Chapter Twenty Five
Genrou was sincerely grateful for the relative emptiness of the corridor, which had cleared out the moment Doukun started shouting. He had seen the little Japanese tourists scuttling past out of the corner of his eye, about two seconds into Doukun's rant.
"All those pretty clothes! All that make-up! What are you, some crazy queer?!"
I don't think I'm supposed to answer that.
Finally…finally…Doukun ran out of steam. But the withering glare never wavered, even as the photographer abruptly shut up and crossed his arms.
"Can I…talk?" Genrou tested the waters timidly.
"You mean you've still got something to say for yourself?"
It was do and die, or don't do and die. "I am so sorry, Doukun. Really. I mean, really, really fuc—erm, just really sorry."
"You should be," came the sullen retort.
Frustrated, Genrou barely resisted the sudden urge to whack Doukun hard on the head and strangle him. "At least let me explain!"
Doukun eyed him dubiously, but thankfully chose not to add comment.
"Before I start, I have something bloody important I need to ask of you," Genrou rushed out, and berated himself inwardly. Why were all the swear words and vulgarities coming out now? Now, of all rotten timing? He had done fine enough as Tasu Leika.
Oh, right. Doukun knew. So he didn't have to pretend, did he?
"No," Doukun announced in a clipped, tight tone.
"I haven't even asked you."
"Cliched as this may sound, sir, the answer is still no."
Genrou scowled. "Why are you being such a disagreeable ass?"
"Ho, ho, ho. Flaunting the true linguistic abilities now?"
"Just listen to me!"
"No."
"You're still pissed off about me, for crying out loud?"
"No."
"Are you even a freaking man?"
"N—" Doukun clamped his mouth shut and shot a vicious look at Genrou.
Genrou sighed heavily, reaching up and running both hands through his hair. "Can we just fucking look at the facts?"
"Who let the sheep in? The wool seems to be pulled too tightly over my eyes."
Ignoring the sarcasm, Genrou barreled ahead. "Do you think I'm good-looking?"
Doukun paused mid-opening of mouth to give Genrou a horrified, accusatory stare. "I'm not gay!"
"I didn't say you were. Facts, Doukun, just the damn facts now, okay?"
Another suspicious look, before a very grudging, "…I suppose I've seen worse."
Aha. He was getting somewhere.
"Would I have the potential to make it big, with what experience I've acquired so far, if I presented myself as a…uh…man, instead?"
Genrou could practically hear the gears clanking inside Doukun's head. "I…suppose…you might."
"Which means the same opportunities would be presented to me, all possibilities considered, right? Which also means that the photographer who has legal copyrights to my first portfolio would be showcased in a bloody good way, right?" What was the nice, big word, Miaka had used before? Flatterer? Or was it flattener?
"It would be a logical conclusion, yes. So?"
Genrou gritted his teeth. Doukun was being deliberately obtuse. Would he need to outright spell it out?
He tried again. "Look, Doukun, I'm fucking—" damn, this was stooping so low, "—fucking begging you, okay?"
"You don't want me to tell anyone. And you're offering me the chance to make it big using you as a male model?" Doukun peered at him through narrow slits for eyes. "That doesn't make much sense to me."
"I've entered for the bloody national competition!" Genrou burst out. "As Tasu Leika," he finished miserably in a frantic whisper. "I can't damn well let everyone know, and if I withdraw from this, they'll definitely fucking find out, okay? Do you want a model alive and well, or in bloody jail? I suppose the fucking prison bars would make interesting décor, but…wait…that's not the point!" He clamped his mouth shut, adrenaline and desperation warring inside him. It was giving him a headache.
Doukun gave him a speculative once-over, and then exhaled noisily, before unceremoniously dumping all the food and drinks he was carrying into Genrou's arms and waltzing past the redhead, fumbling in his pocket. In a few moments, his hand came up with a bunch of keys, and he presented them in mock-salute with a flourish and a jingle.
"Let's go inside. We'll talk more about this."
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In his wildest nightmares, Myou Juan had never imagined this. It was such a deceitful, terrible, unethical thing to have happened to him. Things should never have come to this. He slammed his head against the wheel, muttering under his breath, and glaring daggers at the enemy.
In his reserved car park space, a bright red convertible gleamed, seeming to gloat at him from its throne between the two, marked out, bold black lines.
Myou Juan was going to complain to every single security guard in the block, if it was the last thing he did. He had paid for season parking, so that he could expect a lot whenever he wanted to come and do his work! He had forked out ninety-five dollars so that he could have this special spot! And he was doing business! He shouldn't have to be kept waiting, or made to drive around the entire car park like some loony looking for a lot!
Now where was he going to park?
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"Stop fidgeting."
Genrou reluctantly ceased his tugging on a loose thread spiraling out from the seat of the old couch, and fixed his limbs. "I don't see how this helps anything," he grumbled under his breath, shooting dirty looks at Doukun under lowered lids as the photographer moved around him, snapping Polaroid pictures at an alarmingly quick speed.
Why had he agreed to this? Because Doukun had said to pose for some test shots, and then he would consider Genrou's request. He hadn't had much of a choice but to go along. He couldn't have anyone finding out…
Genrou winced, despite a Herculean effort of trying to keep his face blank. Houjun.
He couldn't have Houjun finding out. It would wreck everything their friendship, professional or not, stood for.
"Please. I know the glum look is in these days, but you look like you're about to bawl."
"This is a fucking bad situation for me," Genrou snapped before he could stop himself. "I can't help it, okay?" He settled for staring hard at the loose thread, wondering absentmindedly if he could set it on fire if he glared at it long enough.
Heh. I'm a freaking closet pyromaniac.
Doukun shrugged, and shot a warning glance at him before bringing the camera up again. "I'd just like you to remember that you aren't exactly the only victim of this laughable tragedy."
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"Very few people like banana and pineapple flavor," Taka remarked, smiling down at her. "That's a very unique combination."
She laughed, blushing to the tips of her toes. "Unlike red bean, right?"
Taka grinned, flashing his red bean ice cream stick. "Yup."
Miaka scooped out another spoonful of the green and yellow concoction, plopping it into her mouth and savoring the taste, before turning her attention back to her new acquaintance. "So, what do you do?"
His grin got wider. "I'm a model. With Capri Studios."
She spat her mouthful of ice cream out.
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They sat there beside each other, on the couch, neither one looking at each other. Doukun was systematically looking through the shots he had taken, and then filing them neatly into a clear folder one by one while Genrou looked on and pretended nonchalantly that he wasn't about to burst with apprehensiveness.
Minutes passed.
Doukun examined the last photograph critically, as Genrou peered unobtrusively over his shoulder. In the photo, Genrou had turned at an angle, looking downwards (presumably at the errant thread on the couch), and his shirt had fallen open slightly. His flame-red hair, the victim of frustration and countless pulling, appeared almost artfully disheveled. He had probably glanced up at the exact moment Doukun snapped the shot; the baleful, reproachful look on his face captured in the photograph said it all.
Doukun carefully printed, with a black marker, a bold number '15' on the top right hand corner of the picture, before filing it away. Genrou unconsciously began chewing on his lower lip.
Please let him say yes, he prayed silently, chanting it over and over like a mantra in his head. Please let him say yes. Please let him say yes.
"Fine."
Please let him say yes.
"Hello? Earth to Tas—Genrou?"
Please oh please oh fucking please… "What?"
"I won't tell anyone till the national competition is over. And then I get the exclusives. It's a deal." Doukun was speaking very slowly, as though he were conversing with an idiot.
On deeper reflection, Genrou figured he could probably forgive the older man for that hinted transgression.
"Thank you," he breathed, shock and gratitude temporarily overcoming ability of speech. "I didn't think you really fucking would—I didn't think you would—"
Doukun looked as though he couldn't decide whether to smile or to scowl.
That's it, Genrou. Keep going, and you'll make a bigger fool of yourself than you thought humanly possible. On an impulse, he threw himself at Doukun and gave the other man a bear hug, unheeding of Doukun's squirms and muttered protests.
A phone rang, shrill and loud.
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Houjun waited a few more moments, then sighed and lifted the cell phone away from his ear, flipping it shut. Nuriko and Saihitei had left a mere minute ago. He had noticed the glower on Nuriko's face; he wondered if he'd been too harsh earlier, and felt immediately guilty for no logical reason. It was his life, after all, wasn't it?
No one should have to be interfering.
He had just gotten Yui's message, a very mysterious, clipped "Call me. Have important news." However, this was his third try, and the connection still wasn't going through. Yui had to be dialing and contacting others at superhuman speed from her office desk, and unluckily for Houjun, he couldn't remember her hand-phone number. He sighed, and put the phone away. He would simply just have to wait until she called him.
He would be discharged tomorrow. Eight days to his next big assignment, which was the national photographic modeling competition. He missed the feel of his camera already.
The door burst open with a loud bang.
"Houjun! Houjun, honey, are you here?"
He froze in the act of withdrawing his hand from the table where he had just set his cell phone down and blinked stupidly, unable to believe his eyes.
"Mother?"
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They stared at each other, Genrou in horrified realization that he wasn't supposed to be here, like this, and Doukun in bewilderment at the sudden interruption. Doukun reacted first; scrambling up to reach the phone as it vibrated merrily on the desktop. He reached it, swung out for the handset, and answered with the remarkable composure that belied the rattled look in his eyes,
"Good afternoon, Capri Studios."
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"Doukun!" Myou Juan hollered into the phone as he tried to stare down the driver of the minivan who was currently engaged with him in a battle of wills for the would-be free lot, "Doukun?"
His son sounded strangely breathless. "Dad? It's really noisy back there—"
Myou Juan honked; resisting the urge to scream as the minivan driver put the hazard lights on, signaling the intention to park. The young woman who was about to open the door to her shiny black Toyota paused and looked inquiring at the both of them.
"Doukun, can you hear me? Get the documents ready! The ones for Taka about his new contract with Fitme Jeans!"
More crackling, and static. "Dad? You've got to speak louder. Where are you?"
Myou Juan narrowed his eyes, glaring fire and ice at the minivan driver, who raised both eyebrows back at him impudently. "Yes, yes," he continued distractedly, ready to zoom into the lot the moment the black Toyota backed out and silently daring the other driver to challenge his claim. "I'll be there any moment. I'm in the car park."
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Doukun dropped the phone, and turned to regard Genrou with alarm and urgency in his eyes.
"Get out of here," he whispered, "Dad's downstairs."
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Taka glanced concernedly at Miaka, who was spluttering helplessly into her cup. "Hey, you okay?"
"I'm fine," she rasped out.
He shot a quick look at his watch, and gasped in surprise. "Oh no! I'm really late! Myou Juan's going to fry my ass! I've got to go, Miaka."
"No!" her hands shot out and clawed onto his jacket. "You can't go up now!"
Taka blinked at her, wondering if he had made a mistake and if this girl was one of those stalker types. Maybe he shouldn't have told her that he modeled? But she seemed nice enough, that was for sure, besides being…well, rather cute really. "Listen, just give me your number. I'll definitely keep in touch."
Genrou was still up there!
She laughed weakly, grasping frantically at loose straws. "I…I don't have paper! Can you wait a moment while I find paper? And a pen!"
"Weeeell—"
"I'll be right back! Promise! Stay right there, okay? Don't move!"
He stared after her, bemused, and scratched his head as she bulldozed a path into the shopping center.
She must really like me.