Splintered Mirror

Summary: A business deal brought Atobe Keigo more than he bargained for - a mystery and a renewed acquaintance with long lost friend who is more lost than found. Set one year before "Mending Broken Wings".

Warning: Don't read "Mending Broken Wings" if you don't want spoilers.

Chapter 1: Shiroi

Atobe Keigo was 23-years-old and the youngest director of Atobe (J) Corporation. His headquarters was in the prestigious Shinjuku office. That made him one of the most eligible bachelors in Tokyo Metropolitan. It meant much of his after hours was spent charming old men with eligible daughters, unless, of course, he was in the company of those delectable daughters. Sometimes, he even found himself in the company of their delectable sons.

Everything was, of course, going according to the senior Atobe's master plan. Keigo was charming, his début unforgettable. His meteoric rise had given his name glamour and mystery; attracting the powerful, the influential and a few sharks smelling fresh blood. The new generation of connections were being made and solidified for the future prosperity of Atobe Corporation.

A month ago, Keigo, in one radical move, entered into joint venture with an art gallery. It was a modest establishment and his business partner had more art-sense than business-sense. Within a month, he had turned over 50 millions worth of transactions. More business than the gallery had seen in the last 10 years. His partner decided to throw a lavish party to celebrate their success and invited the Who's Who of Greater Tokyo. Naturally, Keigo, with his charms and easy flamboyance, shone brighter than any masterpiece on display.

It brought the gallery much publicity. In the limelight, there were many who wanted a piece of that pie. Keigo had received at least five offers to buy over his share of the gallery, each one more outrageous than the next. It was rumoured that the young Atobe would sell his share to the highest bidder by the end of the night, turning a neat profit in the process.

There were many faces in that party, both new and familiar. Some time at the height of the party, he had a flash of deja-vu. An old familiar face, he thought, though he could not put a name to that face. By the time he turned for a second glance, the apparition had vanished, leaving an impression of white blur. He narrowed his eyes a moment, but there is little to recapture the feeling. Then, ever pragmatic, he mentally shook himself and put it out of his mind.

He left the party at 1am. Comfortable buzz of alcohol in his system left him in good mood as he rode the elevator up to the hotel suite his partner had reserved for him. He had declined all the offers from the ladies to mull over the three most attractive business offers. A share in an exclusive hotel chain would please his father immensely. Especially, considering that it was privately owned and run by members of that family. It was with these pleasant thoughts that he found himself ushered into his well-appointed accommodations.

As the bellboy closed the door behind him, Atobe found himself not quite alone as he had expected. A beautiful woman in simple, yet elegant white kimono awaited him at the low coffee table with tea set and small finger food laid out. She had her back to him, the low back collar giving a tantalising glimpse of pale smooth skin and seductive curve of slender neck accented by white choker studded with dark amethysts.

As Keigo stalked into the room in irritation, she bowed low. Her dark brown hair falling in a thick long braided rope to coil by her side. Her voice was low and husky as she whispered a greeting.

"Get out!" Keigo said rudely, pulling off his tie.

She raised herself gracefully as if she had not heard his command. Her eyes remained downcast as she walked towards him, removing his cuff links and dinner jacket which she put away with quiet efficiency. She was tall, her head coming to eye-level of his 6' 2" frame.

In the dim light, an old name breathed through his mind. Tezuka. He smirked and captured the down-turned face, half hidden in shaggy fringe. Tilting it upwards towards the light, he frowned at the angular planes, the lack of make-up and the Adam's apple that bobbed nervously.

Atobe Keigo smiled in amusement. She was a he. And he looked like an old rival, close enough to be a sister ... or rather, younger brother. He had to admit, he was bemused. Someone had the gall to send him a male courtesan. A risky move, considering he had been more discreet in his dalliance with the boys. On the other hand, he had casually flaunted his dalliance with the girls.

He sighed in appreciation. It was such a pretty gift too, with unintentional bonus. He briefly reconsidered his decision to send it back immediately.

He smiled a slow lazy smile, predatory and amused. The warm skin was soft and white against his palm. His thumb stroked along the jugular vein, feeling the tremor of quickened heartbeat.

"You may stay."

Atobe allowed himself to be seated and served. The courtesan remained silent, working with efficiency and grace. Watching him work quietly, he was able to appreciate the subtle art of seduction that were normally the purview of highly trained geisha.

"Your name?" Atobe asked as he received the teacup along with a glimpse of pale white wrist.

"This humble one is called Shiroi, Keigo-sama," the courtesan answered with another obeisance, long fingers arranged and neatly folded. Atobe was treated to a peek at the deep curve of spine.

"A fitting name," Atobe noted, letting his eyes roamed over Shiroi*, from his white kimono, to white ribbons, to pale alabaster skin that gleamed cold moonlight.

The face both disturbed and amused him. He idly wondered what reaction he could get out of Tezuka if he sent him a suggestive photo of Shiroi. Had his old rival changed much in the intervening years? Since Tezuka had left for Germany, they no longer compete in the same circle. While Atobe continued to play tennis at inter-school and inter-varsity tournaments, Tezuka had moved on to professional circuit. Atobe had lost touch with him.

He shook himself irritatedly. Why was he wasting time thinking of his old rival? Shiroi was certainly a more aesthetically pleasing subject for thought. Other that the face, Shiroi and Tezuka had nothing in common. Shiroi's voice was lighter and of higher register. He was also right-handed, from the way he prepared and served tea. His hands were soft and smooth, without a hint of callus.

Atobe bared his teeth, feral and predatory. Those teasing glimpses of milk white skin had whet his appetite. The proposals could wait till morning. He had a cute little white rabbit he wanted to play with.

In the interstices of time, the hour too late to be night and too early to be morning, something stirred from deep within. Awakened by an unexpected memory. A memory of bright sunlight, scorching heat, deep passion and unrelenting determination. A memory of sheer exhaustion and excruciating pain that burned and purified. A time of innocence, idealism and blissful ignorance. Chased down by grief of unbearable loss.

In the intersection of darkness and light, grief brought anger, hatred and fear. Anger of being wronged. Hatred of cages and binding chains. Fear of pain and failure. He had a compulsion to protect against hurt. Only one thought remained. Escape. Be it escape from a place or time or existence, it did not matter. It was his only directive. Escape.

Atobe woke up when something went 'bump' in the dark. 04:47 blinked at him from the bedside clock. He fumbled for the master switch next to the bed. Light flooded throughout the large suite.

Shiroi stared back at him from the other corner of the room, eyes wide and half-blinded by the sudden brightness. Atobe took a moment to enjoy the view. He had unbraided Shiroi's hair during their coupling. The long tresses now curled and cascaded over his nude body, giving him some semblance of modesty. Shiroi blushed and tried to cover himself with something clutched in his hand ... Atobe's silk shirt.

"Ahn .. leaving so soon, my pet?"

Shiroi's eyes hardened and his brows drew together in a deep frown. "I am not your pet to toy with, Atobe!"

That wasn't right. For a moment, Atobe had an eerie sense of familiarity. 'Seigaku students are not toys to entertain you, Atobe!' an old voice had warned him. A deep, stern, authoritative voice. The same impossible voice coming from Shiroi's delicate lips.

"Tezuka?" Atobe choked out. It shattered the spell.

"No! No! No!" Shiroi cried, covering his ears. "Don't ... don't say that name." Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he collapsed on the floor, curled into a miserable ball. "There is no Tezuka Kunimitsu. Tezuka Kunimitsu is dead. No! No! Don't call him. Don't call him."

Atobe stared in shock at the hysterical Shiroi. It really was too early to start the day.

Atobe tied the sash around his dressing gown as he walked towards Shiroi. "Oi! Stop that racket!" He shook Shiroi roughly. Finally, in exasperation, he lightly slapped Shiroi. That stopped the noise. Shiroi stared wide-eyed at him. "What do you know about Tezuka Kunimitsu? Tell me!"

Shiroi pressed his fingers against Atobe's lips urgently. "Don't say his name," he said, full of secrets and fears. "Bad things happen when he comes."

"Hmm? Ore-sama is not afraid of Tezuka. Now, tell me."

"Shhh! Master will hurt you if you say his name. His name is cursed. You will die if you say his name."

Atobe gathered Shiroi's hair and held it up. The face and skeletal structure was as he remembered of his old rival, if he ignored the fact that Tezuka was more fit, with lean hard muscled frame. Certainly not the skin and bones emaciated frame Shiroi was sporting. He didn't remember Tezuka being so small either. The old Tezuka was 4cm taller than he was. A fact Atobe deeply resented at that time. Then again, he had gained another 5 inches in senior high and his shoulders had broadened in full adulthood.

Shiroi was about Tezuka's height when Atobe last saw him eight years ago, a week before he left for Germany. They had their farewell match then, where they played 5 sets. In the last set, at Atobe's request, Tezuka had played all out, activating both Hyakuren Jitoku and Saiki Kanpatsu. Finally, he brought out Tenimuhou in full glory. Tezuka trashed him 6-2. Tezuka broke Tannhäuser serve after 3 games. Atobe had shook hands with him the last time, giving Tezuka the directive to conquer the European courts.

Shiroi could not be Tezuka. Tezuka should be somewhere in Europe, raising hell in tennis tournaments, like Atobe used to do in Elementary school. Shiroi must have been a relative. But what if he was Tezuka? Where else did Tezuka's voice come from? Why was he so afraid of Tezuka's name?

Atobe glanced at the clock. 04:55 blinked back. He called London office to get together a dossier on Tezuka. Then he turned to the enigma before him. "Tell me about your master."

At 6am, Atobe called his head of security, Asakura Yoshikage. He knew Shiroi was a bait. He did not realise how dangerous a bait. Shiroi's master was part of a gambling and vices organisation. The gallery was a good place to launder questionable income. At best, he could expect blackmail and mild threats. At worst, would they harm his person or his family? Not right away. His family had powerful connections that would bring considerable trouble to those that tried to hurt him.

Atobe steepled his fingers and reconsidered his game plan. His initial target was the privately held shares in businesses owned by Saionji family. He knew the youngest son fancied himself an art aficionado and boasted of his desire to own a successful art gallery. The young man had no interest in his own family's shipping business. Atobe's venture into buying a dying gallery was to attract the man's attention.

The gallery owner, an old friend of Atobe's grandfather, had been grateful for Atobe's involvement and did not question Atobe's personal motive. He was planning to retire. If he closed the gallery, he would have gotten very little from it for retirement. With Atobe's injection of funds and shrewd publicity, the artists the gallery represented were propelled into celebrities and the value of their work had multiplied. It was the new hype to get a modern Kishi sculpture or an Abe oil painting to show off in the offices and homes of the rich and famous. There was little for young Saionji to do except to continue the successful course Atobe had charted.

What the rumours did not mention was that both the owner and Atobe intended to sell the gallery as a whole. As far as the owner was concerned, the sale would profit both of them. He had left the sale negotiations to Atobe, citing the minimum expected price. It was far below Atobe's expectations.

Shiroi's presence now threw a wrench in Atobe's personal plans. Well, it was not an impossible situation. He was quite capable of executing similar plan again with another gallery. Perhaps with some slight amendments. Mind made up, he called for room service.

At 8am, Shiroi's master's men were politely, but firmly escorted to Atobe's suite. They had expected to arrive upon an unsuspecting Atobe, caught in a compromising and highly embarrassing position. They had not expected to be greeted by Atobe's own men and brought before his presence like some criminal.

Atobe was ensconced on a large wing back chair, sipping his morning coffee, like a king on his throne. He was a picture of peace and boredom. Shiroi was bound and gagged, kneeling on the floor under the watchful eye of one of his guards.

"This scrawny rat is yours, I presume," he said by way of greeting.

* Shiroi means white.

Author's Note:

Here's the story that is linked to "Mending Broken Wings". It is set about a year before "Mending Broken Wings". It is a beginning, among many beginnings. I tried writting this story from 3 different versions/angles. So far, this is one that seems to work best. I wrote about 14 chapters of this version for past 1.5 years. I have a rough skeleton of past, present, vague recent and glimpses of future.

Anyway, this is kind of experimental, in terms of tone, style and atmosphere. Strangely, while I conceived the story with Tezuka as the Protaganist, Atobe pretty much dominated and stole the show during the process of writting.

While I don't think the actual written body is lemony (I tried and failed miserable at writting smut), the implied events and the themes could probably be considered Teen/Mature-rated topics, hence the rating. Thank you for reading.