Title: Firebird Sweet C5: Smash The Toe Box
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor, and Beyond
Rating: T
Please read Disclaimer in Prelude.
Sum: An enemy stalks Kurama and Yuusuke, while Hiei still has
some surprises in store.
As always, thanks for reading this. I appreciate your reviews and comments!
Firebird Sweet C5: Smash The Toe Box
by
Kenshin
The hour was late.
In the streets between the Anzu hotel and the Red Lantern, a pair
of drunken salarymen staggered toward a pair of boys: one boy
dark-haired and dark-eyed, the other a redhead not entirely
human.
The drunks were singing loudly (and badly, Kurama noted). He
could not place the song, nor did he care to.
Kurama and Yuusuke were the last ones to leave the party at the
Red Lantern.
Keiko had gone home early when Shiori left, Shizuru had acted as
chaperone to Kuwabara and Yukina, with Shay-san and Hiei on their
tails.
The taller of the drunks grabbed for Kurama's shirt. Kurama
managed to be elsewhere.
"Hey," blurted the drunk, his voice billowing on a wave of sake
fumes, "You kids shoul'n't be out thish late."
"Yeah," hiccuped the shorter man. "'S dangerous."
Kurama and Yuusuke exchanged eye-rolling glances, deftly stepped
around the warbling drunks, and continued down the neon-lit
streets.
They had gone the length of another block, when Kurama paused for
a second, his scalp prickling.
Yellow alert.
"Wouldn't have thought Hiei had it in him," began Yuusuke.
"Prancing around like that."
Kurama murmured in a noncommittal manner; ordinarily he would
have welcomed the opportunity to dissect Hiei's psyche, but he
was a bit preoccupied at the moment.
They were being followed.
Kurama also knew that the one following them had not been cast in
the Jorge Saotome mold, or even those of the hapless creatures
they had wrangled at the Crazy Dog Diner. For all Jorge's
impressive size and strength, Kurama didn't believe Koenma-sama's
right-hand oni would hurt a fly. And the four oni at the diner
had been little more than tourists, lost and confused and making
it on sheer bluster.
No, this one on their tail meant business. And nothing so
innocent as selling junk bonds or knock-off Rolexes.
Kurama exchanged another glance with Yuusuke. Yuusuke gave an
eyeblink of a response. The two of them strode down the street
and cut into the nearest alley.
The oni followed. Kurama and Yuusuke reached the end of the
alley, and turned. Backs to the wall, they could hardly count on
the reeking garbage cans to provide much cover. Nevertheless,
they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, facing their foe.
0-0-0-0-0
It was a long way from warehouse to "palace," and Carlos treated
himself to a cab ride part of the way there. He might have
ridden all the way, but many drivers disliked traveling to the
notorious Myu-Myu Sector at night.
Carlos also wanted to approach the rose-brick building alone, and
on foot. He chose the entrance that faced the alley; some of the
filthy windows had been broken out, letting in barely enough
light to see.
Automatically closing off his nose against the stench of rat
urine, Carlos waited for his eyes to adjust. Across from him was
the stairwell, and he didn't relish going up until they had.
The chunk of cash he'd handed over earlier at the warehouse was
fat enough to impress the redshirt, yet not enough to set him
back in any meaningful way.
Down the stairwell came the echoing scrape of footsteps. Alerted
to possible danger, Carlos slunk to the wall in back of the
stairwell and pressed himself flat against it. He could not see
the source of the footsteps, but neither could they see him.
A triple stink of garlic, unwashed bodies and cigar smoke
overrode the rat pee, announcing who it was. Carlos relaxed.
Moving around to the front of the stairwell, he folded his arms
and sighed. "Can't a guy get a moment's peace around here?"
The two men, vague bulky shapes on the gray stairwell, turned
toward one another, then back to Carlos, shrugging.
"I forget," said Carlos, switching back from Japanese to the
common language of the men. "Tell His Majesty we got the new
hideout and I'm on my way up."
Answering in kind, the pair turned obediently away from Carlos,
ascending the stairs. He watched them, waiting an extra few
minutes after their footsteps could no longer be heard.
Then, easing himself onto the second step, Carlos tried to figure
out what the crazy demon who paid his salary had in mind.
0-0-0-0-0
Kurama gazed up at the enemy, unflinching. The oni was a big
one, somewhat over Jorge's size, taller by far than Kurama even
as it crouched, clawed hands spread in a gesture that Kurama did
not suppose was one of welcome.
Its skin was as gray as its trenchcoat, and in spiritual power it
seemed low enough. Another innocent straggler, caught on the
wrong side of the barrier?
Kurama didn't think so.
"Can we help you, pal?" inquired Yuusuke.
"Well," rumbled the oni. "You can both die quick. That'll save
me a lotta trouble."
"I'm afraid we won't be able to comply," said Kurama.
"Yeah," added Yuusuke, powering up his rei-gun. "Dyin'
quick---it's against our rules."
"Not mine," said the oni, its hands no longer empty, but curled
around two jagged-edged knives, each of which was only a bit
shorter than Hiei's katana. With a deft underhand throw it sent
the twin blades flying toward their heads.
Kurama tracked their deadly progress, then was suddenly where his
knife wasn't. It hit the wall behind them, leaving Yuusuke to
snatch the other blade from mid-air.
"Cool." Yuusuke eyeballed the glinting metal in his hand. "We
get prizes."
"Inferior workmanship, though," said Kurama, bending to heft the
blade meant for him. "Hiei would turn up his nose."
The oni bared its fangs. "Hey, you jokers! Over here."
Kurama tilted his head at Yuusuke. "Did you hear a noise just
now?"
"Nothin' important," sniffed Yuusuke. "Any lowlife who attacks
without so much as a shout-out doesn't deserve to be heard."
Spitting on the pavement, the oni bellowed, "I'll teach you to
disrespect me!"
"I believe you already have," said Kurama.
Without another grunt the oni charged them, barreling down the
all-too-short length of the alley.
Yuusuke aimed his rei-gun at the oni's head.
But Kurama stepped forward, sliding a hand through his loaded
hair. "Allow me," he said. "Less noise. Rose Whip!"
The thorned whip sang. The oni collapsed into pieces two steps
away from them.
Kurama counted the oni chunks. They were too big simply to
abandon in the alley, and it wouldn't do to leave evidence. No
choice but to alert Koenma and wait for the forensics team. He
looked at Yuusuke questioningly. "Another straggler?"
Yuusuke shook his head. "Naah. This guy meant business."
"A shame we couldn't have pried it out of him."
"And too bad Hiei's not here. A pile of ash means less
paperwork."
"We hardly want to cap off Hiei's big night like this." Kurama
shot the other boy a rather mournful glance. "But I don't think
we've seen the last of these stalkers."
The boy gave Kurama a feral grin. "I sure hope not. Rei-gun's
gettin' rusty."
0-0-0-0-0
Shayla had thought---for a minute or two, anyway---about having a
Baby on Board sign sewed to her practice garb, but dismissed the
idea as slightly tacky.
There are as many types of dance as dancers, and while Shayla
Kidd had trained in ballet, jazz, tap, and ballroom, she had not
trained in tacky.
Hiei, until his introduction to the tango some one-and-a-half
weeks ago, had trained in cutting people up with his sword and
then immolating them.
She could not quite see how this skill set was particularly
related to dance, but Hiei insisted it was.
Nor was she anyone's idea of a prima ballerina, not even her own.
That required a lifetime of sweat and sacrifice, coupled with a
dedication equal to that of a Carmelite nun.
But she could turn a pretty musical phrase.
Late afternoon, in a back room of Lermontov's dance studio, she
faced the slash-and-burn expert. Tongues of light licked the
wooden floors, and the long, mirrored wall reflected a
contemplative Hiei and a Shayla glancing at the clock. "Well?"
she asked. "Want to prepare for the upcoming exhibition, or swab
the decks?"
They had secured the use of the studio for a couple of hours by
means of a promise to scrub it down; mop and broom stood inside a
bucket against the wall farthest opposite the mirror. "Dance
first, clean later," Hiei ordered.
"Your wish is my command." Dropping to the floor, she eased one
foot into a new pointe shoe, then kicked it off. The toe box
hadn't yet been softened, and teaching Hiei the new move would be
uncomfortable enough; pointe shoes are made by crafting layers of
fabric and glue to stiffen them so they can serve as a platform
for standing on toe, but they have to be well broken-in before
they are of use. She grabbed a different pair.
Hiei raised an eyebrow at the shoes she dangled by their well-
worn ribbons.
"Oh, these old things?" Her most ancient pair, so battered and
worn that the toe box barely made noise, nor provided support,
the ribbons stitched and restitched, the toe cap darned dozens of
times, the color of the satin faded from pink to almost white.
Shoes made perfect by years of loving abuse.
"Let me get this straight," he said. "Those pieces of junk in
your hand. You stuffed them in your backpack when we were on the
run from the Serpent and brought them all the way across the
ocean to Japan?"
"No," she corrected. "You did. You're the one who carried me,
remember?"
"Ch." He cut his gaze away from her.
She thought a minute, then asked, "How often do you train with
the katana?"
"Every day. Skip a day, I notice. Two days, enemy notices."
"Same here."
"Enemy and dance studio? They don't go together."
"That's what you think, Sword Boy. Or are you a different Hiei
from the one who told me the tango is a battle?"
He rolled his eyes. "You going to show me this developpe thing
or waste my time?"
"Both."
In the developpe, the working foot is drawn up to the supporting
knee, then unfolded to an open position. Like many ballet
movements, it is quite un-natural.
Think of the body as a clock with the supporting leg at the six.
Some dancers can unfold the working leg to vertical: the 12
position. This range of motion is known as a dancer's extension.
At times, the dance world seems to be caught up in extension-
mania, as if only a sort of freakish double-jointedness worthy of
a circus performer matters, as if musicality and stage presence
count for nothing.
Still. Extension is as extension does.
And flexibility varies from dancer to dancer. As with any
physical skill, some of it can be trained in, but the body does
have its limits.
He gave an impatient snort as she explained all this while lacing
up her shoes.
"Now, start with good turnout from first position," she
instructed, lacing up a good thick Russian accent to go with her
shoes. Placing one hand on the barre, she demonstrated the
beginning stance: legs together, heels touching, toes pointing
outward. "Turnout goes from hip, not knee. Bend working knee
and lift. Point toe toward calf." She demonstrated each step as
she cataloged it. "Maintain foot contact with leg as you lift
with muscles of hip."
"Baka onna." Hiei folded his arms and leaned against the wall.
"You're making fun of Lermontov or me?"
"Both."
"Good thing he's not here." He took a position facing her,
disdaining to touch the barre for support, struck first position
and drew his foot to knee level.
"Like this." She completed the developpe and extension, stopping
when her extended leg was at the three position. "If you can get
to here on your first try you're doing---KYAAA!"
Hiei hadn't even bothered unfolding his arms, but his supporting
leg looked solid as oak. The working leg grazed his ear and
beyond, the toe pointing skyward. Holding the position,
seemingly without effort, the slash-and-burn expert shot her a
smug glance. "Six o'clock. First try. Now go play some music."
0-0-0-0-0
Koenma's forensics team was still at work on the rogue oni, but
there were no identifying labels in the clothes, and the knives
were of commonplace Makai origin. The wad of cash they found
stuffed in its pocket had been unmarked bills, wrapped in a
material that yielded no prints.
Nor had Kurama seen much of Hiei since the fire demon and Shay-
san returned from their brief vacation in California, not
counting the round-up at the Crazy Dog Diner and the bizarre
night at the Charisma ballroom.
Schoolwork kept him busy. And Kaasan---
He sat at his desk, clutching a pencil between his teeth, mulling
over an essay his class had been assigned, an open notebook
before him.
He was conscious now as he had not been in a long time that his
mother worried about him, though she would not express it for
fear of giving offense.
Nor would Kurama express the fact that he understood. Much of
what he and Kaasan communicated to one another took place in the
realm of the implicit. But in order to allay her fears, Kurama
stayed close to home, and kept fairly regular hours, making a
point to tell her where he was going and when.
He took the pencil from his mouth, squinting at the slightly-
dampened eraser. The essay was to be composed in English. For
one waggish moment, Kurama thought of recounting the team's
adventures against White Sands Serpent---then turning it in to
his English sensei, innocent and liquid-eyed: "But I thought
you'd assigned a piece of fiction."
No. Safer to stay in shallow waters. Perhaps an essay about
getting to know an actual American. Shay-san would not mind. He
sighed. Hiei, on the other hand---
No. One could live one's entire life in fear, never venturing
farther than one's own bedroom, only to be killed by a plane
crashing through the roof.
Kurama began scribbling a draft about America in general and one
little American in particular. Shay-san could even check his
grammar and idiom, though he was confident of it.
Then the phone rang. "I'll get it, Kaasan," he called, and went
to pick it up.
"Kurama?" Though there was music blaring in the background, he
could tell it was the subject of his essay on the other end;
Shay-san's voice sounded strained, even frightened; her fear
transmitted itself to him through the wire. "Can you come to the
studio? Now?"
Had Hiei gone missing? Had another oni or something worse found
its way to Lermontov's digs?
Kurama said, "On my way," and grabbed for his jacket even as he
hung up the phone.
He did manage to wave good-bye to Kaasan, give her a cheery
smile, and reassure her he was headed to no place more dangerous
than the gypsy's dance studio.
When he arrived, he found Shay-san huddled on the floor, as if
the weight of music from the nearby boom box had flattened her,
and though the studio was quite warm she was wrapped in a shawl.
She was also staring at Hiei, who was apparently both present and
intact.
Kurama could see why. Hiei was dancing. And not the sparse,
savagely controlled footwork and body line of the tango.
The fire demon was a Tasmanian devil, a whirling dervish, a
warrior battling invisible foes. Kurama recognized the song, one
of Megallica's many hits. 'Nuts and Bolts' featured a foursquare
beat with a throbbing bass line and little to recommend it in the
way of melodic development.
Hiei's moves had not the slightest taint of feyness---a
combination of rigorous ballet jumps, and the stances Kurama had
seen him deploy in battle. He was particularly reminded of the
leaps and tumbles Hiei had used in evading Seiryuu's ice attacks
back in Labyrinth Castle.
And Hiei was working flat-out, right up to the redline, no
holding back. It was an enormous expenditure of energy.
Hiei did not seem to notice as Kurama joined the little subject-
of-his-essay gaijin on the floor.
Nor did Kurama have to ask her what was wrong. "Bullets can't
stop him," she said.
"I assume you've tried."
"Left my gun at home, darn the luck."
Kurama followed her gaze to the still-churning Hiei. "You don't
happen to know whether Hiei had a dance instructor in Makai?" she
asked, close to his ear. "Realizing how a little thing like that
just might possibly slip his mind."
"Maybe he swallowed a handful of Mexican Jumping Beans," Kurama
said back into her ear.
"Because I turned on the music and this---" she nodded in Hiei's
direction, which was no easy task as Hiei's direction changed
with every beat of the music, "---this came out." She chewed on a
thumbnail, her eyes like gray saucers.
"So naturally you're terrified."
She shrugged. "Learning the tango was one thing. Reproducing
steps we were both taught. I knew he'd be good at that. Hiei
could drive my old Jeep after watching me do it once. But this?"
Hiei was a fast learner, true. And it was not surprising to see
him move well; he'd always possessed great agility, and no one
ever questioned his athleticism.
"Have you tried pulling the plug?" Reaching forward, Kurama shut
off the boom box.
Hiei stopped. "Nuts," said the fire demon, flicking forward to
turn it on again.
"See?" Kurama turned a reassuring smile on Shay-san. "He's like
a wind-up toy," he explained. "That simple. Play the music and
he goes."
"Oh, really? Then how does he manage to be so 'on' the music?"
Kurama pondered: Is this merely Hiei's well-known speed? Is he
somehow 'pre-hearing' the music? And is this really so
uncharacteristic of him? I've known him for what---two years?
Kurama followed Hiei's movements on the dance floor, extending
his senses. Still Hiei. No doppelganger, no shape-shifter. The
ki was Hiei's own, both familiar and stubborn.
"Hiei." Kurama had to call out twice to claim his attention.
"When, er, that is, where did you, er, study---?"
Hiei was breathing a bit hard, but he looked as gleeful as when
he was hacking through a squadron of enemy fighters. "Library,"
he said dismissively and in mid-air, as if people did that every
day and then could perform by osmosis. "They have films. All
kinds of dance steps."
Kurama began to wonder whether he shouldn't change the subject of
his English essay to Dancing Hiei. "But how are you managing
to---"
Another song cut Kurama off, one he did not recognize, a quicker
tempo, a softer melodic line. Hiei whirled into a series of
dizzying turns. "The music tells me what to do," he said.
"Can't you hear it? Jump here, spin there. Go into a t-stand.
Walkover. Full side split."
"Okay, okay, okay." Rising, Kurama caught at the fire demon's
spinning shoulders---and was promptly bowled over for his pains.
"You can stop now," Kurama said drily, picking himself up off the
floor.
"Why? It's fun. And good exercise." Snatching up a broomstick
from the corner, Hiei used it in lieu of a katana. "Down on
right knee, defensive posture. Don't tell me you can't hear it,
kit," he said, in sync with the song. "Then up, attack front,
spin away, forward leap."
Kurama blinked. So. The Night of the Tango had not been a
fluke. Dancing Hiei, unleashed on an unsuspecting public. "What
on earth have you set into motion?"
"Better be something with a paycheck attached," Hiei said,
blazing past them both, leaving them gaping at the holes he made
in space.
0-0-0-0-0
The first chords tolled like bells in the Charisma ballroom.
Just before sinking into that sinuous and remarkable U-bend,
Hiei's firebird smacked him with a long, wicked, side glance.
He was unable to watch her perform that backbend and tolerate
that look without thinking about other things. "Stupid woman,"
he hissed at her. "You will force me to perform in a state that
is a public disgrace."
If she heard him, she did not see fit to dignify it with a
response.
He pulled her up and the dance began for real, with a tempo
change and a series of head-snaps. Good hip contact. Razor
footwork, arrogant top line.
Her body seemed to be made for his (as was true in things other
than dancing. And so for the reverse: how she responded to the
direction of his dance frame and footwork informed his own
responses to her.
He challenged. She sparred. The bass beat pounded them around
the floor, and then the musical theme lightened, and she became
more playful, he apologetic. No redline here; the number would
last a minute-thirty at most, and they were nearly there now.
Two measures, repeating the second theme.
Now, reconciliation. She dropped to her knees before him, hands
still clutching at his shoulders...
He presented her to the crowd, and she blew a kiss to their
cheering section (Shiori, Kurama, Yuusuke and Keiko---his sister
and the idiot were absent, which would bear further scrutiny).
Shay-san was breathing a bit hard, and he glanced over, raising
an eyebrow, but she waved away his concern.
As for the dance. It wasn't the tango, not exactly. And since
this was an exhibition, not a competition, there was wiggle room;
they had changed the choreography at the last possible second,
almost by telepathy, and Hiei could detect Lermontov's
anger---their sensei was watching from another table.
Already the constraints of ballroom had begun to chafe him.
'The music doesn't say to do that,' Hiei would point out to
Lermontov.
'Who is teacher here?' The Russian matched Hiei glare for glare,
and his glare was taller. 'Music says do what I tell you.'
Inevitably, this conflict would lead to a parting of the ways.
Regrettable, but it was what it was.
Lermontov rose from his table and slipped from the ballroom, a
frozen grin on his face. This did not bode well.
As Hiei suspected, Lermontov awaited them in a towering silence
as they made their exit. Hiei could do the towering silence
thing as well as anyone. He steered Shay-san toward their
dressing room, Lermontov in menacing attendance.
But the performance had gone well. Hiei wasn't even winded. He
flicked a glance at his firebird; she kept her gaze fixed
straight ahead. Maybe she wanted out of her tight-fitting gown.
Their footsteps whispered against deep carpeting. When Hiei felt
a flick of unease that had nothing to do with the Russian's cold
rage, he stopped.
Blink. He saw his firebird, broken and bleeding on the pavement.
Heard the wail of sirens, smelled smoke.
Blink.
They were indoors, in the clean, quiet hallway leading to the
dressing room. But Shay-san---!
She clutched at her mid-section, ghostly-pale. Pressing her lips
together to bite back a cry of pain that even Hiei could feel,
she sagged against him.
Hiei's throat went dry. The blood slammed to his toes.
Unwilling to leave her, he snarled at Lermontov to call
Kurama---and the doctor.
0-0-0-0-0
Kurama yawned.
Stretching, he got up from his chair just outside the dressing
room, and shook out the stiffness in his legs.
At the far end of the carpeted hall, a maid pushed her cart of
cleaning supplies, beginning her rounds.
From the dressing room came the sounds of waking. A murmur of
voices, the rustle of clothes being pulled on.
At any moment, Hiei and Shay-san might emerge. Kurama did not
want them to catch him there.
The pain Shay-san had experienced proved, to everyone's exquisite
relief, to be nothing more than a deep muscle pull.
Smith-sensei (Kurama occasionally did the odd job for him as
office boy and general assistant) had been called in, had scolded
Shay-san for doing backbends without a thorough warm-up. Then
Smith had given her a mild muscle relaxer, and ordered her to
stay put for the night.
Which meant that Hiei stayed put also.
Kurama left the hotel, pausing just outside the entrance. The
sky an opalescent blue, with a promise of warmth to come;
enticing scents of fresh rolls and cinnamon from a nearby bakery
wafted past. He was starving.
"Oi, Kurama!"
He turned. Yuusuke was grinning at him, leaning against the
facade of the hotel. "Wanna get something to eat?"
"You read my mind." They fell into step together.
"So you were inside all night?" Yuusuke tried unsuccessfully to
stifle a yawn.
"As were you."
"Wrong answer, fox-boy. I was covering the outside."
"Standing guard?"
Yuusuke nodded. "I figured what with that bad-ass aura at the
Pachinko parlor, and then the oni attack---"
"That was my thought, too. I didn't want to leave them
unguarded." To Kurama's regret, Yuusuke led him past the bakery
to a coffee shop around the corner.
Well. Perhaps even better. The scents just as mouth-watering:
butter and almond paste and freshly-brewed coffee. A place to
sit, to mull over what had transpired.
Yuusuke ordered two coffees and a plate of croissants. Once
their food arrived, Kurama dipped a flat wooden stirring stick
into his coffee, then licked the caffeinated end before stabbing
it into a croissant.
Yuusuke dug into his first croissant and continued, in a rather
food-muffled voice: "You stood guard inside?"
Kurama nodded, working to swallow his oversized bite of
croissant; flaky and crisp and buttery all at once. He made a
mental note to return to the place soon. "Right at their
dressing room door."
"Sooo ..." Yuusuke's dark eyes glinted. "Didja catch 'em doin'
it?"
Kurama put his coffee cup down with a clatter. "Do try to be a
bit less disgusting so early in the morning, Yuusuke."
The other boy snickered at Kurama's shudder of discomfort. "So
they weren't goin' at it like weasels on a hot plate?"
"You have such a way with words."
"Well? Were they?"
"No." Kurama glanced outside, wondering exactly how to put it.
More foot traffic streamed past, as the city shook itself awake.
"Hiei---" Kurama paused for breath. "He was singing."
Yuusuke goggled. "I'm sorry. My mouth was full. Hiei was
WHAT?"
"Singing."
"Singing. You mean like when you move your lips and stuff comes
out that's like a melody?"
Kurama nodded. "The song being Ue Wo Muite Arukou: I Look Up As
I Walk."
"Ohh, man!" Yuusuke's fist crashed down. "I know that one! My
mom listens to it over and over and then cries in her sake."
Kurama stirred his cooling coffee. Kyu Sakamoto's ballad was the
only Japanese song to have charted in America, where, Shay-san
informed him, they had inexplicably changed the title to
'Sukiyaki.'
Kyu Sakamoto, who had died in a plane crash. An odd little
shiver ran through Kurama.
"And then he sang something I had never heard before," Kurama
went on. "A similar melody--but not exactly. Something about a
whistle. He was singing very softly. I couldn't tell."
"Can't picture that at all." Yuusuke helped himself to Kurama's
second croissant. "Hiei refused to participate in the Great
Karaoke Wars, 'member? Maybe it's something that charted in
Makai. You should ask him."
Kurama gave a slow smile. "And have Hiei threaten to feed my
head to my neck again?"
He turned his face to the window, watching the pedestrian stream,
and the beginnings of the rush hour. At last he spoke, but only
in a murmur: "Actually, he sounded ... nice."
0-0-0-0-0
'ArtDance Tokyo: Around Town---
Jaganshi Hiei exhibits no modesty whatever.
He is using the back room of the Lermontov dance studio along
with his wife, the American Shayla Kidd. They are here due to a
string of good luck which culminates with an offer from director
Yukawa Kenji to perform in the video of Ibuki's newest pop
single, 'Smile In Your Heart.'
Frowning into the mirror, Jaganshi yanks up his shirt,
simultaneously yanking down the waistband of his pants, exposing
a washboard mid-section. "Camera angle front right," he murmurs.
He keeps a soft count, grinding out a series of hip isolations:
"Two, three, left, right, left, snap front, turn."
Nor is he shy about yanking off his pants altogether to check on
the structural integrity of his knee wraps.
"Don't take pictures, okay?" he addresses the photographer. "I
wouldn't do this if there was a lady present." Wicked grin.
"Lady other than my wife."
Seated in the far corner, said wife snorts, then fusses with her
shoes, one of three identical pair lined up next to her.
Jaganshi rolls his eyes. "She wears one pair of shoes for this
turn, another for the chasse. But first she has me smash the toe
box. Too much trouble. Why not go barefoot?"
Kicking off her shoes altogether, Kidd joins him in front of the
mirror. If there is one rule of engagement, she explains, it's
this: Whatever happens, don't stop.
In fluent if heavily-accented English, Jaganshi elaborates: "This
dance has jazz steps, ballet, ballroom. I don't know how she
makes it all work."
"It's a lighthearted song," the New Jersey native adds, in
considerably better English.
They run through a brief practice whirl. Her moves are delicate,
feminine, precise. His are powerful, fierce, wild, right out of
Sleeping Beauty's famed Bluebird solo.
"Jumps, no problem," Jaganshi says. "Making it look good---" A
shrug. "This number is very playful, very flirtatious. She
flicks her skirt at me a lot. I think this will catch on."
The Japanese dance world seems to think so as well.
---Kagon Retsuzanshi'
Hiei handed the clipping back to Kurama. "Over the top much?"
They were sitting at a small table in The Silver Moon, the same
busy coffee shop where Kurama and Yuusuke had shared their early-
morning breakfast just a week ago.
Moving his cup and saucer aside, Kurama slid the clipping across
the table to Hiei. "You wound me deeply."
Hiei mimed sticking a finger down his throat. "Reads like a
commercial for Hiei Industries."
"That's what I had in mind."
"Don't you bat those baby greens at me. I think I'm losing
consciousness from reading this swill."
"Well? Aren't you worried about money?"
"Ch." Hiei stuck a biscotti between his jaws and cracked it in
half.
"Actually this began as an essay for a school assignment."
"You wrote about me in school? Say your prayers, kit."
"No. I wrote about Shay-san."
"In that case say a complete Rosary."
"However, I believe I nailed the modesty angle," said Kurama,
blithely ignoring Hiei's deathglare.
"You never mentioned in the article you were also the
photographer," Hiei accused.
"Please." Kurama hid his smile behind one hand. "Must I reveal
everything to an uncaring public?"
Shaking his head, Hiei muttered, "You make me laugh."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." Kurama tapped his breast
pocket. "Should I bring my camera to rehearsal as well?"
"Should I inform you where you can shove that camera?"
Lermontov had, perhaps from a sense of misplaced guilt regarding
the Great Muscle Pull Incident, introduced Hiei and Shay-san to
the video director; even though they'd listed the seething
Russian as co-choreographer, Lermontov's part in the rehearsals
had thus far consisted of shouting, 'Is too jazzy! Stick to
basics!'
Kaasan had been quite intrigued with the news, and asked to be
allowed to watch a rehearsal. The video itself had not yet been
shot; Kurama attended rehearsals as his schedule permitted. He
waggled a finger at Hiei. "Someday you'll look back on this and
thank me."
"Good pen name," Hiei said. Kurama gave an attempt at a blush.
It was the name of one of his attacks: Splendid Slicing Branch.
Hiei indicated the clipping. "What did they pay you for this?"
"Not enough. And anyway this copy's yours."
Grunting, Hiei folded the clipping and stuck it underneath his
saucer. "I get the feeling my firebird has something else
planned. Something bigger than prancing around a ballroom." He
took a swig of coffee, then put the cup down.
The clatter of dishes and the buzz of conversation suspended
itself as Hiei slanted Kurama an unreadable look. "Something
that involves you, too."
Kurama rolled his eyes. "I can hardly wait to find out."
-30-
(To be continued: A pair of schemes converging!)