A/N: … so it was a three-week update in the end. Don't kill. I have had too many things to write (still do), and you will be the recipients of that, dear readers. More KxA AUs x3
Many thanks to all the awesome people who reviewed (bear with my love and cookies), and especially to D3athrav3n92 and katie-chan, for their data about San Francisco and bootleg. May you be praised, dears.
Disclaimer–uh, well. Do I need to? this is fanfiction. The key word being fan.
Lexical at the end. I understand lots of you will know what the words mean already, guys, but we're not all from the US. And no–in a Twenties AU, I could not resist making Kaito play the trumpet. I could not.
-o-
Two For Joy
-o-
The dancing starts again, four steps, shift weight, four steps, shift weight, pause, full stop.
No changing partners anymore.
Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Closed position, blue to blue, black to black, grin to glare and their eyes wide open. Eight steps, quick and smooth–the pace is picking up, legs and arms swinging, hips swaying, fingers slipping.
No music yet but the harsh, catering pounding of feet hitting floor, thin heels and polished tap shoes, all meeting parquet at the exact same second, one step up one, one step back two. The breathless laughter of too-fast dancers. Rustling of knee-length, bright skirts swirling around silk stockings.
It looks a mess from afar, but a well-calculated mess, step after step like slipping layers of satined cloth.
A little faster. Each couple accelerate in perfect synchronicity, meeting and parting with each step up step back step back up. One, two, turn, twirl, three, four, feet tapping on polished parquet, five, six, seven, eight, like the tick tock tick tock of the clock and the fourth hour to strike.
One, two, three, four. Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Five, six, seven, eight. Shifting weights. Pause. Full stop. The dancing starts again, slower. One and two and three and–ah–four and five… six and… seven… eight.
-o-
February 7th
It snows steadily on all the way through January and early February.
The fifth time Aoko brings the umbrella back the sky has been dark and overcast all day, and the snowflakes are turning rapidly to an icy, angry drizzle. Down the steps, however, are light, and alcoholic warmth, and blaring, shining jazz.
People have fled the cold evening here, and loud, idle chatter, clatter of glasses and bottles almost drown out the band. All the tables are crowded, and at the back of the room Akako sits smoking, only looking up when Aoko takes off her wintercoat and lays it on the back of her chair.
Jii-chan sweeps away, with a promise to bring her orange juice, and Aoko sits down. "Alright. I'm here. What's up?"
Akako exhales darkly. "Nothing's up. Ab-so-lu-te-ly nothing. Not even a tiny little thing. Nothing." Tables away, Hakuba is serving drinks to a pair of heavily jewel-clad ladies in furs. Aoko glances back.
"Hasn't he done anything yet?"
"Who? Nothing should be done about anything," Akako says, haughtily. "It's not like it matters to me what that sap should do or not do," she adds, ferociously, paradoxically. "If he likes to hold that torch of his for months, it's no business of mine. I'm not about to sit and wait around." She stubs out her cigarette butt with more furious haste than consideration.
Jii-chan and orange juice come by and Aoko sips wistfully. It is not a good time. February, if anything, is a month for hot java and hard liquor and fast dancing to get warm, not for bickering affairs between two clumsy lovers. Hakuba looks like he will never get a move on, and Akako looks like she won't either if he doesn't first. It may be that they are too proud, too similar to get on well with such unsteady basis–still… it is not a good time.
"Akako-chan…"
"So help me, Aoko, if you say something in the way of We must learn patience, I'll break that glass."
Aoko frowns. "I wasn't going to," she says drily. "Hakuba looks serious about this, and you don't. That's probably why he keeps at bay and is not rubbing it in. Now if you intend, knowing this, to continue the way you always do with guys, it's your own business."
"Undeterred by those sad-puppy looks he gives me whenever he passes?" Akako bursts out, and Aoko doesn't even smile.
"Undeterred by any personal considerations except caring to hurt him as little as possible," she shrugs. "Such relationships as the one he wants cost time and pride. If you're not ready to make such sacrifices, I suggest you give him the icy mitt now."
Akako's dark-brown eyes slide sideways in a glare at the bartender. "He sure looks like he's waiting for that."
"He looks like a man waiting for a breaking dam," Aoko retorts, winding the conversation neatly to a close. Akako is thick-headed, but hopefully not that much as to miss one of the best opportunities she would probably ever get. Hakuba is a good man, and they'd handle each other much better than they'd handle themselves on their own.
A hand touches her elbow. "Aoko, care to dance?"
"I–" With Akako mouthing Go! Go! in the background, she doesn't have much choice. "I didn't know you danced," she says, as Kuroba leads her away through the throng of tables and onto the bare parquet floor.
"I often don't." The saxophone is playing solo now, but it will be soon over, soon. He lays a light hand on her back, pulling her a tad closer.
"You're often drunk." Aoko wrinkles her nose as though against an unpleasant smell, but it isn't really. It smells like cherry liquor. He grins, quite frankly and unfazed this time, and leads her free hand in his. "Now what's the reason for this out-of-date invitation?"
"Does a man need a reason for inviting a woman to dance?"
He dances well, in fact, all smooth, quick moves. She has to go fast to keep up. "A… a bartender does," she replies. "I don't think a man like you would do anything beyond his own interest. You're much too well-mannered to. Are you trying to dizzy me into drinking?" she asks breathlessly, as he swirls round.
"You sound like your father," he snorts. "Besides look."
Aoko glances over his shoulder. Hakuba is now steadily padding through the tables, revolving in circles that narrow slowly around Akako. Ah. She doesn't look too oblivious. "Hard into matchmaking, aren't you?"
"Hakuba needs the help anyway," Kuroba says tartly. "He's a darb, really. He's a good friend and a good colleague, and he's needed to find himself a jane for years. Though I hadn't expected him to fall for a flapper–much as her friends are lovely," he adds gallantly, grinning down. "They'll fit in all right."
"Yeah?" Aoko is doing her best to look dubious. "So you know Akako needs someone like him, too?"
"Yup." Amusement in dancing in his eyes, and she really can't resist.
"–and what kind of person do I need?"
"Hmm," he says. "I wonder," and then spins her round and round, clutches her hand and waist as he launches them both in a series of Charleston acrobatics that has them both breathless and laughing to the music.
-o-
"You on the lam?" she asks him later, perched on one of the bar's high stools and watching as he presses another orange for her.
He nearly drops it, and recovers it so fast Aoko thinks he planned that. "Goodness, no," he says, laughing. "I couldn't own this place and run it if I had the fuzz on my heels, now could I?" He can't. He looks at her questionably. "Where did you get the idea?"
"Well," she shrugs. "Dunno. But Hakuba-kun said you hardly ever leave the bar, and you know my father–"
"And so you logically concluded I'm a wanted criminal."
"It was a random idea," she protests. "You sure have the brains to be a thief or something. A bootlegger."
"Thank you," he says, amusedly. "For the compliment." He slides the glass neatly forwards, on the polished counter, and lets his lean fingers curl around the foot one second before he pushes back. "So your reasoning is, I'm the actual head of the whole bootleg system thing. And I'm directing it all. From this small, petty bar."
"You could be."
"… I'm not. But your father thinks I might just be," he says pointedly. "He raids the place every six months and goes through my stash and scares all my costumers away –thinks I'm hiding hooch or hair of the dog or whatever. He even sent private tecs to ask me same as any other costumer." He grins, in a lopsided sort of way that makes her shiver uncomfortably.
"You don't keep in giggle juice, then," she asks, sipping her sweet drink.
"I am not a criminal," Kuroba says, with a twitch at the corner of his long mouth, wryness in his eyes.
-o-
February 14th
"Good even–Goodness, what's with the ritzy atmosphere?" Aoko asks, handing Jii-chan the umbrella.
The bar's lights are subdued to almost-dark, and the band is playing slow and sensual. "Kaito-san has decided yesterday we need to celebrate Valentines' Day," the old gentleman says, as though it is a Very Deplorable Thing. (Knowing Kuroba, it probably is.) "He… insisted on this kind of atmosphere."
"The roses also?" Akako says, fingers brushing against a corolla.
Jii-chan's shoulders hunch just so, and from afar, Aoko glimpses Kuroba laughing.
"Was it necessary to freak out the poor old man?" she asks him later, when he brings their order to their table. He is wearing a white, neatly-pressed shirt and black bowtie, nothing at all like his usual dark, messy garments.
"Oh, Jii-chan's a dear old bird," he says, smoothly, carelessly. "But he's from another century altogether–overage in the war and everything–though he went anyway, if only to keep track on my father–so he were a bit shocked when I took up the bar after my dad and let in a band and flappers started to come in," with an amicable nod in Akako's direction. "He's accustomed himself nicely now, but this kind of schemes still frosts him up a little."
"Which is why you're dolled up like a penguin," Akako says, with a jab of her cigarette.
"Nah–that's to preserve Jii-chan's feelings." He flings an immaculate cloth over his arms and clacks his heels, with a short, waiter-man bow. "Besides it fits in with the fun. Valentines' Day is nice enough for roses and chocolates–"
"Of course St Valentine was a roman martyr–"
"Don't be a killjoy, Aoko-chaaaaan," he whines, and slides a rose behind her ear before he skips off.
Sly dog, she thinks, watching him bustle away with Hakuba and trays and tinkling glasses and a reprobating-looking Jii-chan. What else has he planned? Champagne and slow, lazy dancing, enticing perfumes and liquors like oriental incenses…
It might work, she thinks bluntly. It might work, if Hakuba got a wriggle on and Akako stopped being a stubborn ass. "Maybe," she starts, "maybe you could–"
Everybody hushes.
The trumpet plays, solo, slow and low. The jazz ripples away on air as on water, moving like a nearly-still river, running deep, deep into unknown, dragging with it long waves and streams, beautiful and a dark, dark gold. The bar is shaded enough that the few lights, under the pale green domes, are flickering gently. Even the dancers have stopped, silent and together, fingers intertwined–still shadows on the parquet dancefloor.
It is, above all, peaceful. The frantic rush of daylight and bustling town has gone, dismissed and drowned out in low-moving, mellow tones, each steady, quivering into another, swathed in a tune that talks of falling snow like thick velvet, and a few too many winter nights.
"I didn't know Kuroba played the trumpet so well," Akako murmurs, lifting her sherry to her lips in a way that make the glass facets shiver with light.
"I didn't know he played the trumpet at all."
They are silent until the dancing begins again, and Hakuba comes forwards. "Akako-san. I'd be delighted if you honoured me into a waltz." (His voice is smooth like fine wine, as though weaving a long, long thread and knowing exactly where and through which circumvolutions it leads.)
Aoko, in response, wordlessly lights another cigarette with her previous one's butt and stares with resolute stubbornness in her swaying sherry. Hakuba's eyes narrow, but he turns to Aoko instead. "Aoko-san, would you do me the honour?"
"I–of course."
She intercepts Akako's red glare as she stands, and shrugs at her, walking away with her hand atop Hakuba's.
"You should have insisted," she hisses later, fumbling over her steps. "She was expecting you to. She would have given in in the end."
"I don't think you have a say in my manner of courting your friend, Aoko-san. You saw her, besides," he says coolly. "She would not budge. Let her. I can enjoy your company better," he is more severe, more confident than she has expected from him–but his gold eyes dart rapidly to Akako's table with more eloquence than his words speak.
"I think I know her better," Aoko says, snappily. "If you're thinking of wooing her by tiring her out, my advice is, don't."
"I will not force myself upon her," he says, tongue as sharp and quick-witted as hers.
A sudden spin on her heels dizzy her for a short, rather blurred second, and she grasps blindly for focus and footage before she recovers enough to say, more slowly and cautiously– "I'm not telling you to. But you have to make it clear it's her you're stuck on–not me, not anybody else. If she's your interest, show her. She won't believe you otherwise–"
"If after two months of this she doesn't see it's her I'm interested in, she's a greater simpleton than I took her for," and there's a second of hazy panic before he adds, more slowly and gently, "I'll make it clearer next time."
She opens her mouth to say something, then–what, she's not exactly sure–but the trumpet strikes a loud quicksilver note and the band takes it up, stretches it and goes blaring on in a precipitate fox-trot that has them both stumbling out of the floor.
"I see you're having fun," Kuroba calls out at her, and she detours by the bar counter, swaying between the high stools to finally prop herself atop one.
"I see you're lit," she says, as he grins at her and slides a crimson-filled glass towards her. "What's that? Blood?"
He rolls his eyes. "No. Just drink it. There's no alcohol in there," he tinkles the glass spoon on the brim, earning a light note, and sets it neatly on the saucer. "And it's a beautiful night to be lit on–all the couples and love." He gestures in the general direction of the dancers, not looking at them. "Did I give you a rose, by the way?"
"You did. Wait–" her pale hands lift in the air, waving aimlessly between the thin black strands, "–aah–I must have lost it while I was dancing."
"I saw you." He pulls another flower out of nowhere and reaches out to slide it behind her ear again. "Both of you."
"We were talking Akako-chan all the time," she protests, defensively, and then wonders why. It's not like she can't dance with Hakuba-kun, is it? Kuroba lets her paddle on for a minute, then gives a grin and a yes-I-know nod, and pushes the glass a little down the counter.
"I suppose you were. Drink."
She scowls at him for form's sake, but takes a cautious sip. It tastes like cherries and cranberries, sweetly bitter. "… it's good."
"Of course it's good. I made it myself," he says, and reaches out again to brush his knuckles against the rose's petals, a lock of dark hair, a cheekbone. "The rose was drooping," he explains, grin softening. "Happy Valentines' Day," then leans over the counter, leans way in. He tastes like cherry liquor.
-o-
One, two, three, four. Hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. Five, six, seven, eight. Shifting weights. Pause. Full stop. The dancing starts again, slower. One and two and three and–ah–four and five… six and… seven… eight.
Hush, now.
The music is starting.
-o-
Java–coffee.
Give someone the icy mitt–Reject them.
Darb–a reliable person or thing.
Jane–a girlfriend.
To be on the lam–To be on the run.
The fuzz–the police.
Hooch, Hair of the dog, Giggle juice–various names of bootleg.
Ritzy–Elegant (from the hotel the Ritz, y'know? In Paris?)
Dolled up–dressed up.
Lit–also spifflicated, canned, corked, tanked, primed, embalmed, owled, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, potted, ossified, fried to the hat and probably tons of others–drunk.
(All this lexical comes from The Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.)
-o-
This Is Not Going To Be Slow Paced. Obviously. While the first half of the fic will be rather light and fluffy, however, it'll get darker in the second. Do not fret. Damn it! Stop fretting! (xD sorry. Just wanted to say that. –gets bricked–)
Don't hesitate, anyone who lives in the US and/or notices mistakes or thinks I might use the data–just lemme know. (It's pretty interesting knowing people from all over the world might be reading this. Seriously, where are you all from? –is thereby shot for sheer curiosity-)
Cookies, anyone? Take 'em.