Chapter
7
Shinobu
felt one with the world. He hadn't felt
this replete since…well, since he and Mitsuru had won Furusawa's betting pool
last semester. Granted, it had taken a
lot of nerve and some really inventive altering of the truth to get the dorm
head out of Greenwood long enough to steal his motorcycle and stash it in
Bonda's room. But the look of horror,
then relief and finally anger on Furusawa's face when the prank had unfolded,
coupled with the mad dash through the dorm as the older boy had chased down the
unfortunate scapegoat Mitsuru and Shinobu had framed for the deed – that had
been worth braving their senpai's wrath. The 30,000 yen had been nothing to sneeze at, either.
Poor
Bonda! The incident had left him so
traumatized that he'd been seen thumping bibles ever since. Shinobu had almost felt sorry enough for the
boy to consider giving him a percentage of their winnings, then changed his
mind at the last minute after Bonda had bedeviled him with sermons one
afternoon for three hours straight. He
and Mitsuru had invested wisely in their own betting pool instead. They intended to clean house next year when
the boys came back from summer break.
A
lazy smile played in the mazy grey of Shinobu's eyes as he thought of the
unlimited possibilities a successful operation would afford them. And all because of Furusawa's wonderful
motorcycle. Ah, that had been a good
day!
As
today had been. There was nothing so
satisfying as a list checked off. It
pleased Shinobu's anal little soul to no end. The workout at the dojo had been a satisfying challenge. His old sensei had praised his form and had
taught him new tricks that would be sure to come in handy someday. The manga store had managed to procure the
latest Berserk issue he'd been waiting for and had even solicitously given him
a new American comic to try for free.
Now,
to complete his outing, Shinobu was enjoying his frosty beverage at his
favorite coffee house. The café was
pleasantly devoid of chattering teens, due perhaps to the earliness of summer,
which usually signaled a mass exodus from the city to cooler parts of the
country.
Blue Monday. Sounds interesting. Shinobu leafed through the black and white book, expertly
skimming the left-to-right text with casual aplomb. He took a sip of his iced coffee then shoved the book back in the
plastic bag, deciding that the characters' shenanigans would have been a lot
more amusing if they hadn't been American.
Shinobu
glanced at his watch and sighed irritably. Three hours. He had been allowed
only three measly hours of carefree bliss before things were soured by thoughts
of his nemesis. Knowing that action was
the only cure for impending, unwanted introspection, Shinobu downed his drink,
winced at the slight brain freeze, then picked up his purchases and bill from
the table.
Tipping
generously, the boy made his way to the counter to pay. The cashier gave him a saucy wink and the boy
grinned back graciously. It was good to
be noticed, especially without Mitsuru, the girl magnet. It reaffirmed his place in the universe.
Shinobu
stepped out of the café, inhaling deeply of the balmy night air. He loved summer. While everyone else complained of the heat and suffered in
sweltering misery, Shinobu was his own personal air conditioning unit. His odd talent made it possible to torment
those around him by his remaining impeccably cool in long-sleeved shirts and
slacks while they slogged around in sloppy tanks and shorts. It drove people crazy. Shinobu loved that.
The
boy was so engrossed in enjoying the sensual pleasure of the weather that the
shouts and whoops of frantic laughter did not register until too late. Shinobu's left shoulder was side-swiped by a
figure in white, jostling him with such force that he was in danger of toppling
over if not for the hand that steadied him from behind. His attacker paused in mid-flight and
turned. Amethyst met agate in startled
recognition.
"Mitsuru!"
"Oh! Hey, Shinobu. Um, you remember Ryan?"
Shinobu
craned his neck to identify the owner of the hand that had prevented his
ignominious fall and, sure enough, it was Sakata who had made the save. Dammit.
"Hey."
The boy in question still had his hand on Shinobu's shoulder.
"Huh."
Shinobu grunted coolly. He would not shy away from the hold like a
skittish schoolgirl. Rather, he focused
his attention on his roommate, who was hopping up and down madly like a crazy
Mexican jumping bean.
"Um,
Shinobu? This might sound strange but
--- RUN!"
And
with that cryptic order, the blonde sprinted to follow his own advice.
"Why?"
Shinobu called after him, not budging an inch.
"Just
--- run! Trust me!" Mitsuru stalled
long enough to call back over his shoulder, a manic gleam in his eyes. Then he let out a wild, wordless bellow and
sped off again.
"Tezukas
don't run."
"Suit
yourself." Ryan abruptly let go,
causing Shinobu – who had almost forgotten his presence – to stumble awkwardly
in an attempt to regain balance. The
dark-haired boy gave him a jaunty two-fingered salute then took off after
Mitsuru, not as swiftly perhaps, but with an economy of movement that reminded
Shinobu of a hunting panther.
As
he watched the other two disappear around the corner, Shinobu felt his ire
escalate to monumental proportions. Mitsuru was with Sakata! His roommate couldn't weasel his way out of
this now. Shinobu had witnessed it with
his own two eyes. Then Mitsuru had
ordered him around as if he were an imbecile, no explanation or anything. And
Sakata had dared to touch him!
Shinobu
was about to seek vengeance when another hand clamped down hard on his shoulder
and he was jerked back violently. The
plastic bag that held his comic books fell to the ground and the boy growled
low in his throat.
This is getting
ridiculous! Am I that irresistible that
people have to constantly manhandle me? Shinobu felt much put-upon.
But
the voice behind him proved to be unaware of his boyish charms.
"Gotcha!"
The exultant shout was grating in Shinobu's ear.
The
boy was whirled around to face a burly American tourist - Oh,
ye gods! I curse thee! – who looked
ready to rip his head off. Shinobu had
watched enough foreign films to recognize a cowboy when he saw one. He even had the ten-gallon Stetson to
complete the picture. An irate cowboy,
up close and in person, was a daunting thing.
But
this was Shinobu Tezuka he had in his grasp. The boy refused to be daunted. "I beg your pardon?" he asked icily in perfect English, glancing at the
man's hand on his shoulder with pointed scorn.
"You
and your buddies better have some cash on you. Or I'll be pressing charges!" The hulking brute shook Shinobu roughly,
unaware of the stupidity of this action.
"What are you talking about?" It would have been a simple matter for Shinobu to release himself from that firm grasp, but curiosity got the better of the boy. Perhaps this idiot could shed light on things; he obviously had had a run-in with Mitsuru and Sakata.
Before
the man could spout any more threats and invectives, another person ran up to
the two, gasping and wheezing, his face red with exertion. It looked to be the proprietor of a
restaurant, if the apron was any indication.
"You
caught him, eh?" The new arrival drew a handkerchief from his apron pocket and
wiped at his fat face.
"One
of them anyway." Both men now turned to
Shinobu accusingly.
"Look,
gentlemen, there seems to have been some sort of mistake…" The boy began
placatingly but was rudely interrupted.
"No
mistake, punk! I saw you talking to
those other two assholes. You're with
them. And I don't care who pays, as
long as I don't get stuck with the bill!" The cowboy punctuated each sentence with a violent shake of Shinobu's
shoulder.
The
ice prince was through being polite. He'd heard enough. And the
longer he stood there, listening to two blathering morons, the harder it would
be to track down the real culprits. Without thinking of the consequences, Shinobu gunned into action. He shifted all his weight back, causing his
captor to shift, off balance, with him.
Truly an idiot; you
should've let go. Shinobu thought with grim
satisfaction. Grasping the man's arm,
the one that seemed permanently attached to Shinobu's shoulder, the boy
suddenly crouched down and used the man's forward momentum to flip him over his
head in an expert judo move. The cowboy
landed with a pained grunt on the hard concrete, too stunned to do more than
gape at the smaller boy who had effectively neutralized him. The proprietor made to stop Shinobu, but was
jabbed in the gut with an elbow. The
entire episode had taken less than five seconds.
Shinobu
bent down to snatch at his bag of comic books then ended up running after all,
more to catch up to his roommate and that spawn of Satan than to escape the
scene of the crime.
Mitsuru, I am going to kill you.
~
Ryan
knew he should have collapsed a good hundred meters back; running - twice in
the same night, even! – should have killed him. But adrenaline was pumping in his veins. It was artificial strength, he knew, and he
would regret it later, but, oh! This
was way too much fun!
He
could not quite catch up with Mitsuru (who could?) but he paced the blonde,
always keeping him in sight. It would
not be good to get lost in an unfamiliar city, especially after they'd just
pissed off certain individuals who may or may not call the cops. Had this been Los Angeles, Ryan would have
stopped running after the first block. The prank had not been that serious, after all, and L.A. people would
have chalked it up as par for the course. But Tokyo was a different story, and Ryan the thrill seeker had learned
long ago to listen to Ryan the voice of reason.
So
they had run and, sure as shit, they had been chased. A long way. Actually, it
had been his fault; the boy should've known better then to pick a corn-fed hick
as his mark. Country folk were always
overly worried about cash. But the man
had been an ass, loud and obnoxious and every inch the stereotypical
tourist. He had pushed in front of Ryan
and Mitsuru at the restaurant, demanding instant service. He had then proceeded to mangle the language
in his thick Texan accent, harassing the waitress with lecherous pats to her
behind. It had set Ryan's teeth on
edge.
The prick deserved what he
got! Ryan told himself as he jogged to keep up
with Mitsuru. And then we bump into Tezuka. Man, that guy's one cold bastard! Wonder how Mitsu's gonna get himself out of this one!
Speaking of the blonde, Ryan noticed that he had slowed down and he quickened his pace to catch up. It was sickening, really, how Mitsuru didn't even look winded while Ryan was fighting for every gasp of air into his lungs. Bad, bad, bad. Maybe he should quit smoking.
"Oi,
Sakata, you should quit smoking!"
"Shut
up," Ryan wheezed, planting both palms on his thighs and bending double to
speed the oxygen to his brain.
"Do
you think they've stopped chasing us?" Mitsuru looked beyond the other boy's
bent form to peer in the darkness.
"Dunno. You think?"
"Hai. We were too fast for them." Mitsuru was
smug.
"Speak
for yourself!" Ryan raised himself up and waited for the pounding of his pulse
to recede from his temples. Then he ran
a hand through his sweaty curls and reached in his coat pocket for his pack of
cigarettes, just to be contrary. Flipping the box open and chucking up a smoke that he grabbed with his
lips, the boy lit up and took a deep drag of the Camel. He reveled in the nicotine stinging his gums
and filling his lungs and he almost felt like himself again.
"Holy
shit! That guy looked plenty pissed,
didn't he?" Ryan exhaled noisily then grinned at Mitsuru with his hundred-watt
smile.
Mitsuru
grinned back. It was infectious. The boys locked gazes conspiratorially then
let loose the frenzied mirth that was borne of relief and triumph at not
getting caught. Like a couple of
cackling loons, the two howled with glee as they both recalled the night's
escapade.
"The
look on his face when he got the bill…"
"And
the owner telling him his card had been maxed out…"
"And
him trying to apologize: goh-mayn-ah-say!" Mitsuru mimicked the Texan's atrocious accent with uncanny precision
before going off on another gale of laughter.
"Ah,
fuck! Quit it! My stomach hurts!" Ryan clutched at the
offending body part with one arm while weakly gesturing at Mitsuru to stop with
the other hand that still held the cigarette.
"That
filet mignon sure tasted good, though, didn't it?" Mitsuru reminded his friend.
"Yeah. Best I ever had!" Ryan chuckled. Then he
stopped abruptly and cocked his head, listening.
Mitsuru
looked at him, puzzled. "What is it?"
Then
the blonde heard it too. Footsteps. Running footsteps.
"Shit! They found us!" Ryan flicked his cigarette
to the street, preparing for flight.
"Not
a chance. It's not them," Mitsuru
denied uneasily.
But
the footsteps were drawing closer and both boys watched as a figure rounded the
corner about one block away and made for them with unerring purpose. The street lamps on this street were few and
far between and they could not make out the identity of the runner from that
far back. What was obvious, though, was
the runner's goal.
"Kuso! Come on! We can lose him in the Shinkansen!" Mitsuru turned tail and headed for
the terminal that was visible two blocks down. As if on cue, the boys heard the whistling approach of the incoming
train.
"Go,
go, go!" Ryan yelled as the blonde
hesitated for the slower boy. Behind
them, their pursuer was hollering something unintelligible, drawing ever
closer.
The
train had stopped to let off its passengers when the two boys reached the
terminal. Mitsuru fumbled for his pass
but Ryan simply leaped over the turnstiles and ran for a car. More tumult ensued, both from the chaser and
the railway official who was screaming indignantly at Ryan's unauthorized
entrance. Mitsuru grabbed for some
spare change from his pocket and hurled it at the train attendant before
launching into the same car his friend had caught.
The
train whistled a warning of its imminent departure and the doors slowly slid
closed. Grabbing at a pole to stop his
mad rush forward, Mitsuru flashed Ryan a triumphant smile that faded quickly as
he watched the look of dawning resignation creeping onto the other boy's
face. He heard the train doors hiss
shut behind him and felt the warmth of another body behind him. The train jerked to a start and Mitsuru,
still hanging on to the pole, swiveled his head around to face the music.
The
cowboy would have been infinitely more preferable.
"Oh. Hi, Shinobu."