Chapter Twenty Seven
Morning dawned in an overcast sky wrought with gray and occasional flashes of lightning. Outside, a steadily deepening drizzle painted the pavement. The neighborhood was quiet; it was a Sunday, and for most, it would be day of sleeping in, staying home, and spending time with family.
Which was precisely what Mrs. Kou had on her mind as she got up, stretched, turned and looked fondly at her still-snoring husband, and padded to the bathroom to wash up.
Today, she would make breakfast instead of sending Genrou to the stores; it had been quite a while since she'd taken on the task herself, hadn't it? Miaka and Mr. Kou loved her sesame sauce and minced pork omelette, and surely there were enough eggs to be made into seconds, if she took into consideration Genrou's hearty appetite.
Genrou... Her thoughts wandered as she took the toothpaste and uncapped it. Her poor son had been extremely occupied with job-hunting these last few weeks. She had seen him, coming home, a look of woe-begone that increased in severity each time he closed the door behind him, shoulders hunched with exhaustion, heavy backpack full of what had to be rejection letters and pamphlets. Even the color of his face had begun to appear wan, almost fair. At least he was making an effort to look groomed though. She'd noticed just the other day that his once unruly hair was now smoothed back rather nicely, and grown long, so that he kept it tied back in an almost-girlish headband. And his eyebrows had been trimmed too; probably a result of Miaka's experimentation, since the girl was turning out to be quite interested in make-up and all of those things.
Wiping her face with a towel, she stepped away from the sink and exchanged her sleeping robe for a loose day dress. Then, glancing at her husband, tiptoeing towards the door with all the care not to wake him up, she left the room and headed for her daughter's room, already planning to instruct Miaka on how precisely to chop the meat. She knocked smartly on the door.
There was no answer.
She waited, and then knocked again, wondering rather crossly if Miaka had been up late again and was now too deep in sleep to hear. When there was no response after the third knock, Mrs. Kou opened the door quietly.
The bed was made. The windows were open just slightly, the cold of the wind sweeping in refreshingly through pink curtains that were already damp with the mild rain. The desk was astonishingly tidy, or as tidy as it could be, the heap of magazines and vouchers straightened and pushed to a corner.
No daughter.
Pursing her lips, she exited, but not before nodding approvingly to herself at the evidence of an initiative of household chores. Where had Miaka gone out to this early? Perhaps to the mall...she had been talking rather loudly and slowly at dinner last night about some clothes or jewelry sale, hadn't she? Mrs. Kou had thought it rather odd, especially since Miaka kept pausing to open her eyes wide at Genrou, who had then repeatedly turned red and stabbed his spaghetti. Obviously the poor boy hadn't been interested.
Well, if Miaka had gone out, surely Genrou would still be sleeping in. The thought of watching her son mangle the meat almost gave her pause as she continued down the hall, but Mrs. Kou was a strong, brave woman. She rapped at the door, not so forgiving of laxness of her son than her daughter, since men were after all the caretakers and the protectors, the breadwinners, who had to be up and about and earning enough to feed the family no matter how hard it was. She would give him two servings to buff him up later, if he was going out again to hunt for work at the streetside stores that opened on weekends.
There was no answer.
Narrowing her eyes at this deja vu, she twisted the doorknob and peered in suspiciously.
The bed was unmade, shirts and jeans and shorts lay rumpled in miniature hills about the room, the windows were open, and a small puddle of water had begun to form dangerously close to an exercise book with MY DIARY scrawled messily on it. Huffing to herself, she marched across the room to slide the panels shut and shake the curtains out, before grabbing tissues from the nearby box and wiping up the mess, carefully setting the exercise book aside and atop another pile of fashion magazines.
She stopped short, and blinked, picking up the exercise book so that she could look again at what lay beneath. Fashion magazine?
Shaking her head, she put the book back on top, and turned towards the bed to wake her son.
It was empty as well. No son.
Where on earth had both her children gone at nine in the morning?
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Yui sat back in her chair and steepled her fingers, glaring beadily at the sweating technician who cowered in front of her. "You must get Lights 3 and 4 filtered, Tomite! I don't care what you do! If I see one more fuzzy spotlight where there is supposed to be no fuzz and no spotlight, you're fired, you will have ruined this show, and your name will go down in infamy forever. Do you understand?"
Tomite nodded rapidly and fled.
Sighing, she crossed her legs and leaned forward, reaching up to massage her temples. She still had to arrange the template for the twelve models' cards for the digital presentation, there was one hour before the doors would be open to the public, and the last minute technical problems were driving her crazy.
There was a distinct knock on the door, and she groaned, moment of respite clearly over. "Come in!"
With a click, the door was opened, and a familiar head poked around it and flashed her a grin that immediately melted her heart and made her smile back in acknowledgement. "Houjun."
He laughed and stepped in, closing off the general buzz from outside, and carefully set his camera down on the coffee table before striding forward and dropping easily into the seat opposite her. "I saw Tomite. Claws out already, princess?"
She pouted and winked at him. "Just almost."
The week of rest—well, enforced rest anyway. Yui had heard about Houjun's brother and how Houjun himself had fallen sick looking after the guy—had done wonders. The photographer had always been particularly handsome, in Yui's opinion. It crossed her mind belatedly the question of why he wasn't a model himself. Not that his skill with the camera hadn't done enough talking for him; he had been chosen as the chief photographer for the competition. But now, he looked more relaxed than she'd seen him in ages. He had the typical businesslike sharpness that he always did, the authorial air that he always wore when he was working, but added to that now, there was a most charming easy-going impression about him. She supposed it had to do with the formal leave he was going to take; she'd scanned through the official letter from his agency, and a few more notes from mutual friends. Still, Yui was inordinately glad that Houjun was sticking around for one more competition. This year was truly going to see exceptionality, in both the girls and the quality of work.
"So how come you're so free as to drop by?" she inquired, reaching out to take her cup of coffee and have a sip. "All your stuff in order yet?"
He flashed a quick smile. "Of course. Prepared in advance, you know me. Just wanted to come say hi before the official opening."
Yui mentally added sweetheart to the list of qualities. "So you're free for the moment?"
Houjun gave her a look of mock-terror. "Yes...?"
She put the cup down and smacked him lightly on the fingers. "Don't give me that. I'd just appreciate some help with the template for the presentation later. Here," she reached around and pushed aside stacks of receipts and papers with scribbled directions, numbers, routines, and color schemes, before she found what she wanted, the stack of photographs. "I just can't quite decide how to arrange these. We don't want to put them shortest to tallest like last time, or anything like that, you know? Give me your opinion," and she thrust the copies forward into his startled hands.
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Houjun had to hide a smile at Yui's exuberance. Really, her energy and enthusiasm were the forces keeping everything running in clockwork. He glanced down at the photographs she had shoved at him and shrugged doubtfully, "You sure you want me to fix this? I'm not that good for this kind of designing, really."
At her pointed nod, he stifled another laugh, and then turned his attention to the pictures. "Alright, alright."
The first of the models was a pixie-faced dynamo of hair so blond and light it looked white, startling, brilliant gray eyes, a cheeky smile, and a decidedly advantageous cleavage. Subaru Hahm, twenty-one years old. He nodded and murmured in compliment to the photographer: the backdrop of emerald green served to bring out the sparkle of eyes and the fairness of skin, and the angle captured the vivaciousness of the woman.
"Lovely, isn't she?" Yui interjected over his shoulder. She'd come round to stand behind him so that she could see as well. "Tokaki's quite the fast one, I heard he engaged her two hours into their first date."
He grinned, all too easily imagining the amorous photographer's melodramatic chivalry. "Yes, Tokaki's a fast guy. Good choice for a wife, though...her personality just comes through this picture," he gestured and thought hard for a word that could describe its effect. "Fantastically lively, I would imagine," he finally decided. Yui hummed in agreement.
The next, Soi Rishana, he remembered from...was it Chinoarov? Yes, that was it. Slyly flirtatious gaze, graceful pose, red, red lips dangerously teasing, the elegant black off-shoulder gown featured. Houjun had a sudden flashback of himself and Tomo, standing side by side in the dark room, so close that he'd been able to feel the warmth of the other's breath in his ear, looking at the exact same photograph.
He jerked despite himself, and pushed the recollection away.
They sifted through the rest, Yui occasionally grabbing a picture and placing it in an imagined order, clucking her tongue absentmindedly. He reached the last picture, and inexplicably felt the warmth of a summer day rush over his cheeks.
Tasu Leika.
Damned if her name hadn't become a silent cliché in his head.
"Mm," Yui peered critically at it, then poked him in the shoulder. "Hey, you took this one! It's gorgeous!"
The sincerity in her exclamation made him blush, and he shrugged modestly. "Thanks."
Flashback
"I want you to just sit, look over the top of that fascinating book, and giggle at me."
She burst into laughter, the tousled braids gleaming as she pushed them over her shoulders and waved the aforementioned book at him. "This? This?! It's a bloody trigonometry book!" and by now she was shaking so hard that tears of mirth were sparkling in her eyes.
He moved, snapping shots, the camera whirring. "Yes, Tasu, my dear girl. That's perfect."
She grinned. "I'd rather just bloody giggle at you."
Houjun looked up sharply, but she had already ducked her head and looked away, perusing the book with apparent great concentration.
End of Flashback
She had been dressed in a pin-striped, fitted tuxedo, a zipped up white turtleneck beneath, and stiletto-heeled black suede boots. A black bandanna slipped rakishly over one eye, making her seem almost like a pirate...or a bandit. This particular shot had Tasu Leika sitting against the wall, holding the book between two slim fingers, the visible eyebrow raised, lips glossed pink in a daring pucker, legs long and stretching out in front of her.
They were silent, looking at that picture together for a longer moment than the rest, before Yui mused, "She's one of the favorites to win tonight, you know."
It would be to his credit. He exhaled quietly. Then he set the picture down and turned, giving her a small smile.
"I know."
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Doukun cursed under his breath as he juggled his files, trying to push the camera straps up higher on his shoulder so that the heavy weight didn't fall quite so painfully on his hip. He'd been too busy to stop by and unpack his documents and file his paperwork before today, Myou Juan having sent him to shoot a lengthy feature for a Chinese fashion magazine. Now, half an hour before the opening of the National Photographic Modeling competition, here he was, trying to balance a stack of paper on one arm, three cameras on the other, and look for his entry pass at the same time.
The security guard looked at him with eyes that were narrower by the minute.
"Just a moment!" Doukun pleaded, fingers trying to reach the depths of his pocket even as slips of paper-clipped Polaroids began to wafer dangerously on the edge of the files. "I know I have it here somewhere!"
The stack of files lost its battle with gravity and crashed to the floor.
Noooo! Shit! Doukun hissed between his teeth, and finally fished out the missing pass. "There! I told you I had it!" he waved it triumphantly at the security guard, who seized it disinterestedly, gave it a crisp once over, clipped a neck-band about the top, then shoved it back and waved him forward.
Doukun stuffed the pass in his shirt pocket, and just managed to bite back a wail of frustration as he squatted down on the ground and gathered up the fallen mess of papers. It was a hideously disorganized start to such a big day. Jogging the sheets and the Polaroids together in a semblance of neatness, he pushed them into the file and snapped it shut, at which point it promptly bounced back open.
Arghhh!
"Do you need help, sir?" the security guard asked, in a tone that plainly implied that anyone who needed help carrying their own paper and cameras shouldn't have been allowed there in the first place. "You look like you're having trouble."
"I can handle it," Doukun snapped, glaring at the file and pulling it firmly shut once more, keeping it in place quickly against his chest. "Thank you very much."
He marched off, barely suppressing a wince as the cameras banged into his hip again.
The security guard called out "You're welcome!" in a much happier voice...before Tatara noticed a single white square of paper that the clumsy photographer had obviously left behind. Sighing at having to go beyond the call of duty after all, he came out from behind the booth and walked over, bending down to pick it up.
It turned out to be a Polaroid, labeled number 15 on the top right corner in a bold black script. The picture was of a young man, eyes darkly sullen and brooding, lips twisted in a scowl, flaming red hair swept back from a finely-boned face. A snug, casual button-down had been artfully half-opened, and showed the hard, lean planes of a defined, sculpted chest.
Not bad at all.
Somehow though, the model reminded him oddly of...oddly of...
"Hey, Tatara!"
He lost his train of thought, turning just in time to catch the pert waitress as she bounced playfully against him. "Suzunu!"
She batted her eyelashes at him and leaned in for a quick kiss. "So, what were you looking at, all lost to the world? Should I be getting jealous?"
He rapped her lightly on the head. "Nah, just something a careless bloke dropped. I'll just run after him and give it back..." he scanned the crowd, but the mass of people was amorphous and continuously milling, and the photographer had disappeared. "Oh blast it! He's gone. Now what am I supposed to do? Keep it? I can't spend twenty minutes chasing after this guy!"
She looked alarmed at his frustration, and then an idea crossed her mind. "Tatara, darling, why don't you give it here. I was just on my way to serve the drinks and packets to the staff. What does your guy work as? I can easily drop it off."
He handed the Polaroid over. "He's a photographer. From Capri Studios if I remember right from his pass. ..Suzunu?"
"Wow..." her voice was hushed, and trailed off as she glanced again at the picture. "This is one terribly hot guy, even if I do say so myself." At his offended glare, she impishly blew him a kiss. "I do compare with the best, after all."
He snorted. "Well, be on your way. I've got work to do. Pick you up at the back at nine?"
Suzunu carefully squeezed the white square into her skirt pocket. "Sounds alright. And don't worry about this. I'll just pop it into the photography tent. Someone's bound to recognize who it belongs to."