Thanks, again, for the feedback, especially that from Four String Bard. I'm genuinely humbled.
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An Evening With the Ichijoujis: Chapter 3
He found himself amused that even the Ichijoujis had their dining rituals. Everyone clearly had their own designated placemats, for example. Mrs Ichijouji was a woman to whom small things, like placemats and cushions, mattered deeply. She gave Davis a long, hard look, as if assessing some unknown criteria, before selecting a placemat from a pile of assorted twee designs. He was perturbed to discover that Mrs Ichijouji had seemed to find some quality within him that made a tableau of grinning cats seem fitting.
Food was served out, seats were taken. Davis found himself shepherded into the chair opposite from Ken, with the two parents on either side of him. Davis sat obediently, all thoughts of suspicion out-prioritised at by the prospect of a free dinner. It was a meal sadly lacking on the junk scale and dangerously encumbered with vegetables, most of which seemed to have been carefully stripped of both taste and nutrients by boiling.
Still, there wasn't much in the world that could prevent Davis from enjoying food. The many years of eating in front of the TV had allowed him to develop a mechanical, one handed shovelling motion that left one arm free to fiddle with the remote control and so forth, whilst still eating at maximum efficiency. Even in his current company, it was only after five minutes of contented shovelling that he noticed that the eyes of all three Ichijoujis were fixed upon him.
"It's good!" He offered, as if in explanation. Mrs Ichijouji smiled, although still looked rather disapproving of his poor manners.
He realised that the plates of his hosts were practically untouched. Well, perhaps untouched wasn't the right word. Food was certainly being moved about, from one side of the plate to the other perhaps, or cut into smaller pieces, or formed into a pile that was then dismantled, but not much actual eating was taking place. It was like an exercise in trying to look like you were eating without actually consuming anything. Occasionally a small amount of food was transfered to the mouth where it was duly and ponderously processed, but he felt that was more for the keeping up of appearances than anything.
Uncomfortable silence reigned over the table. Davis forced himself to slow down his shovelling pace, realising that the sooner he finished, the sooner he would have no excuse not to talk. For once he really did not want to. To either side of him he could practically hear the senior Ichijoujis racking their brains for something to say. Davis was far from perceptive, but even he could read Ken's parents like books. In that respect they were like a two part volume with about five pages each. They had clearly not had a guest witness this spectacle for a long, long time and wanted, desperately, to present themselves as a family. It seemed that any topic of conversation which would require their son's participation would reveal that there hadn't been a family, in the true sense of the word, sat at this table for a long time. Denied their usual forced parental banter, the three of them said nothing.
Mr Ichijouji was the best. Perhaps it was an indication that he was most at loss for what to say or do, but his system to avoid eating was complex to a point that it bordered on hypnotising. There was clearly a pattern to the way he systematically rearranged the food on his plate, possibly based on colour or shape, but Davis did not a have the mathematical mind to work it out. Every now and then Davis got the feeling that he was just about to take the plunge and say something, but then would seem to change his mind, and simply cough or adjust his glasses.
Mrs Ichijouji was a motherly sort of woman, and since Davis was the kind of scruffy, cheery sort of boy that naturally brings out the parent in anyone over a certain age, she was clearly dying to mother him. She was having to keep an iron restraint on the near unstoppable urge to ask someone, anyone, how their day had gone, or if anyone had any plans for tomorrow or something else comfortingly normal, or ask Davis about his school or where he lived. She found herself not daring to question Ken's friend, however. It was mercy enough that he was there to begin with.
Only Ken was unreadable. He sat at the far end of the table, dully stirring the contents of his plate with an unreadable expression plastered on his features, as much a stranger as Davis was. To his mother he allowed the occasional glance, although Davis wasn't observant enough to perceive the delicate variations in Ken's general expression of contempt to discern any meaning from them. His father was ignored completely. It was as if he'd somehow leeched all of the confidence and charisma out of his parents
The silence howled on. Davis was a man of action, not a man of thought. He didn't sit around considering, he just did. he didn't think, he just said. Denied the freedom to either say anything or do anything in the stifling silence of this dead family dinner, he felt like a prisoner inside his own head. Perhaps, he thought, he'd been brought here just for this reason. It was like a more efficient variation of the Chinese Dripping Tap torture, where the brain and spirit simply gave up and died.
Mr Ichijouji cleared his throat noisily and all eyes immediately darted towards him. For a fleeting second Davis was certain he was going to try and break the silence, and mentally cheered him on. Sadly, Mr Ichijouji struggled for a second and then retreated to the safe position of toying with his carrots, a false alarm.
Davis found his mind working at the only object of any interest in the room, his captor. He didn't really want to try and work out the Ken/Emperor puzzle, it really didn't matter to him, but his mind was struggling to fill in the void. If there was a reason behind Ken's problems, then he really didn't care what they were. The important thing, he thought, was to simply stop him from following his current overly-dramatic, badly-dressed evil-overlord course. After that everything would simply work itself out.
As far as Davis was concerned people, unlike Digimon, don't come neatly categorised as 'good' or 'bad', or 'vaccine' or 'virus'; they have a bit of both, and if you can just get them to see right, you could bring out the bit you wanted. It wasn't hard. They didn't even have to like you.
But now he found himself wondering about the Emperor. Both of Ken's public personas, the perfect genius and the raving lunatic, had seemed equally fake to him. It was as if Ken had been trying too separate his 'good' and his 'bad' into two separate people in two separate worlds and be both at the same time. It wasn't really a case of trying to find sort out the bad from the good, but more to do with finding him some middle ground where he could be happy. At the moment it seemed more like he'd been creating fake ideals of himself and trying them out for size, trying to find which one fit the most. It now seemed like he'd made his choice.
The Ken of the television interviews and the academic awards had been charming audiences of viewers for years. Even the Ken he had met a while ago at the football match had seemed admirable and fun, despite his overwhelming competitiveness and smugness. On the other hand, the thing sat opposite him, arranging his peas into concentric circles and drowning them in tomato sauce, practically was the Emperor. Even hiding behind a drab school uniform, mind-numbingly normal family and expression of terminal boredom wasn't enough disguise it.
He was also sure that this must have been a recent thing and that at some point in the not-to-distant past Mr and Mrs Ichijouji would have sat down at dinner with their son rather than a stranger, or something would have given already. Something good must have happened in this kitchen at some point in order to keep the Ichijoujis going through the motions of a family dinner day after day. The slip of Ken's good act in favour of his bad act must have been pretty gradual. How long would it be be before the he gave the good act up completely and the real world with it?
Then Davis realised with utter conviction that Ken was leaving. Perhaps today, even. Perhaps that's why he'd been dragged along, as if Ken wanted a witness to his last meal with his family before he shed them completely. If this was a farewell diner then the fates had not gone to any particular effort to make it seem significant, however. The kitchen was drab and boring, filled with little kitchen ornaments and uncomfortable furniture. The conversation, or lack of it, was overwhelmingly stifling. The lone shaft of light that fell through the kitchen window illuminated, of all things, a cockerel shaped salt pot. Even the food wasn't particularly interesting, although Davis's fine culinary mind and cultured palette usually registered most things remotely edible as 'great'.
This must have been one of many, many identical dinners in this sad, lifeless little household. The only difference that Davis could imagine was that for once, the forth seat at the table was occupied.
And what on Earth, Davis wondered to himself, was the significance of that? Then he sighed. Evil geniuses. Who can understand 'em?
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Thanks for reading.