andrew_in_drag | House of Cards: 36/?? (Reply)

Title: House of Cards
Author:

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE MURDERER

“To the Inagawa-kai.”

“The Inagawa-kai.”

This oath was repeated solemnly around the table, and Toshiya watched as the men all lifted their sake cups and drank deeply, following the very old man who sat at the head.

“To my newest son.”

“The newest son,” they repeated, although Toshiya noticed that a few of them didn't drink that time. He was sitting next to Kyo and just slightly behind him, their zabutons overlapping by about half of their length, and in such close quarters he could see the room as Kyo saw it; feel the bitter glances the same way Kyo could.

He had known that a lot of Kyo's contemporaries didn't like him, but he was stunned by their bluntness in showing it. They were all sat, straight-backed and eyeing each other surreptitiously, in the oyabun's large, traditional-style entertaining room, around a low table that sat in the middle of the tatami; behind the oyabun there was an alcove decorated with two delicately painted scrolls and a hanging katana, and the air was filled with the mingling scents of hot tea and warmed sake, cigarette smoke and incense. The whole scene had such an air of elegance and refinement, but the general animosity hung over it all like a bad smell – the cloying, undermining odour of jealousy and discontent.

Toshiya had been given sake like the rest of them. He had been asked how he liked it prepared, and it seemed a sudden quiet interest had filled the room as he searched for an answer: he was nineteen years old and he'd never had an alcoholic drink in his life. He wasn't supposed to be allowed to. He had lived at home until he was sixteen, and his parents had very stubbornly disapproved of imbibing; after he had left Nagano and arrived in Osaka, opportunities for celebration had been pretty fucking thin on the ground, and the closest he'd ever gotten to sake was washing up the cups it was served in.

He knew that sake was sometimes served warm and sometimes cold, and so he'd haltingly told the maid that he would like it warm, thank you, simply because the room wasn't heated and he was shivering slightly where he sat. He had an impression that this was the wrong answer, somehow – Kyo had glanced around fiercely at everybody who stared and tittered – but he had been saved by the oyabun; the old man had leant forwards, bending very fluidly from the waist despite his age, smiled and addressed him directly: “You're still a child,” he had said, “Tell me, is this your first time trying sake?”

Toshiya had nodded hesitantly. The oyabun's tone was kindly, but he had felt intimidated by this elderly man who obviously commanded such power: there was a charisma to him that caused everybody to fall silent even when he barely spoke above a whisper.

“Do you mean to tell me that our brother isn't feeding it to the whore from a golden cup?” somebody asked in a snide hiss, pitched low, and though Toshiya flushed the oyabun continued to smile deafly. All around the table, the men were hiding their grins. The only sign that Kyo had heard was a new rigidity to his body; his face remained stony, and he took a small sip from his cup.

“Life around the young,” the oyabun said confidingly, “Keeps me youthful – and what an exquisite child you are. Only bad sake is drunk warm; it masks the flavour – good sake like this, try it at room temperature.”

He smiled, but he smiled at Kyo. The shateigashira managed an unfeeling twitch of his lips in response, and the oyabun drew back. Toshiya understood then that being nice to him was the old man's way of being nice to Kyo, and he took a weak sip of his drink when it was served to him. Good sake, bad sake – whatever it was, he thought it tasted disgusting, and forced himself to swallow it only because of his grim will not to embarrass Kyo again. After that, the focus on him seemed to fade and nobody else spoke to him: he might even have felt bored if it hadn't been for the tension he felt through his body.

That tension was there because of one isolated incident towards the start of the evening: he and Kyo had sat down – Kyo with the utmost grace, Toshiya rather clumsily, not used to wearing a garment so restrictive – and every pair of eyes in the room had immediately jumped to them. The fervent whispers had spread through the men like a virus, and two singularly cold, ugly words had hit Toshiya like a slap in the face: “Whore,” he heard.

And then, “Murderer.”

Murderer. It had hit him hard because he had never referred to himself by that title. He had promised that he would betray no weakness but he felt himself sinking miserably into the reassuring stiffness of his kimono, wearing it like a carapace; as if it was strong enough to hold him up and protect him all at once. He had lowered his head blindly, and the ornament tucked into his hair had jingled like a soft little bell. His fingers had touched it again, riveted; he knew nothing of such things, but the way Kyo had handled it suggested some great value. It was obviously expensive, but it surprised him that Kyo would have held it so delicately simply because of its cost: generally, the shateigashira was brutally dismissive of material things, and his bedroom was kept as bare and spartan as a monk's cell.

“What a pretty thing that is,” one of the women – a wife, Toshiya supposed, or a mistress – had commented, reaching for it; Kyo had subtly leant between them and blocked her touch. She sat back, looking rebuffed, but turned her attention to the shateigashira with a dainty bow.

“I never would have known you to have such a refined eye for jewellery,” she said lightly, “Wherever did you find a piece like this?”

“Kyoto,” Kyo had replied, a shortness to his voice, “It was in my family. A trinket,” he added savagely, “A trinket; that's all.”

“A costume piece?” she looked at it wonderingly, “Well, it fooled me.”

There was nothing unpleasant about her, but she made Toshiya uncomfortable. Her demeanour suggested that he was a dim and distant inferior to her, and that he should be grateful for her attention; confused, he looked to Kyo for help, but found the shateigashira gazing coldly elsewhere.

He felt he was beginning to understand the danger of the many subtleties in Kyo's world: he looked around and felt increasingly that he was sitting in a room full of people slyly undermining each other over and over again, struggling over their various ranks even in their polite conversation. It made him feel shivery, as if every word they spoke was an insect scuttling over his skin; he was glad when finally, the various toasts and drunken chatter began to die down, and people started shuffling and heading towards the genkan for their shoes. Even so, he didn't dare move a muscle until Kyo finally, without warning, bent forwards and offered a respectful bow to their host. Surreptitiously, the shateigashira jabbed Toshiya in the ribs so that he did the same, peering out from under his hair so he could copy how Kyo did it.

“Thank you for your kindness,” Kyo said steadily. “You've honoured me.”

“Thank you,” Toshiya piped up, and even though Kyo shot him a vicious look it seemed he was unable to help himself, “Thanks for being so nice,” he said in a rush.

He could tell straight away that this was a massive faux pas. The oyabun was looking at him differently: not crossly, but differently. Kyo seemed frozen for a moment, and then rose delicately to his feet. Toshiya followed, making a mess of it again; the sake had made him slightly unsteady on his feet.

“Yes, father,” he said simply, “It was a kind welcome.”

And with that, it all seemed to be alright again. Toshiya didn't think he would ever understand, and he followed Kyo silently out into the night.

“You didn't do too badly.”

After an extremely quiet car ride, Toshiya almost jumped when Kyo spoke. Die had picked them up and drove with the radio off, as if they would talk; nobody had said a single word. When they'd arrived back at the house, Kyo had simply slipped his shoes off and started up the stairs, and Toshiya had stayed dumbly still until Die had hissed for him to follow.

Now the shateigashira sat down on the edge of his bed, and Toshiya noticed with a start just how very weary he looked. The tension had finally left his face and shoulders, but it left him looking as lost and vulnerable as a child.

“Come here,” he said a little hoarsely. He gestured for Toshiya to kneel in front of him, and leant back on his hands tiredly when the younger man complied.

“I had expected that you would lose your temper,” he said, his voice flat and sleepy, “Half of me even wanted it to happen. You were lucky that my father is a good man.”

Toshiya nodded haltingly, and one of Kyo's tattooed hands gently cupped his cheek. It slid up into his hair until it found the kanzashi, and Kyo took his time easing it out, letting Toshiya's hair fall back down into place.

“It's really lovely,” Toshiya said weakly. He felt anxious: the shateigashira was acting in a way he had never acted before. Outwardly, he seemed almost relaxed, but Toshiya knew to look for the stiffness in his shoulders, the heaviness in his eyes; he sensed the strain of the evening hanging around Kyo's neck like a stone.

Carefully, acting on an impulse so daring that he surprised himself, he left his place at the shateigashira's feet and climbed onto the bed behind him. His hands shook, but he tried to keep them tender: slowly, he untied Kyo's obi, pulling it aside like he was pulling out a thorn. The two of them were reflected in the mirror that hung by the door and Toshiya hesitated, spellbound by the sight of himself easing the kimono from Kyo's shoulders. The shateigashira still had his eyes closed, and he leant back gently into Toshiya's hands. Free from his shoulders, the kimono slipped easily away to pool at the base of his spine, and tenderly Toshiya pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades.

His heart skipped like a rabbit. He was conscious of his fear caving, giving way to a deep, pure tenderness that made him want to touch slowly and kiss; made him want to feel every inch of painstakingly inked skin against his fingers and his lips. Kyo's whole back was tattooed, and for the first time Toshiya was able to acknowledge a strange beauty to the illustrated skin: the detail was exquisite, the colours rich and wonderful: sapphire blues and saffron yellows, reds as painful and vivid as blood.

Kyo had never let him undress him before. The shateigashira gave a soft sigh of contentment as Toshiya kissed the side of his neck; his shoulder; leant over to press his lips against the hollow above his collar bone. He watched it in the looking glass, admiring the strange and beautiful scene before him: two young kimono-clad men, quiet but alive, dazzlingly alive, leaning into each other so their lips met, a silver-framed moment; a mirror image.