys, the noise of broken glass informed me that Sano had dropped my next Cuba Libre at the view.
After a second, it seemed that things turned out right: my movement had made my dress, cut high on one thigh (up the waist would be the naked truth, if I can say so) dropping on the other side, revealing my legs, my black lace garter belt and a few other parts of my underwear. I was reassured: the males around were definitely appreciating, and not thinking that I was a dork (which I'm not) or a drunk (there I have to take my joker). That, or my head had hit the floor and I was unconscious, dreaming that I had been projected in a Tex Avery cartoon. I saw no other explanation to their dangling tongues and eyes bulging out. Not only their eyes, I realized, concluding that I was still awake, as Tex Avery cartoons spare this kind of details. And I wasn't too disappointed about my cocktail: I needed definitely something stronger to keep my cool and face the spectacle in front of me. Enough of cute revolutionary feelings: the situation demanded to become more radical. Dismissing Sano's apologies with an order for a (free) triple Tequila on the rocks, I addressed the newcomer with a not too contrived smile.
"Kama-chan! You look..."
I hesitated: Special? Original? Unique? Like you're going to play an Alien in Star Trek? Or like you fell in a container of gold glitter paint?
Thankfully, he interrupted me, as my alcohol-weakened brain was putting stubbornly the word "Arghhhhh" on the tip of my tongue.
"Horrific, isn't it?" he exclaimed, very proud of himself.
Yes, oh, yes, I thought, never truer words were spoken.
I love Kama-chan, and I can even call him my partner in crime. He's *the* fashionable designer, and in a way it's thanks to me. Or my fault, if you prefer the outfit of John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction" over the one he has in "Battlefield Earth". My initiating a trend resides in putting a stylist into the light, and you win a kilo of Maalox (which I was really needing at the moment to stomach the view) if you guessed that my capital sins towards the most elementary good taste were Kamatari's creations. Lately, he talks enthusiastically about launching his own perfume, and I'm holding my breath imagining the result. Anyway, practicing that skill will surely be useful to me if he puts his menace into execution. There's nothing else that I can do: I launched his career, but now, his products sell no matter what, and I like him too much to reverse the tendency. Call me the Antichrist, but don't say that I let my friends down.
Gulping my Tequila straight, which is a funny word to use while talking about Kamatari, I was still looking for the right words to describe the "thing", when a coldly suave voice stated behind me:
"Did Enishi hire you to light the club from the floor, or are you waiting for somebody to suspend you to the ceiling, Golden Bulb?"
I didn't need to turn around to know that it was Yumi, and I admired once again her talent to hit the nail. But Yumi is very good at hitting, in any sense of the word.
If Meg and Yumi are Tom and Jerry, Yumi and Kama-chan are Coyote and Roadrunner. She knows him back from high school, and she resents him, to use a euphemism. It must have something to do with the arsonist fireman guy, but even Kama-chan, who is as able to keep a secret, as Enishi is prone to forgiveness, stays stubbornly mute about it. I suspect that he is also afraid of Megumi (who doesn't resent him, which makes me burn with curiosity): Kamatari might dress as a woman, but he holds dear the manly parts of his anatomy if I rely on the slight tendency that he has to exhibit them proudly, whenever he's victim of a gender mistake, or a bit high.
He usually wins the verbal fights, and his face took as always a smug expression, for what I could distinguish through the blinding halo surrounding him. I was expecting him to gulp and utter "Beep, Beep" before running away at high speed, after he launched the first missile:
"Tsst, tsst. Aren't we aggressive? Should I assume that the gentleman next to you didn't fulfill your expectations? I won't give him a try, then."
I couldn't say how Katsu really took the comment. He was wearing sunglasses. Good idea, my eyes were tired of blinking because of the glitters, and I imitated him. He just lifted his head to get a look at the drink menu, and asked coolly Sano for a Cocktail Molotov. Soon they were engaged in a passionate conversation about the fight for freedom in Latin America. This is why I hate stereotypes: it isn't because you're a rock-star that you don't have a political conscience, either, �although Katsu's program wasn't very developed beyond his assertion that everything had to be "blown off".
Unfortunately, that left me alone with Yumi and Kamatari, hence once again in the position of the UN troops between two parties in a civil war, though Kama-chan hadn't been serious one second about hitting on Katsu.
The poor guy is such a hopeless romantic that Megumi, Tomoe and I can��t count the times when we have spent our Sundays comforting him after the guy whom he had fallen in love at first sight with, on the previous Saturday night, just wanted to share his bed for a few hours and not his apartment for the next twenty years. Considering that Kamatari's apartment is as �horrific as his clothes, my faithful claims that the other one is a heartless bastard aren't completely honest. Tomoe likes him a lot: they share a taste for Disney, old musicals, and tragically romantic movies. They call it the best medicine to a broken heart. They cry together, sharing a box of tissues and marshmallow teddy bears, while Megumi barely resists her desire to jump over the window and I feel that I'm going to die with boredom, except during the rare sex scenes. We have solved the problem, lately. If I can't get some stuff from Sano, Meg brings some little pills from the hospital. We have a slight headache the next day, but no more need for intensive post-traumatic therapy.
Nevertheless, Yumi and Kamatari just have to find a pretext to jump at each other's throat. I call for a truce for my birthdays, 1st of April (yes, I heard the joke one million times), and Christmas parties, which demands me serious efforts in emotional blackmail. Unfortunately we were in July, meaning the exact middle between the two. I was wondering whether joking about having forgotten my blue helmet (I launched that trend, too, after one of my birthday parties left my apartment in the same state as Eastern France by November 1918: emotional blackmail isn't always enough) would relax the atmosphere, when Kama-chan gasped and indeed ran away at high speed. Maybe it was the effect of the cocktails, but I swear that his legs were actually looking like mills' wings during a typhoon.
The club started to fill, but I could still see the entrance and I recognized the small silhouettes of Okita Soushi and Seta Soujiro, who were known as "Kinky Kids", one of these young boys' band groups whose producer was aiming at squeezing the more money possible out of elementary schoolgirls and lolicon gay men. These were the last hoot, their particularity of being spitting images in spite of not being related exciting more the bishounen-adoring crowd, for reasons that I'd rather ignore.
Kama-chan was no exception and worshipped the ground they were walking on. He had managed to become their exclusive stylist, and it explained their outfits: long glittering jackets with silk tight trousers and feathered boas around their neck, in hot pink for Soushi, in immaculate white for Soujiro. Their chests were bare, but luckily they were hair-free, sparing me more stomach churning (I think I already mentioned that I have a slight issue with hairs). I was ready to understand the feelings of the three or four girls who fainted at their view, yet I was sure that it wasn't for the same reasons. I happened to know that the creation was named "Vanilla-Strawberry", and I wished that Kama-chan didn't share so much his fantasies with me. He had jumped on them the way he had done with me, and they hugged him back with their trademark angelic smile. But after the only conversation that I had with them taught me that they didn't understand the hidden meaning of "I'm dying for a banana", their top-charting song, I was aware that they didn't notice the lovingly regretful expression of the Golden Bulb. Kama-chan and I have something in common: we are actually tempted to be Mrs. Robinson, but we are unable to act on it. In a word, we're morally repressed idiots.
I reported my attention to the group next to me, as Sano suddenly yelled at Yumi.
"Hey, onna, what will you take?"
"Not you," she shrugged, before literally spreading herself around Katsu, like an anaconda around a lost explorer in the Amazon, including the tongue entering his ear. She was presently reminding me of Kaa in "The Jungle Book". I took advantage of Sano's availability to order a new drink. If I was severely loaded, these awful Disney-related images might disappear.
I wondered again why, of all the hot men in the city, Yumi had never slept with Sano. They've been bickering at each other for almost four years, which was always a good sign, he was attractive, and he had free pot. At first, I had thought that it was because of his very rude behavior. Yumi is a slut, but she's a feminist one: she will never sleep with a man who takes her for granted, or is disrespectful. But all of us realized quickly that Sano, beyond his big mouth, was a real nice guy and a gentleman. Why, then? They were so alike, in many aspects.
"Hi girls. Hi, stupid rooster. Yu-chan, is that the sex-bomb? Hi, and congratulations."
You have recognized the unique and delicate greeting style of Megumi.
After a few words, Yumi escaped, dragging Katsu to the dance floor (or the contrary, as, her legs being around his waist, he was doing the walking). Coward. If Yumi and Kama-chan's arguments were a civil war, Megumi and Sano's were a nuclear conflict. They plainly hated each other, and as I had never met two more different people, I couldn't but witness the damages and try not to become a collateral one.
Megumi was depressed these days, and her lack of sex, whatever she said, was playing on her mood. They began to bicker, taking me as a referee, each one grabbing one of my wrists and preventing me from getting away until I was ready to bang my head on the counter. I was feeling like Poland at the turn of the 19th century, torn of between Germany and Russia.
I finally managed to make Sano listen to my desperate plea for a drink. Then, miraculously, Meg pulled her hair off her head, with both hands, exclaiming: "Can you believe..."
I don't know what I was supposed to believe, but I knew that I had to escape, and I took advantage of being physically free to run to the dance floor and to hide myself in the crowd.
Sano and Katsu are right: against overwhelming military powers, guerilla is the best tactics.
***
Some time later, thirsty as hell, I went back to the bar, realizing with satisfaction that nobody had touched my glass. Neither Sano nor Meg was around but there was no blood on the counter, so I decided that there was nothing to worry about. Sipping some of my melted Tequila on the rocks, observing the moving crowd, I noticed a familiar figure. Hallucination, probably. I blinked, but it didn't make things better, and my hallucination was walking towards the bar. I got angry, ready to reproach Sano with putting LSD in my glass without telling me, when the tall, Yves-St-Laurent suited product of my drugged mind addressed me.
"Hello, Tokio-san. It's been a long time."
No, it was real. Shinomori Aoshi *was* in a nightclub. I took a mental note to have emergency great sex tonight, just in case the end of the world was programmed for tomorrow.
Understand me: Shinomori Aoshi in a night club is as frequent as a penguin in the middle of the Sahara desert, a snow tempest in mid-august on the Seychelles islands, or an intelligent and plastic surgery-free supermodel. These things just can't happen, and I began to wish that I were indeed the Antichrist, so I would survive the soon-to-come Apocalypse.
He had dated Megumi for almost three years, and, though we met quite often, he had never addressed one of us first. To be frank, I think it was the first time that I actually heard his voice except for some "Aa" in answer to Meg��s questions, usually like "Let's go home" or "Don't you agree?" She swears that they had fascinating conversations, but none of us actually believe her. We also gave him the nickname of "cold fish", unknown to her, and in spite of her assurances that he was indeed hot in bed.
We had all heaved a sigh of relief when they broke up. Megumi has a tendency to feel superior to people, and though she has a hard-rock base, being intelligent, beautiful and witty, it's quite annoying sometimes. But during those three years, she got arrogant to an almost unbearable level. To the foreign eye, she and Aoshi were a match made in heaven: the neurosurgeon and the lawyer, both having perfect brains, perfect beauty, perfect taste, and almost 100% match common interests. But under this guy's influence, nothing was intellectual enough for her, laughing became a kind of sin, and everything she was uttering sounded even more judgmental than usual, like the difference between a probation and a death sentence verdict. Tomoe used to say that the Icicle (our other nickname) had frozen her heart, Yumi that the guy had certainly weird sexual tastes, and had stuck some brooms up her ass. Our little group almost split up because of their relation.
In summary, even since they separated, Shinomori Aoshi isn't one of my favorite persons.
"Hi�...Aoshi-san? I mean...�I didn't think you would be here tonight."
Understatement. Thankfully, the idiotic smile lingering on my lips after my heavy alcohol consumption helped me to sound polite, if not friendly.
"I'm here with a friend."
He had *friends*? I grabbed the counter again, just in case, with a grateful thought for Kama-chan, and the high-level shock training that he had submitted me at the beginning of the night, allowing me to stand this kind of revelations.
"Where is the bartender?" he asked.
That made twice. The very recognizable smell of pot was lingering near us, and it came to my mind, though the source is always difficult to detect, that he might be high. Cold Fish was fried, which explained this outpouring of human behavior.
Nevertheless, I was about to ask the same question, as I had just chugged the rest of my drink in the eventuality that he had more stunning news in store for me. I looked around, grinning as my eyes fell upon the very obvious group of Kama-chan jumping in the middle of the dance-floor. I glanced at Aoshi, and I slid out of my seat, as I caught a glimpse of human emotion in his eyes. He was staring at that group, too.
Oh my God, he was gay.
That explained it all.
I began to look around frantically for Sano, and for any guy giving a hint of being a (*0*)/. Not for me. In my numbed brain, I understood one thing: the only way Megumi could stand the truth was being stoned for the rest of her life, or having mind-blowing sex. She would get a perspective, then.
"Excuse me," I uttered, adopting the Roadrunner strategy.
I searched on the dance floor for a while, but no trace of Yumi. I was aware that I was too drunk for taking a decision, and she would know what to do. I finally went to the entrance hall, desperate. Hearing moans coming from the closet behind the cashier, I knocked frantically, sure that she was inside.
"Whaaaaat?"
Sano's voice.
"It's busy, wait for your turn."
The foxy laugh coming afterwards stunned me. Meg?
Oh my God.
I finally got it all. No, I'm NOT slow. If you knew them, it would have taken you as long as me.
***
This is where my life was turned upside down (I know, it took me some time to get there, but hey, I lived 35 years before, so be nice and don't complain).
I was turning around, torn between utter relief and complete amazement, when I saw him. He was standing in front of the door, and judging by his mocking smirk, he had lost nothing of the scene.
To give you an idea of the effect he had on me, my blood made the turn of my complete body so fast that I went completely sober.
Not that it helped me to retrieve my brain capacities. I was just staring at him, mouth gaping.
Everything about him screamed: predator, danger. Tall, broad shoulders and slim hips, narrow amber eyes and sharp features, long, well designed hands, and his tights jeans were definitely filled. He gave the impression of utter detachment, except for his eyes, which were fixed on me, and most surely, he liked what he saw.
I had been there, done that. I have a terrible soft spot for this kind of guys, and I usually end up swearing that I'll stick to respectable, commitment oriented, polite ones. I never do, of course. As I said, I'm not THAT old; and certainly not that despaired.
Unfortunately, if I was aware of the red alert signals blinking in my head and the sirens screaming for an immediate evacuation of the sinking ship, my hormones, carried by the strong little arms of thousands of alcohol molecules, were running amok. They were irrepressibly invading my entire system, like a parade of microscopic soldiers repeating, in rhythm with their one-two walk: yum, yum, yum, yum.
Their tune was as seductive as the pop charts hits: you make fun of them with your friends, but you surprise yourself singing them under the shower. So I found myself thinking nothing but "yum, yum", except for a few impulses to throw Russia and Germany out of the closet and get the guy inside with me. I was about to actually do it, when, after a wolfish grin, he turned on his heels and entered the dance room.
The little army stopped neat on its tracks, with the puzzled silence of the troop arriving too late for the battle, like Grouchy at Waterloo.
There is one thing that I hate, OK, let me start this all over��.There are lots of things that I hate, but not being accosted by an attractive man, when I signified that the answer would be "yes" and worse, like in this case: "yes, yes, YES!" is quite high on my list. The woman who never felt offended in this kind of situation can throw me the first stone (feminists not welcomed: I don't believe you anyway).
I decided that what this Mr. Wolfish had thrown me was a gauntlet, and it provoked another Ice age moment, as my hairy ancestors had certainly felt like me, whenever they had in sight a Mammoth big enough to feed their tribes for several weeks. I didn't hope for so long: he was going to be my breakfast, and if he was as good as he seemed, my lunch, and maybe my dinner, too. One thing was for sure: Meg had sex in the closet, Yumi somewhere (she always has) and Tomoe was at home with her fianc�, with no Enishi around, hence she was also getting some. I would certainly NOT be the leftover tonight.
"Move!" I barked inwardly to the disoriented Hormonal Division, preparing my weapons for the hunt, i.e. tugging on my dress so it would reveal more of my breasts.
It followed enthusiastically, and it was hence as enthusiastically that I came back into the crowded club.
I thought about taking my sunglasses off, this time.
***
I didn't need a lot of energy to find Mr. Wolfish. I had followed the rule number one of the hunter: the preys tend to gather around the water points. In a club, that means the bar, even if water is only used to clean the glasses and not to fill them.
When I arrived, Enishi was replacing Sano, who was of course still too busy playing doctor with Megumi to assume his duties. As he seemed a bit annoyed, I shared the news with him, and inadvertently with Yumi and Katsu, who had been making out on the floor behind the counter for a little while.
"Anything is good to avoid working," Enishi grinned. "But well, if it's in the name of love..."
Yumi giggled, instead of either gouging his eyes out for insinuating that Megumi was a pretext, or mocking him on a sudden and very un-Mafia like conversion to romanticism.
That's when I learnt that Sano had had a crush on Megumi for years, and that they had bet on when she would give in. All the regulars of the club had tipped in.
While trying to sound like I had always seen it coming, too, I was eyeing at Mr. Wolfish, who was drinking an Immediate Execution (beer/vodka, Russian recipe, the name says it all). He was looking around, seeming completely bored, and I noticed with satisfaction that the young girls trying to accost him were rewarded at best by a scornful shrug. Good, I thought, he wasn't interested in lolitas, and my chances were intact. Then, I noticed who was installed next to him.
Shinomori Aoshi, who had right to some words, and to little smirks from time to time.
Great. Mr. Wolfish was *also* gay, and he had bad taste in men, on top of it.
Not only I had as much intuition as a hot potato, but my men- radar was screwed, too. *I* wouldn't be, too bad. The horn of doom rang for retreat, calling the soldiers back to the camp, and it was with a contrived smile that I answered to Kama-chan's little wave. He was going to get a drink, and of course, he was joining Cold fish and Mr. Wolfish, in company of the Kinky Kids and of a girl whom I recognized as Makimachi Misao, a gymnast, gold medal at the last Olympics. I had met her several times: she was one of Kama-chan's clubbing friends, hyperactive yet kind of sweet and funny, and also a lesbian, probably, as there were obviously no straight people in the club that night. Yes, I was in a bad mood, and I had every right to. Bite me.
I put my sunglasses on again, to stand the proximity of the Golden Bulb, with the beginning of hangover seizing me, and I finally accepted the invitation of Kamatari, letting the two amoral capitalists counting the money they would get thanks to their disgusting bet (I'm never mildly in a bad mood).
"Tokio-chan, you know everybody here?" my enthusiastic best friend asked.
"No."(See what I mean?)
Mr. Wolfish raised a brow. I couldn't care less: that was all he would raise for me, no need to make any efforts.
"This is...Oh! That's your song, boys!" a delighted Kamatari exclaimed.
It would be a very bad hangover. I had difficulties to stand that soup when sober, already. And sometimes, like that day, I really wonder why I never let my friends down, because they rarely return the favor: Kama-chan stopped the introductions and ran again to the dance floor, dragging endlessly and annoyingly grinning Vanilla and Strawberry with him.
Promising silently to never inflict myself the 40th vision of "Legends of the Fall" for the sake of this traitor's next depressive Sunday, and to leave Megumi going through it alone, as after all, *she* had sex and left me alone now in the frustrated camp, I barely heard Aoshi asking:
"You aren't going to dance, Misao?"
The slight consideration in his voice tore me away from my bitter thoughts.
"I danced enough," she smiled, her eyes as bright as Kamatari's glitters. "We can go home, if you want."
That Aoshi could have friends was one thing, that he had a sister or a cousin, and thus was born from human beings, was something else. I took Mr. Wolfish's drink and gulped it. He gave me a surprised look. I shrugged.
"If you like being here..."
"Stay or go but spare me the sugar overdose," Mr. Wolfish snorted.
Misao threw him the little umbrella of her cocktail. He dodged.
"Get lost, Saitoh!" she exploded, before smiling to Aoshi again. Lovingly. "I want to go home, with you. Now."
"Fine," he answered, nodding in goodbye to Saitoh��.then to me. First time he ever did.
The girl grabbed his arm, he let her, and they went away. She was babbling: "It's so nice that you came here with me, but you know, you don't have to. I don't want you to feel..."
I didn't listen, under my third shock in a row. Hat trick. As they departed, I had seen on Aoshi's face a faint, imperceptible, yet satisfied and definite..�.smile. A SMILE. To give you an idea of the likeliness of this event, Yumi used to assure that he had been delivered without this function at birth.
Dumbstruck, I remembered that the girl was already dancing with Kama-chan earlier. Aoshi had been looking at *her*. He was neither gay nor high, but in LOVE. Icicle had melted for Sunny girl; fallen so hard that he was behaving like a human and not like a robot.
I was beginning to lament on my absolute stupidity and lack of any intuition again, but I realized, thanks to an insistent gaze on me, that there was a great advantage to see my hasty conclusions turning wrong. *All* of them. Yeah, I can be making judgments a tad fast. Whatever.
I turned to Mr. Wolfish, and his expression made me feel like a sheep, ready to jump gladly on the broach, and impatient to be cooked. Slowly burnt. Yum.
"Good idea," he smirked.
And he was reading my mind. Perfect.
I smiled seductively in answer, but he added nonchalantly, with a nod towards a dancing Kamatari: "The sunglasses."
He was now, at least, and seemed to enjoy my disappointment a lot. He reached for me and took the sunglasses off, brushing my temples with his long fingers.
"But I prefer you like this."
His touch had transformed me into a high-tension electricity line. I should have worn a warning sign. I could have lit the club better than Kamatari with the sexual energy I had in my little finger.
"Oh, you decide?" I managed to say.
He lit a cigarette, and smirked again. "Always. Everywhere. For the best."
I distinctly swallowed, trying to grab a last very thin thread of sense. Feminine instinct is the greatest thing: in spite of my brain gone momentarily on vacation, I thought of crossing my legs, my dress revealing my garter belt again. Less than before: all is in the way to bait.
"So, you won't let me buy you a drink to replace the one I had?"
I needed one too, anyway, as my throat had gone completely dry. Surely because all my fluids had gone down.
"Do we have to bother..." he started, before taking something in his pocket. A pager. He frowned. "Work. I have to go."
What?????? I had enough figurative cold showers already that evening; I didn't want to have to take a real one back home.
"Can't it wait?" I tried, batting just a bit of my eyelashes. He didn't seem idiot enough to fall for an obvious maneuver. He didn't fall for this subtle one either.
"Work never waits," he asserted.
Not my opinion at all.
"What work?"
Was conversation going to work, instead of him?
"Another time."
Nope. DamnitdamnitdamnitdamnitDAMNIT!
I grabbed his arm when he started to go away. So, it wouldn't be for that day, but I definitely wanted this one. Macho, arrogant, mysterious, difficult, he was for ME. I had seen him first.
"Don't you forget something?" I smiled again, tentatively.
He grinned, and bent to kiss me. I have only one thing to say about it: (*0*)/
When I opened my eyes again, he was gone. I sighed. By "something", I had meant giving his phone number, or getting mine, but I wasn't going to complain.
To be continued...
Author's notes:
Kimura Takuya: singer/actor, Japanese number 1 sex symbol.
Lolicon: affected by a "lolita complex", being obsessed by young girls, so.
There is a Japanese boys' band named Kinki Kids (and nobody will convince me that the pun with the region there are coming from is innocent). It's composed of two guys, who have the same family name, without being related or alike physically. They actually wear outfits in the style the ones described here.
Next chapter: Of mice and men. The path to satisfaction can be twisted.
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Tokio Love Monogatari