I should warn you that there will be drama in this story. Not that much though. Probably as much drama as the lion population in current Africa, if you want me to be specific.
Also thanks to Mer-des-Miroirs for her contribution to this chapter.
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~Warning: the following scene does not belong to a tacky Japanese soap written by a drunken hippie, even though it looks like it~
It was near the end of '87 and life was like a wild dream of shrill colors and cheap synthesizers.
The sons of those who lived during the forced Japan's reconciliation with Beijing breathed their teenage years with joy and tolerance, spending their allowance on the addictive sounds of pop music. The new generation no longer had fun picnics under sakura trees; they wanted to party until late hours with no parenting restrictions. They wanted to experience new sensations; to dance until collapsing, alcohol shots, spangles, speeds, menthol cigarettes and music posters. They were young, beautiful, full-spirited and Karaoke was for old people.
And as the majority of teenagers chose the popular discotheques that glorified the new idols of the national culture, those who found J-pop to be nothing more than obnoxious sounds and empty sound lyrics eventually found their night's destiny in downtown's underground discotheque:
Insomnia.
Probably one of the very few places in Kyoto that could play the Western hits along with visual kei songs, making the art of dancing more versatile than a chameleon. The dj's were loved for that, because everybody was there for one thing only, and that was to dance and think of nothing else.
She was different from the usual girls that came to Insomnia every Saturday night. On the outside she was a well-bred girl, with innocent smiles that secured her the right to be seen as a lady. Nobody questioned the fairness of her gestures, the delicacy of her stand, the sweetness of her words. She never wore lipstick under the daylight, nor any other shameless makeup to cover natural beauty. For others she was beautiful, cute, innocent, obedient, polite; she was the embodiment of every Japanese romance novel's heroine. She knew how to cook, how to sing Misora Hibari's enka songs perfectly. She was taught to be the complete package of the perfect wife, and good boys of traditional values have fallen in love for the golden box that cloistered her.
Except that, she wasn't Japanese. She came from those ill-spoken Chinese immigrant neighborhoods that many Japanese, still full of prejudices, frowned upon. She was perfect on the outside but her blood lineage betrayed her, and all she wished was to be accepted and loved in a country that judges a book by its cover.
That's probably why she came to Insomnia, a place where no one was really Japanese, Korean, Chinese or African; yet they all spoke the same musical language on the dancefloor. The original owner would eventually decease in the 90's (and until the new millennium the small discotheque would suffer numerous changes by different managers); but in the 80's, it was one of the few places in Kyoto where 'freedom' and 'individuality' were the norms. And inside Insomina, under the addictive sounds of Duran Duran and Buck Tick, all the guys wanted to be with her.
Music is a powerful liberator. For one hour straight, she let go of her demons and freed herself on the dancefloor. Her lips moved along with the words of Madonna's Material Girl, and even though her English was weak, he knew she felt she could be related to that song. There was a whole life full of adventures out there waiting for her, a life that her traditional parents, her xenophobic neighbors and her shapeless boyfriend wanted to repel from her-
But not tonight. Tonight she was going to dance every made-in-American song that hit that dancefloor, and tonight – she was more fascinating than everything. Her long black hair reflected the colored lights of the disco ball; her soft pale skin shined more brightly than her spangled dress. He was observing her from the bar's counter, watching her hypnotizing body's movements with rapt attention as she followed the rhythm of the MTV hits.
And then, suddenly, she stopped. She stopped to look at him.
She only looked at him. It was a strange yet powerful, overwhelming feeling to be the sole receptor of her admiration, her emotions, her beautiful dark eyes that were only for him. Him, the school's football team mascot, and not Kakashi, the popular jock. A beautiful, intelligent girl like her…smiling at him… wanting him to be her knight, her sole protector, her….
She probably liked to see him dance – he might not be exactly popular at high school, but at Insomnia he surely was the king of the dance floor. Dreams of a music career led him to perfect the dance moves, and now he was pretty confident of himself when he hit the floor.
"What are you standing there for? Come dance!"
She spun around herself and laughed, and her face was so stunning. He still didn't know what she saw in a sixteen-year-old like him, when she was already a freshman in college. A lot of guys would sing serenades only for her smile, but she wasn't paying attention to other guys. She was special. She existed. And he existed for her.
"Xing-Juan…"
He loved her name. It meant 'propagating grace' in Chinese. It fitted her, in an ironic way.
He stretched his hand, urging to touch the skin of her cheek, urging to feel her warmness beneath his fingers. She kept smiling and giggling, and whispering something he couldn't hear.
"What?"
Her lips moved again, shaping into more soundless words, and he stepped closer to her, tried to muffle the loud sound of the music to hear her.
"Say again?"
He took another step, eyes locked in her mesmerizing black glaze, and they were so close…
"I said wake up!"
::
Asuma snapped out his dream so violently that he almost fell off the couch. Dazed and half-asleep, he looked around, mildly recognizing his own living room. He saw her standing in front of him with a frown, looking somehow confused. She cut her hair.
"Xing-Juan…" He jerked his hand, trying to reach her face, her skin, her touch.
But she snapped his hand off her, and her frown hardened and she…
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Wait a minute. He blinked his eyes. Her face was fading away, giving place to the confused presence of his son (-the eyes looked surprisingly similar…-). Asuma shook his head, foreseeing a small headache coming through, and he scanned around the room. The disco lights were slowly vanishing back in the grey walls of his apartment.
"Sasuke?"
"Who the hell is Xing-Juan?"
Half-disoriented, he turned his head and blinked again. He could still see her face in vanishing bits of flash backs, and the awkwardness of his pseudo-somnambulistic gesture roused him up to reality. (her face eventually fade out completely when his dazzling eyes met the family picture hung next to the television)
"I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else…" He forced out a dorky laugh, but he still couldn't understand why the dream was so livid, why she seemed so… real.
Why on earth had he dreamt about her, after all those years? He thought he had forgotten her altogether.
Sasuke, standing on his feet, wasn't so much interested in digging further into past crushes of a middle-aged man (though that scene before was very awkward; for a moment he thought Asuma was going to kiss him or something), so he quickly changed the subject while the man was still yawning:
"Why are you home? Weren't you supposed to be at work?"
The older man sat on the couch, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "I was laid off."
Sasuke swallowed dryly. "Laid off?"
"Nah, don't worry, it's not like they fired me! They're just having some problems. You know, the usual. You'll see, soon they'll be calling me back!"
Asuma was laughing silly, shrugging like it was nothing. Yet the nervous twitch in the corner of his lips, and the frenetic scratching of his nape, didn't fool Sasuke. It was serious, they were really having problems. If Sasuke's mind hadn't been so occupied with trifles and meaningless dilemmas like if Itachi would look better in a PVC Batman costume, or mounting a horse naked with cowboy boots…
Wow, that dream from the day before yesterday was still impressively fresh.
"I got a new weekend job." He announced, clearing his head of more improper thoughts. "I started yesterday, actually."
Asuma's puckered brow immediately told him that he didn't like the idea. Sasuke was already anticipating the dialogue before the older man opened his mouth:
"I'd much prefer that you concentrated on your studies, Sasuke. These jobs are only going to distract you from your academic responsibilities. Your future is more important to us than-"
"Don't worry, it won't delay my studies." Sasuke cut his speech harshly and, without adding anything more, he walked to his bedroom leaving Asuma in the living room. He stopped before turning to the hallway. "Oh, I almost forgot. Can I see your clothes? In the closet, I mean."
Asuma gazed at him, bemused at his demand.
"What for?"
"Just…er…nothing special."
Asuma observed Sasuke nervously scratching the back of his neck. He seemed embarrassed. It was then that bulb inside Asuma's head lightened, and he grinned like the proud father that he was:
"You have a date! Who's the lucky girl? Is it that girl…what's her name…Sakura or something?"
He looked rather static, and Sasuke couldn't help to feel a little angry with the man. Why did he always assume that whatever Sasuke did was always because of girls? Geez, there are more things in the world than pussies.
"No. It's not a date. I'm just going out with a friend."
"Right…." Asuma kept grinning. He looked like an idiot when he grinned like that. "Picking up girls, then?"
Sasuke sighed. There's no point with Asuma. "Yeah, whatever. I take that as a 'yes'."
Turning on his heels, Sasuke left him stretching out in the living room, to go ferret in his old clothes. He knew Asuma still kept all his clothes from his youth in a box inside his closet. He also knew that he was quite vain, so he probably had tons of outfits stored. With luck he could find something that resembled the cool badass-look he saw in a magazine's cover back in the kiosk.
:: ::
For Naruto, life was like a box full of surprises.
The biggest surprise that the gods offered him was, without a doubt, his missing mother, whose existence for so many years remained in the darkness. Not a single phone-call, a birthday card, or even a whisper; she just appeared as the same way she had vanished. But he forgave her.
Another big surprise was probably when Sai confessed to him. Truth was, Naruto thought it was a joke. Or maybe it was the mischievous wittiness of the gods when they created coincidences, because Sai had to choose Fool's Day when he said that he loved him like a man and a woman were supposed to love. And thanks to it, until now Naruto continued having doubts about his true intention (he never had the courage to ask Sai, if he would say the same thing on any other day of the year).
(He also didn't know what would he answer, had it been any other normal day).
But as the religious people say, the gods are greater and wiser than any living being on Earth, so is their sense of humor. And today, Naruto received a phone-call from one Sarutobi Sasuke that wanted nothing more of him than – to help him choose an outfit.
This was very, very weird. Not only was his best friend the living exception that proved the rule that says all Japanese guys are metrosexual, Sasuke was also the type of guy who could care less about the color of his tie in a black-and-white diner, but never forgets to bring his favorite brand of condoms.
At first, Naruto thought that he was drunk and hit his head on another tree that happened to be crossing the road, but 3 in the afternoon was a little too soon for alcohol, even for Sasuke. He also wasn't feeling like dragging his ass off of his comfy sofa, stealing his father's car keys and driving all the way to Sasuke's house, only to find him again 'alcoholized and moronized'. Though he was curious to know if Kiba's stupid theory about alcohol in urine was really bullshit – if he lit a match and threw it at Sasuke's piss, would the toilet really explode? He didn't think so, but it wouldn't hurt to try it. Kurenai might not be pleased if it works.
Yet of all the things he could expect from Sasuke, seeing him dressed with tight leather pants and a gang-style jacket for a supposedly friendly dinner, was really not in the list. When Naruto arrived at his place and saw Sasuke's perfectly neat closet completely ravished, and a pile of clothes spread over Sasuke's bed, a scenery shockingly similar to Naruto's own room, the first thing that crossed his mind was that someone kidnapped his friend and sent an Elvis Presley fan in his replacement.
Sasuke didn't seem bothered with Naruto's shocked expression, as he nonchalantly asked Naruto how he looked, but the blond felt that it was a tricky question.
"Hurry up Naruto, these pants are cutting off my circulation." He grunted, massaging his leather-clad inner thighs. "How do I look?"
Naruto honestly didn't know what went through his friend's head to suddenly decide that a rockabilly's look fit his image, but knew it wasn't alcohol.
"Like you're about to sing the Jailhouse Rock."
He even had pomade in his hair.
The brunette let out another grunt and hastily began to remove his pants, seeming somewhat relieved to get rid of that leather prison. His thighs were in fact a bit reddened, and Naruto inwardly wondered what was so manly about the 'rebel boy' image. He too had once tried some tight leather pants (well, it was Sai who suggested it, and it was just for the fun), but after two hours with that fabric sticking to his muscles, he could no longer feel his balls, much less his legs.
"Where are you going anyway?" Naruto frowned. He knew Sasuke was omitting VID's. Very Important Details.
"Just a friendly dinner."
Friendly dinners don't generally require more than your casual clothes. Someone's gotta give.
"Are you sure?"
"Are you going to help me choose or what?"
Naruto compelled, still too surprised to make a joke about Sasuke's new type of underwear that he had never seen before: black briefs? Last time he saw his friend this naked, he was wearing baggy boxers.
Something was going on.
"Why don't you try a shirt?"
It was a simple idea, but when he saw Sasuke trying to reach for one of the one hundred black shirts he had, he thought it wise to add: "A color shirt."
This suggestion seemed to have puzzled Sasuke, who with a closet that now resembled a fashion shop in sale season, didn't seem to know where to look. Naruto could almost see his brain synapsing the information, as he stared at the bundle of black mess he made in his closet. After a dilatory inspection, Sasuke apparently managed to unearth a wrinkled non-black shirt, which unfortunately wasn't exactly what Naruto chromatically had in mind.
A wrinkled shit – now this is something he never saw in Sasuke's bedroom.
"That is not a color shirt."
"Of course it is. It's steel blue."
"Steel blue, my ass." Naruto snorted. "That's the color my black T-shirts are left with after I wash them."
"That's because you're a moron."
Naruto replied with puckered brows, and Sasuke sighed.
"I have some white shirts."
"No white shirts! You're already white enough! You want to be mistaken for the walls of the restaurant Sasuke? Colors, Sasuke, colors!" Geez, his friend was unbelievable. Even their country's flag had more colors than Sasuke's closet.
Sasuke sighed again, noticeably becoming more frustrated at Naruto's pertinacity.
It was probably a mistake to call Naruto for help, but sadly, he didn't have many straight friends to resort to in times of a self-esteem crisis. Sure he knew other straight guys who probably wouldn't mind giving their opinion in male fashion without mocking him (not if Sasuke threatened them first), though they weren't a very reliable source. Suigestu doesn't believe in the aesthetic value of clothes; he neither seems to spend much time wearing them as he spends being naked fucking a girl, or something that resembles a human being with large breasts. Shino, as far as he knew, only wore mackintoshes. Kiba smells like a dog and thinks like a dog, and Rock Lee is out of the question.
There was still Shikamaru, but Sasuke never liked him. Kurenai thought it was jealously, for Shikamaru started getting along really well with Asuma after a summer course that Asuma supervised as a technician, but that wasn't it. Sasuke just didn't like him, period. Nobody likes a guy who spends the entire day looking at shitting birds and boring clouds.
Therefore, Naruto was the only option he had left. And Sasuke didn't want to end up looking like the cleaning lady's son, because he suspected that Itachi was going to bring him to some fangle restaurant where the waiters' clothes cost more than his left kidney. Sure the leather outfit wasn't the best idea either, but you never know what's an Armani or a Gucci these days.
"I have a baby blue shirt." He finally gave in, adding: "With pink stripes."
It was Sakura's gift, actually, for their one year's anniversary. It came with a card saying: "Your blue heart is crying / Let me imprint it / With spring blossoms". Only this didn't win the award for the worst haiku of the century, because Sasuke had the privilege to read worse in some of the love letters he received in high school.
"Cool! Let me see."
Sasuke opened the bottom drawer of the closet, removed the pile of clothes above and took out the mentioned shirt, giving it to Naruto. It wasn't really baby blue but more light blue, with a pattern of thin, vertical lines along the pale pink colored fabric.
"Nice. Why don't you try this on?"
"It's not my style."
"And the leather pants are?" He pointed out. "C'mon, I bet it'll look good on you. When I'm on a date I don't wear my usual clothes either."
"But I'm not like you."
Naruto smirked. Oh boy, Sasuke was too easy to read sometimes.
"I knew it! You just admitted you're going on a date!"
It was for moments like these that Naruto lived for: the pleasure of seeing Sasuke's serious face being betrayed by his own little secret. Red like a tomato. Fantastic.
"So, who's the chick?"
"It's not a date!" Of course, Sasuke will always deny it. "And if you're that interested, I'm going out to a friendly dinner with Itachi."
Wow, wow –WOW! Something was definitely going on.
Just the other day, Sai told him that Sakura came to him asking if a guy who rejects a woman's offer for oral sex is definitely gay, or can still be straight with reasonable explanation. Apparently Sai answered that most gay men would probably not reject an oral sex offer, because they can still close their eyes and imagine it was a guy – and besides, men are men, they're biologically sexually-driven creatures. Anyway, it was a weird explanation that Naruto didn't agree with, but assuming that Sakura was talking about Itachi, it was really odd. Unless Itachi was one of those freaks that believed in abstinence, which he didn't seem so, there was a possibility– and I know this will sound crazy – that Itachi wasn't sexually interested in Sakura. He asked his friend if he thought Itachi was gay, but Sai's gay-radar had probably gone out of battery that day because he said he didn't know for sure, although he did hear Itachi back at Neji's pool party referring to the color of the stripes on his speedos as 'magenta'.
According to Sai's strange knowledge, straight men usually say 'red' or 'pink', not 'magenta' (though that still doesn't prove anything, because Naruto never heard Sai saying 'magenta' either). But anyway, if their assumptions were correct, and if Itachi was in fact gay, and he was going out with Sasuke…
Should he warn Sasuke?
"I look ridiculous in this." Sasuke's comment snapped him out of his thoughts, who was now criticizing his own mirror reflection with the blue shirt on.
"It brings out the color of your eyes."
Naruto wasn't really paying attention to his words, as his mind was still focused on trying to find the best way to tell Sasuke what he thought about Itachi. But there's no real good way to tell a thing like that, isn't it? Not that Naruto was homophobic or something like that, but if you're going out with someone that poses high probability of wanting more than a friendly talk with you, you have the right to know it first. As you also have the right to refuse if you don't feel the same way-
"My eyes aren't blue, you moron." Sasuke hissed. "This was a complete waste of time. Why did I even bother to call you…"
Naruto gasped. What- that is unbelievable! He drove all the way to his house to help him and this is how he thanks him?
Oh screw it! His ungrateful friend deserved it anyway.
"You know what, Sasuke?" Naruto grinned, deviously. "I just remembered, that tight shirt you have looks really awesome on you."
Sasuke frowned. "What, the one that Kurenai bought me? I thought that was a bit gay."
"What, that? It's totally the new male fashion. Trust me, you'll look awesome."
For a moment Sasuke seemed to doubt Naruto's words, but he eventually shrugged and went back to the contents of his closet, searching for the mentioned shirt.
Today's meteorologists predicted a sudden drop of temperature in the evening. And if Itachi was really gay, he will gladly notice the weather report on Sasuke's sticky nipples.
:: ::
For once, Itachi was driving a different car. Not an SUV; this one was antique, and it looked like a mix of a Lamborghini and a 70's Cadillac in its shortened version. High in the sky, the moon was vainly struggling against the misty cape of pollution to provide sufficient light to Sasuke catch the signature, when he skirted around the car: it was really a Lamborghini. A fucking Lamborghini, most certainly of limited edition. How many expensive cars did that guy own by himself?
Itachi was talking to his cell phone when Sasuke slid over the passenger's seat, though e hung up immediately, after snorting "We'll discuss it later" through gnashed teeth. His eyebrows were puckered into the mien of vexation, and he threw the mobile onto the back seat as unreflectingly as foreign his gesture seemed. This had been the first time that Sasuke saw this almost-chimerical character appearing so discompose, and in a silly manner, it pleased him, knowing that Itachi was, in the end, a human being that walked on planet Earth.
(There were ways to ruffle his fancy feathers, after all)
Itachi recovered from his anger access in a blink, after scanning Sasuke up and down with one puckered eyebrow. Then, he proceeded: "Shall we go?"
His lip curled, but his eyes weren't smiling. Sasuke could tell he was still pissed at whoever was on the phone, but he was doing an amazing job to look as fashionably impassive as ever. He couldn't help to feel that he was getting closer to decipher Itachi's facial microexpressions, as that little flick in the corner of the mouth he seemed to do when something else was nagging him…
"Nice car." He commented. He wasn't trying to break the silence (or maybe he was, but that's a mere triviality), but he had just realized that the engine didn't make much noise when Itachi turned him on. Which was odd, since it was supposedly a 70's European car.
"It's a 74' Lamborghini Jarama."
He tried to observe Itachi's expression, but his eyes were rigidly fixed on the road. He though sounded a bit proud of the car he owned – and he should be, it was a fantastic piece of Italian metal.
"Is this the one with an automatic transmission as an option?"
"Yes. Though I prefer using the manual transmission."
Sasuke's eyes widened. He read about the Lamborghini's 70's production in one of his car magazines. If he recalls, only about three hundred Lamborghini Jarama ever hit the market and their production stopped in 1976, and only ten of them or so had an automatic transmission.
"What happened to the SUV?" Alarmed, he detected a tone of jealously in his voice. He hoped that Itachi hadn't noticed it.
"The SUV is not mine. It was borrowed, while this car was being re-engined."
"Re-engine? You mean remapping?"
"I thought of a simple remapping, but it appears that the old engine was reluctant in meeting the necessary modifications in order to reduce the carbon monoxide emissions. Something with the catalytic converter…? Nonetheless, I was advised to replace the engine instead, as it happens that this new one burns exceedingly lesser fuel."
Sasuke gasped. Was this guy an idiot?
"You replaced the original engine?"
"You sound like I just committed a crime."
Damn right he did! Who the fuck buys antique sports car of very limited edition only to fuck up the original engine? That considerably lowered the car's value on the market, not to mention that it destroyed its history all together. It's like buying a Picasso and deciding to repaint the faces!
Itachi, instead of realizing the gravity of the situation, just chuckled, apparently amused at Sasuke's shocking expression. "Well… I hope you can still forgive me."
Sasuke dry-swallowed, painfully. He wanted to complain about the mistake he just did with the car, but it's hard to reprimand someone who, first) doesn't seem to know much about cars as he knows how to spend money on them; second) looks strangely seductive when he chuckled. Doubtless Itachi, being a rising advocate, knew very well how to use his charm to shut people up when he didn't want to enroll in a discussion topic he didn't dominate. Truly, it wouldn't be surprising if Itachi trained his facial expressions in front of a mirror. Thus Sasuke felt himself unable to further commenting and recoiled in his seat, ashamed of his right side of the brain, for wrongly assessing an indecorous tone in his perceptions.
As the rest of the journey was spent in silence and contemplation, Sasuke's mind was gradually invaded by the thoughts of the week (or the month, or the thoughts that he had been having since he met Itachi at Naruto's party): who the hell was he? Besides one that destroys antique cars. What kind of character was this mysterious yet nozying man that pops out of nowhere, steals his girlfriend and still wants to be his best mate?
He still looked upset though, about that phone call. For a moment, Sasuke experienced an urge to ask him who it was, who could break through his hard guise and imprint those wrinkles in his forehead? Yet before Sasuke knew it, Itachi was parking the car in front of a row of buildings.
::
The restaurant didn't look like a restaurant. Probably the painting at the entrance, with the inscription "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" under a big brown pipe, was intended for the joke. Sasuke didn't know about art, but he knew about irony.
It was possible that the space of the restaurant once belonged to a former strip club, as the tables were organized around a small rounded platform at the center that somehow reminded him of a stripper's stage without the pole. The right corner on the opposite side of the restaurant was draped with silky red courting, and from the barely revealing gap Sasuke noticed that there was another room behind it. Most of the tables were already occupied, even though it was hard to distinguish dining figures from decorative statues with that level of lighting. Certainly they kept the light bulbs from the strip-club, or whatever that used to be. There was a sort of oil lamp on each table, which was very useful to read the menu.
"It's in French." Sasuke snorted, as his finger rammed through the suggested dishes. At least he was pretty sure that the Ragoût de legumes avec escargots sauce et pieds de porc au vin rouge was French, and he bet that it was something with animals' parts that only Europeans ate.
He noticed that the prices weren't listed in the menu, but Sasuke had the feeling those dishes must be as cheap as the Third World debt.
"Not all." Itachi noted. "There is as well an Italian and a Swedish dish, but this Asian variety at the bottom might be more of your taste…"
His eyes followed Itachi's suggestion, recognizing some of the kanji in the names. None of them were Japanese, conveniently. They didn't even have a translated description under. Did all the people eating here speak five different languages fluently or did they bring a translator with them? Perhaps they were all there because they enjoyed the idea of eating in Babel's Tower.
"Chinese food?" He couldn't hide the hint of mockery in his tone of voice, causing Itachi to lift up an eyebrow.
"It's a Cantonese extinct local recipe," he corrected "not the standard food of Chinese restaurants."
"Something with cooked dogs, then? I'll pass."
Itachi chuckled. Damn his chuckles. They made his groin itch and the right side of his brain short-circuit.
"No."
"Animal guts?"
"Why don't you try it, if you're so inquisitive?"
He was doing it again: looking into his eyes with that mischievous impression, like he was trying to interpret what was on Sasuke's mind. It was strange, but whenever he was with Itachi he felt the need to obsessively control his own behavior (or perhaps, he was afraid that the man could see right through him and realize that he was nothing but a prosaic middle-classer that up until now was considering choosing a dish by means of 'eeny-meeny-miney-mo' – not counting the French dishes though, because he doesn't trust people who think eating snails is sophisticated).
"Why don't you just tell me what it is?"
With a defeated sigh, Itachi decided to cooperate, yet his answer was as enigmatic as the menu itself: "I assure you it is not an animal of doubtful digestion, nor an animal part that you never considered before, nor an animal gut that you wouldn't wish to eat."
If Itachi someday decides to be a parent, he better not try home-school the poor kid.
"Why should I trust a Chinese?"
At the moment he made the comment, he had the urge to bite his tongue; but his rebel mouth was quicker than his mind. "No offense, but your people love to humiliate the Japanese for the most idiotic reasons."
Uncomfortably, he cleared his throat, and he purposely let his gaze drop back to the menu. He had noticed, however, that personalized smile of Itachi's had disappeared and his shoulders slumped a little. The back of his stomach curled up into a knot (he had hoped that Itachi would simply disregard his heedless comments…).
But oh, the silence. The silence that opened like an invisible cliff between them with a swaying bridge in the middle. Itachi's eyes were cold and imparted a vertiginous sensation that crept up Sasuke's spine, and he should've learned by now when to keep his mouth shut.
"Although I did spend most of my childhood in China, my Chinese heritage comes merely from my mother's side, such as I don't exactly consider the Chinese 'my people', as you put it." Itachi glared. He carefully put down the menu, and gathered his hands under his chin, narrowing his eyes before he continued. "Furthermore, China's animosity towards Japan is certainly not for 'idiotic reasons' as you might agree, if you are well aware of all the events and shameless consequences foreseen in the Sino-Japanese War. However I believe to see improvements in this bilateral relationship…"
Sasuke frowned; was Itachi giving him a speech? He didn't like the way the conversation was heading, yet that tone of his voice irked him.
"That's kind of hard when Chinese children grow up with Little Soldier Zhang and communist school teachers keep blitzing kids' minds with anti-Japanese propaganda."
"Anti-Japanese War, should I correct." Itachi hissed. "Unlike Japan, China has not forgotten the war's atrocities."
His facial expression revealed blankness, but his voice was icy as the room's temperature, which seemed to have lowered five degrees or more, because he was feeling rather cold suddenly. Muffling a chill, Sasuke massaged his arms and reflected on a way to cease the uncomfortable feeling that landed in their table. He probably had touched a sensitive subject, and oddly, he couldn't bring himself to ignore-and-let-him-be-offended-for-all-I-care.
(He didn't want Itachi to hate him. He could hate Itachi, and the Uchihas and the fucking Chinese and communist dog-eaters, but he couldn't let Itachi hate him.)
And so, he surrendered.
"I'm sorry." He had never been one to apologize, but he didn't know what else to say to drop the subject. Seeing Itachi's unchanged expression, he thought in adding more to his redemption: "It's been a tough week. I'll eat the Cantonese dish."
Itachi's expression softened; he too seemed somewhat regretful of that pointless argument, thankfully. Worse than eating in Babel's Tower, is eating with one that thinks you're a xenophobic ignorant.
"I should be the one to apologize, this unfamiliar nationalist bias is not in my character." He smiled a little. "You don't have to eat anything you dislike. If you allow me, I can suggest one that might include your favorite ingredients-"
"No, I'll eat the Cantonese dish. I trust you."
What a stupid thing to say. His cheeks warmed the moment he realized how spoony he sounded. Itachi, on the other hand, looked quite amused, and his eyes recovered the distinctive blaze of his own, that added to his typical mysterious charm.
(It was rather difficult to not look at him, when he smirked like that.)
"Of course," Sasuke added, in a side attempt to regain his hostile integrity. "If I see a dog leg on my plate, you will need a plastic surgery when you wake up in the morning."
And if the night was being strange itself, it was even stranger when he saw Itachi laughing: a melodious, astonishingly beautiful laugh. Like when you pay to enter a museum to see something rare, except that Sasuke didn't pay for anything to see Itachi's teeth – he, however, felt that obnoxious tingling in his belly, and the odd feeling that he had just received a sole invitation to see more of Itachi's character. And he couldn't say no to that request, because the more Itachi dropped cues to his persona, the more he wanted to climb into the unknown world that Itachi lived in (like an unspoken seduction; he was attracted to everything that Itachi was, or could be, and he could no longer deny it to himself).
"Very well."
Itachi turned his body to the side, and raised his right hand in his own elegant manner, to call for a waiter. As his seeking gaze tried to catch the waiter's attention, Sasuke's eyes dropped, again, on his hands. The way the thumb's muscle tendons seized the bone structure strongly, and the shape of his long fingers that could grab your neck precisely and not let you go – somehow, Sasuke found himself wondering, how it felt…
(…being touched by those hands-)
And then there was the gay semblance of Sai, popping up in front of him, whispering through Itachi's lips:
"Rectal administration."
Itachi was looking straight at him, leaned on the table, and the only thing Sasuke could think of was his two long fingers with manicured nails sliding into his anal entrance, while all the blood in his system rushed like traffic-hour towards his groin.
"W-what?"
Stop, just stop. Orochimaru is in the bath, Orochimaru is naked in a bath full of fluids, vomit and urine, and leeches are glued to his wizened skin and a green liquid is coming out of his mouth.
"I was just commenting that all I know about you is reckoned information."
Really, the tricks of the subconscious…would explain a lot of weird visions from Religion's Prophets and faith believers in general.
"What do you mean?"
Why was his voice sounding strangely acute? He reached for the water bottle on the table, pouring some into his glass to alleviate the scratchy feeling of his throat.
Itachi didn't answer his question; instead he optioned to comeback with another question, somewhat out of the ordinary:
"What is your blood type?"
Under the table, he felt Itachi's leg brushing against his as the man adjusted his seating posture and crossed his legs, and impulsively Sasuke recoiled from the touch, as if Itachi's body was made of electrical discharges. He swallowed a bit of water.
"It is AB negative if you absolutely must know," Sasuke cleared his throat, forcing a grave tone on his vocalization.
He drank the rest of the glass.
(Why was the waiter taking so damn long with the drinks?)
"Ah, that is interesting. Cool, rational, sensitive, careful, efficient yet at the same critical and standoffish, enforcing your own conditions..." He paused, and served himself a glass of water. Sasuke's eyes meticulously followed long fingers gripping smoothly around the glass, as the transparent liquid choked against itself in organic sounds.
He took a gulp, and Sasuke watched his adam's apple coming along.
"Both shy and outgoing. Unpredictable in their ambivalence, they become your typical social outcast..." His lips were moistened. He didn't open his mouth much when he talked, Sasuke noticed. "Nonetheless these 'enigmas' are best to study art and law it appears… Do you think this description fits you, Sasuke?" Itachi asked with a smile. (-His lips were still moistened, pinkish, fleshy, moistened...)
Being caught in the middle of his secret affair with Itachi's image, Sasuke tried to recapitulate what had been said – AB blood group, horoscopy crap; he liked the way his name sounded through Itachi's lips –
Where the hell were the drinks?
"Don't tell me you believe in such bullshit. My blood group has nothing to do with my personality, and even less was it a reason behind my choice of studies." He leered.
"What would this reason be, if I may ask?"
Sasuke narrowed his eyes; yet Itachi's facial expression didn't reveal much more than he already knew (nothing). On principle, Sasuke swerved people out of his existential radium that wanted to know too much about him for their own good, but he hadn't figure out if Itachi was just being politely curious or just ran out of things to say for the night. He hasted, therefore, to cease the topic:
"Nothing of importance; so you do believe in this whole esoteric crap?"
There was a flick of a smile, which was not exactly a smile, in Itachi's lip. His dark gaze diverted from Sasuke's eyes, to his mouth, than back to his eyes.
"Perhaps." He said. For a moment, he broke the connection to look for the waiter, and he turned his attention back to Sasuke.
"There has been research to show the link between personality and blood type genetics, at least as long as those interviewed are aware of the 'category' they belong to… Ultimately, horoscopes are but another case of self-fulfilling prophecies. Do you understand what this means? One behaves like the corresponding blood type 'should', not because the specific blood causes it, but simply because everyone including the person in question expects such behaviour. One's individuality, naught but result of prescribed social adjustment…?"
"Tss, tell me about those brainwashed assholes, that call themselves society and their glorious expectations-"
"Is that then the reason behind your application in Law...?" Itachi interrupted. His finger danced across the edge of the glass; his gaze lowered to Sasuke's mouth.
It was polite curiosity, after all.
"I don't know. What are your reasons?"
"Answering a question with a question…why do I sense that as I attempt to learn more from you, I end up being the one interrogated myself?"
There was a slightly irritating chipping sound, and Itachi's finger stopped dancing around the glass' edge.
"Don't you do the same as well?" Sasuke reasoned out. He wanted to say 'checkmate' too.
This was going to be difficult. Sasuke reserved more than polite curiosity towards Itachi; he had an unprecedented desire to know everything there is to know about this mysterious character that always crawled its way into his most sordid and lucid dreams, and he was hoping to achieve that without revealing much about himself. Unfortunately, Itachi too seemed to have adopted a similar social strategy.
This mentioned one chuckled. Damn his chuckles again. "I'm afraid my blood group is AB as well."
And there it was: the utterly conceited smile, the Uchiha signature mask per se. Sasuke sometimes had to remind himself that Itachi was, above all, an Uchiha – a capitalism-product leech that takes his eloquence for granted and does nothing for free or for compassion.
(Admittedly, he didn't forget the scholarship thing)
Which led Sasuke to thinking (not that he hadn't thought of it before): What did Itachi want from him? He sure looked suspiciously interested in him, even avoiding the conversation to fall back on him. Yet he gave these strange hints at the same time, about blood groups and…the way he looked like when he laughed… like he was impishly provoking Sasuke to keep him interested on Itachi.
The waiter showed up with the requests and a bottle of wine, interrupting his inner struggle of thoughts, and Sasuke was surprised with a combination of textures and colors in an attractive gastronomic display.
Itachi, who had ordered the same, had begun eating while the diffident Sarutobi still gazed at the plate. Eventually, Sasuke opted not to ask him if that grayish thing he was about to put into his mouth had indeed belonged to a proteinic living being. He served himself first, a large gulp of wine before he tried a bite of the strange Cantonese recipe.
It wasn't bad. He still didn't know what that was, but at least the seasoning was exquisite.
At that moment, the side of the central stage was covered with flashing lights and some people started to whistle.
"Is there a show about to happen or what…?"
"Yes." Itachi replied. He had a little bit of sauce in the corner of his lips, but he hastily cleaned it up with his napkin before Sasuke's mind started birthing new suggestive images. "Peggy Love is performing tonight. You might like this."
'Peggy Love?' What a strange name. Hideous too, like a title of a transvestite's auto-biographical book.
He wondered if it was some stripper show, inwardly feeling disappointed at Itachi for revealing himself to be exactly what he never thought he was: a very, very heterosexual man. Not that he doubted Itachi's sexual predisposition (after all, he was still dating Sakura, something that Sasuke conveniently forgot sometimes) but then again Sasuke also was a straight guy and that didn't mean that he was into raunchy shows of voluptuous women undressing to a pathetic crowd of men, hysterically squandering their month salary like monkeys over something they couldn't touch. It was at moments like these that Sasuke doubted Darwin's Homo Sapiens evolution theory.
However when Peggy Love appeared, in a long silky red dress ornamented with spangles, and long satin gloves that crawled up almost to her shoulders, Sasuke sighed in relief for being mistaken. Peggy was a very tall black-skinned woman, too thin and old for erotic material. She wasn't really that old (she was probably in her forties), but her languid face carried the signs of the hardships of an entire lifetime, not in form of wrinkles, but in the form of a firm expression - a somewhat serious and disillusioned facial expression that one never finds in young women, too full of hopes and dreams to achieve.
(-A face that, somehow, seemed slightly familiar to Sasuke. He knew he never saw her before, but there was this strange feeling of having encountered her in some place before, or in someone else…-)
And then, she started singing. With that typically grave and powerful voice that reminisced to the crumbs of African memoires in Jazz and Blues divas; her words intoned through the whole room like free notes that were intuitively anchored to a whole history that all the listeners shared together: like strangers in a David Lynch movie, only linked by the same bizarre script, and the script writer was her. Everybody halted their dinners to listen to her, caught in an honest marvel for a woman so thin, yet with vocal cords that held the strength of thirty romantic poets. It was truly impressive; she was singing about innocence and human depravity, in such a way that-
"I know this song." Sasuke realized. "It's from Sex Pistols…"
Itachi smiled, but didn't utter a word, as he kept listening to her performance.
She wasn't just singing about one song. It seemed that she picked here and there lyric fragments from the 70's punk band and mangled them into one shrieking assemblage. Oddly Sasuke, instead of hating that pretentious rape of the essence of punk, he felt helplessly subdued to that woman's voice.
Peggy Love, whose name sounded so ridiculously disassociated to the powerful, intimidating image that she transmitted, like a mythological warrior named after a hooker, continued singing a fantastic version of songs which Sasuke aforetime knew so well, when life was a box full of shit wrapped in moldy kraftpaper and ribbons eaten by moths. But there was something about her that made the song sadder, happier, tragic; a song that originally wasn't more than a simple representation of the punk nihilism and the 'do not give a fuck' mentality, now seemed loaded with so much emotion that Sasuke was afraid of listening to it with rapt attention, or he himself would start crying like the group of women in the next table.
And the memoires flushed to surface. As he fought to lock them back into into the recesses of his mind, at the same time he remembered what those songs never meant to him, no more than the placebo effect of an uncontrolled rage about to collapse against the other kids of his age, or older preferably, back in Junior High. He remembered how the bloodied face of an older kid was, for brief seconds, as gratifying as seeing the bloodied face, defeated, humiliated, of his former adoptive father, to whom he, once upon a time, called Dad.
She finished, and everybody applauded enthusiastically. In his corner, Sasuke swallowed the dried knot that formed at the apex of his throat. For someone that never gave much credit to the female population, it was incredible how the mere voice of a stranger could, in a couple of minutes, dominate a complete masculine song and twist him up into an emotional wreck. Thank god Tenten wasn't there to watch.
"Did you like it?"
The melodic voice of Itachi caught him unguarded, but it was sufficient for Sasuke to remind himself that he was in a public space and that he couldn't afford to disclose weaknesses. Besides, the past belongs to the past, and it didn't matter now.
"Ah, yes. It was pretty good." (He blinked severely, trying to dry out his eyes. What nonsense-)
He studied Itachi's expression, as this one seemed to have found something fascinating on Sasuke's face, judging on the intensive way he was staring at him. He wasn't donning his usual cocky smirk; instead, he had this gentle twinkle in his eyes, as if the song had touched some part of him too. If it wasn't for all their insecurities and the space between them that they obstinately refused to cut out, Sasuke probably would have hugged him. As stupid as this sounds, there was something in Itachi that compelled Sasuke for this urge of an intimate caress, or a sensitive comprehension by a stranger who so annoyingly invaded his dreams – whatever it was, that woman successfully managed to cock up his manly virtues.
In the background, she began singing another song, a more light-hearted one this time and her voice had lowered down a bit. Recovered from the emotional turmoil of the previous song, the viewers resumed their dining activity and their murmuring chats.
He and Itachi remained silent for a while, leaving him to privately enjoy the exquisite taste of the Cantonese dish (though he would never admit that to Itachi, not before he knows what animal he had been eating). Itachi was the one to break the silent first:
"Quite frankly this was my first experience with something that, even if remotely, came from punk music."
"It's not the same."
"True. But I think I learned something about you, with the help of the lyrics."
He didn't know what he meant by that, but somehow Sasuke suddenly felt very exposed.
"Gentle, brave, pretty little Bambi was murdered…" Itachi hummed, as he drank a sip of wine. Sasuke tried to catch the thoughts running behind those long eyelashes, but Itachi seemed more focused on remembering the song lyrics. "-unable to exist in the reality of substitutes and lies. In a world of "no future-"
"When there is no future
How can there be sin"
"You even remembered the lyrics, Itachi. I am impressed." Sasuke snorted sarcastically.
"Forgive me for listening" he smiled (he was smiling a lot) "yet sin is a concept directly linked with general social virtues. Therefore you have a world without perspective and denial of any moral values. Some may say it is what the philosophic concept of 'Nihilism' is about…. to question the truth and reality, the 'given essence' of things."
"And what exactly are you talking about?"
"Reality is something one self-creates. Just because the truth is unknown and the world is 'rotten', a simple global rejecting attitude cannot solve any kind of problems, even after they were defined. It is not constructive, thus born out of despair. And I have to wonder Sasuke, who killed Bambi?"
"What?"
"Who killed you? Why is it that you in fact nullify your future – by drinking yourself into oblivion or dumb-fucking around? Can't you even imagine a desirable future for yourself?"
Sasuke gasped. He didn't know if he should feel stupefied or offended, but what was worse was that Itachi seemed justly convinced that he was reading him like an open-book. As if some stupid random lyrics could summarize all the disillusions that his life was. It pissed him off, in earnest, that insistent curiosity of a guy that came practically out-of-nowhere, raised in a rich family, acting like he knew what he was talking about, as if Sasuke was just another example of some scientific study that proved that punk listeners were generally fucked up.
Itachi's eyes were black and emotionless again, and his impassive expression told him that he was really expecting a serious answer to that.
"What I do is none of your business." Sasuke hissed, narrowing his eyes in a threatening glare. He really wanted to punch him, but he promised Asuma that he'd control his violent urges in order to cease the paining psychiatrist sessions. "My life is not a fucking Oprah show. Don't expect to understand the whole shit that is to be parent-less in this jingoist country."
Immediately he regretted making such statement. The conversation was assuming a sudden dramatic tone, and worst of all, it was centered on himself.
Itachi looked surprised, and his facial features hardened. He could see that his right hand tightened into a fist, as if something had him upset. Whatever, if he ever starts an 'I'm so sorry for you' speech', he'll beat the crap out of him, no matter what he promised to Asuma.
"I don't, but maybe I could if you were to teach me. If you could at least tell me there is still a future you dream of?"
For some reason his rage cooled down. Maybe it was the humility in Itachi's tone, maybe it was the fact that deeply (very deeply) he wanted nothing more than for Itachi to understand him.
(He realized though, that his vulnerability crisis tended to anchor in absurd wishes of affection.)
With a sigh, he lowered his defences, and found himself confessing the one thing that he never told anyone, not even Asuma:
"My future? I don't know, but I want to find my real parents."
Now looking back at it, he really regretted saying that.
"I see..."
Itachi lowered his eyes, but didn't add anything else. Yet Sasuke could see it, even though it was half-blanked by Itachi's phlegmatic charisma, he could still see it: pity. Oh no, don't make that face. He hated that face. He had to deal with faces like that in the children's house and he hated them all. He hated that face on Asuma and Kurenai, when they took him in, and it took him a hell lot of trouble to erase that disgusting expression from their faces, by trying his best to make them hate him – better hate than pity him.
(He succeeded in making Kurenai hate him for a while, but unfortunately he never did it with Asuma.)
But he didn't want to make Itachi hate him, and since he didn't know what else to do to amputate that regretful piece of information and sew the previous conversation topic back to the normality, he politely excused himself from the table and headed for the men's room, hoping that when he came back, Itachi had his cocky smirk back on his face.
The bathroom facilities were located in a hidden space, behind the central platform. Near them was a gazed-glass door that led to the other room of the restaurant. Before he entered the bathroom he took a quick glance at the inside of the other room, rapidly concluding that that space was probably reserved to executive group dinners.
Needless to say, the bathroom didn't look like a bathroom; there was even a couch in the middle, between the lavatory and the wash-stands. Who the hell goes to a bathroom to sit on a sofa?
He admired his reflexion in the mirror, inwardly calling himself stupid for the twentieth time of the night, and opened the faucet to moisten the back of his hair and try to glue his rebel spikes into his skull. He shouldn't have removed the gel off his head. Stupid hair won't come down... Without success, he cursed the genes of his missing parents and closed the faucet.
Then he heard a grunt, coming from one of the cabins. Alarmed, he slipped himself into the nearest free cabin and closed the door, not exactly knowing why he was acting like that (hiding from a harmless stranger in a bathroom?). He wasn't given much time to think, for a toilet flush was heard and the owner of the grunt soon opened his door. Sasuke heard him walking towards the wash-stands, with a hand pressing against a suddenly pumping chest.
Why was he so scared? How pathetic-
The stranger's phone rang. Sasuke knew that ringtone. He knew that ringtone.
"Hello?"
He knew that voice. It was unmistakable; he was never going to forget that voice. That slickly, deviant, impish voice that belonged to the sole person who destroyed his childhood and haunted his nightmares for years.
"Don't call me just to remind me about your uselessness, Kabuto. I want that man to represent me, and you know I don't take rejection well."
It was him. His heart went off and his frenetic breathing became uncontrollable. Instinctively he drew his hand to cover his mouth, hoping to be unnoticed, as his blood-filled eyes almost plucked out of their orbs when he peeked through the hole of the lock. He could barely distinguish his face, but he immediately recognized the oiled long hair growing out of an ashy skull, and the cadaveric semblance of the devil's host.
Orochimaru hadn't changed, he could tell. If he had a knife with him, he would burst out of the cabin and stab him in every fucking organ of his body until all his guts were spread on the floor and the walls were painted in his blood.
"Then I'll sue the PM for harassment. Do they even have a witness list?"
He was moving back and forward while he continued his grunt on the phone, and Sasuke's scrutinizing eye tried to keep with his figure through the limits of the lock hole. Orochimaru's voice had lowered down, but his acute hearing could still distinguish some words and sentences detached, like "I'll silence any" and "testifying against me".
Of course Sasuke knew that there was always a chance of running into him since he was out of prison, as Kyoto was also Orochimaru's city, but he always thought he could deal with it in an unresponsive manner. Though he would definitely kill him, if he had the chance. But this unexpected reaction of his body, paralyzed in high doses of rage and fear in a cubicle of a bathroom puzzled him indeed, because this was pathetic. Probably because Orochimaru looked exactly the same. The same as he remembered, with the same psychotic idiom and the same sly accent – those miserable years in prison apparently did nothing to him. He probably even enjoyed it.
And since he was already hit by a really bad omen, his own phone started ringing too.
Instinctively he recoiled back and his left ribs crashed against the toiled, forcing a muffled groan of pain out of him. The bruises of the day he was attacked still hadn't healed completely, apparently. Reaching for his phone he hastily rejected the call (-that fucking blond moron, what could he possibly want?-), and then his lungs stilled.
Steps on the other side of the side of white door – Orochimaru was walking towards his cabin.
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