Chapter Four

He was going because he was curious. That's what he told himself as he navigated into downtown Domino. He wanted to know what kind of place appealed to someone like Miss Miyoshi, with her sophisticated style. A tapas bar, perhaps, or a Michelin starred restaurant.

Well, he'd thought as he stepped into Blue Wind, he'd gotten the 'bar' part right.

The noise hit him first, an overwhelming cacophony of voices and laughter that barely covered the clinking of glasses and the rattle of ice in cocktail shakers. Along the wall, behind the bar itself, was a mural of swirling shades of blue and white. At the far end of the main room was a stage, standing three feet off the floor, with a line of lights above and a microphone in the center. Though not even the pleasant decor could mask the stench of beer and peanuts.

The bouncer barely looked at Seto as he entered, though it was hard for Seto not to notice him. The man may not have been much taller, but he was twice as broad, with arms thick as pythons.

A waitress met Seto at the door, tall and slender, in black leggings and a tank top. "Just one?"

"Yes."

"Bar or table?" The woman eyed him from head to toe with a hungry look.

Seto glanced around the room, buying time by acting like he was trying to decide. He nearly missed Miss Miyoshi sitting at the bar, the heel of a mid-calf boot hooked on the lowest rung of her stool. She had on dark denim jeans so snug they could have been painted on and a form-fitting red tank top. Shapes curled over each of her shoulders, tattoos that could have been the ends of tails or the tips of wings. It was difficult to tell. Her hair was still up.

Seto's eyes lingered on the soft nape of her neck, at the ink peeking from under her shirt. His fingers twitched, as if desiring to run across her skin.

"Bar or table?" The waitress's voice was tight, clipped.

Seto had been about to turn to her to tell her to sit him at the bar when the man sitting next to Miss Miyoshi reached up and slipped an arm around her shoulders. He looked twice their age, his black hair streaked with grey and wide sunglasses perched on top of his head. His hand rubbed across her shoulder to cup the back of her neck. Miss Miyoshi was pulled slightly sideways and he whispered something in her ear that made her lean away to laugh.

A tight coil wrapped around Seto's insides. "Table. In a corner, if you have it."

The waitress smiled and winked. "Got it, honey. Follow me." She led him to a table at the back corner of the room. "What can I get you?"

"Seltzer with lime."

"Stickin' sober tonight, got it. Be right back."

Seto sneered at the exaggerated sway to hips as she walked away, then sat at the table, his back to the wall, where he could still see the bar. He knew he should've left. He'd had no reason to stay after seeing that man put the moves on her, but he couldn't seem to make himself leave.

The man's hand stroked along Miss Miyoshi's arm and the coil twisted tighter. Seto could see himself getting up and pulling them apart. He'd threaten him, talk down to him, no matter how willing the interaction seemed. Seto would drag her outside, where it was quiet, where they would be alone, then… then what?

Condensation was slick against his fingers when he wrapped his hands around his glass. Ice clinked as they melted. He drank, he watched, the hole inside him growing with each brush of the man's fingers.

The waitress took his empty glass and set a fresh one on the table. Seto exhaled and reached for his wallet. This had gotten too close to stalking behavior for his liking. He'd seen all he needed to, now it was time to go.

The bar fell silent.

A man had walked up on stage while Seto wasn't looking. He was well dressed, not in a suit and tie, but he held himself in a way that said he was in charge. His fingers wrapped around the microphone. There was a buzz over the speakers when he flicked it on.

"Good evening. First up tonight we have a young lady who performed for us a couple of weeks ago." He held out a hand towards the bar. "Kisa, come on up, sweetheart."

The room filled with polite applause.

Seto held his breath. Surely there was another 'Kisa' sitting at the bar.

The man with Miss Miyoshi patted her shoulder. She grinned at him, reached under the bar, and pulled out a long padded bag. She was the vision of confidence. Her shoulders back, head held high, and a smile on her face that was proud and unwavering. Every eye watched her as she passed. There was a part of Seto that envied, and hated, those who were sitting closer, who looked upon her without shame.

Miss Miyoshi seemed to glow in the spotlights. She laid the bag on the stage, unzipped it, and pulled out a guitar. It was white. in a V-shape, with glittering swirls of blue that danced as she slung it over her body. Her fingers strummed that first cord and the bar fell silent again.

She played for half an hour.

Seto could have listened to her forever.

Her voice flowed over him, making every hair on his arms stand on end. There was a twang to it he hadn't heard in her normal speech. It was older, more ingrained. A hint of where she'd come from, not so thick to be from the deep south, but not northern enough either.

He couldn't look away, even if he wanted to. There was an intensity to her eyes, fiery and alive. Her lips curled when she put attitude into her lyrics. Her body swayed to the rhythm. She was, at times, wild and untamable, innocent and shy, wise and world-weary. She molded herself to the song, or, perhaps, she molded the song to fit her.

That nagging sensation returned. It pulled at the back of Seto's mind, swelled in his chest. Her voice filled him with a sense of deja vu he couldn't place. Had he heard her sing somewhere before? If he had, when? Seto pushed the sensation away, forced it down so he could concentrate.

Miss Miyoshi wrapped up her set and the room exploded into applause and whistles. She gave the crowd a bow and a wave before easing the guitar off her shoulder and storing it safely back into its case. She picked up the bag, climbed down from the stage, and headed back to the bar and the man waiting for her.

Seto tucked a twenty under his empty glass. If she was done, so was he. After a performance like that, where even he had been affected so viscerally, she deserved to be left alone with her date. He would no longer be the watcher in the shadows, spying on her private life where he was not welcomed. The thought threatened to erase the ease her voice cast over him.

He headed for the door, watching as she approached the bar. Her date had risen to his feet. He pulled her into a tight, one-arm hug. He was talking into her ear. His hand skimmed the back of her neck, trailed down her spine, then grasped the swell of her ass. She jerked back, her exclamation of surprise drowned out by whoever had gone on stage next. Her hand swung up, slapped him square on the cheek. The man grabbed her shoulders, brought her face close to his. He was speaking, low and quiet.

The look in his eyes was too familiar.

Seto was across the room in a flash, forcing himself between them, shoving the man away from her. The man stumbled. There were cries of outrage and confusion.

Miss Miyoshi's voice was in Seto's ear. "Mr. Kaiba?"

Her date straightened, stuck a finger in Seto's face. "Back off, man. This one's mine."

"Yours?" He grabbed the front of the older man's shirt. "Nobody owns her."

Punching him hurt, but Seto didn't care. Patrons were screaming. Hands grabbed at his arms, his shirt, pulling him backward. His skin tingled where Miss Miyoshi grabbed his arm.

"Seto! Stop!"

"Seto! Stop!"

The hairs of the back on his neck stood on end. He struggled to breathe.

The bouncer pushed through the crowd and grabbed Seto by the back of the collar. Seto dragged through the bar, toward the door. He watched Miss Miyoshi pleading with her date, helping him to his feet. The man swiped at her with an arm, pointed a finger in her face, and started to yell.

Seto couldn't hear what he was saying. There'd been another voice, but whose?

He was deposited on the sidewalk. Bystanders were staring, whispering to each other behind their hands, and pulling phones out of their pockets.

Seto grit his teeth and straightened his clothes. He threw a withering look in the direction of a flash. No doubt this fiasco would be in the tabloids in the morning. He put his hands in his pockets and turned to walk away when the bar door opened again.

Miss Miyoshi stepped out, red-faced, her hands balled into fists. "Why'd you do that?"

"I believe I just saved you from being assaulted. You're welcome, by the way."

"Idiot." She said through clenched teeth. "Do you have any idea what you just did?"

Seto crossed his arms. "If you need me to repeat myself-"

"You just ruined my chance! That guy wouldn't even look at me last weekend. Here I'd finally got his attention. I got to show him what I got and you go and ruin it!"

Seto's shoulders tensed, hands clasping his arms. "If you're really into old men that much, I suppose I should apologize."

"No. That was a talent scout."

"A what?"

"For Bayside Records. That was my chance, my one chance." She stepped up to Seto and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Why'd you have to go and fuck it up for me? Thanks for nothing boss, real smooth."

"Excuse me for trying to defend you."

She threw up her arms. "I don't need you white knighting for me. You think I haven't dealt with this kinda shit before?"

The more she rambled, the deeper the twang worked into her voice.

It was… cute. Seto had to press a fist to his mouth to stop from smiling.

Miss Miyoshi went on, unaware. "I've had dudes feelin me up in bars for years. Three!" She held up her fingers for emphasis. "Three years I hopped around Europe, singin in that bar and that nightclub. I sweat fuckin potato vodka in Ireland for pennies and had smooth talkin french brats talkin poetry about my breasts. I don't need some white-collar, soft-handed, city boy knightin up cause he thinks he sees some damsel in distress waitin for him to ride in on his shiny Italian loafers!"

Her breath was heavy. Her eyes were wild.

Seto bit the inside of his cheek. "Feel better?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you laugh at me."

"Wouldn't think of it." He lowered his hand. "Did french men really write poetry about your breasts?"

She shrugged and jerked her head. "No, not really, but I was on a roll."

"I do hate to point out the obvious, but you were the one to hit him first."

"He deserved a slap for gropin me, but I wasn't about to lay him out." Her lips quirked into a half-smile. "You're bleedin, by the way."

Seto looked at his hand to find the skin of his knuckles torn. He went to wipe his mouth, suddenly aware that he probably had blood on his lips.

"Here." She set down her bag, reached into a pocket, and pulled out a stained white cloth.

Seto didn't move.

"It's clean," she said, "promise."

"It doesn't look clean."

"Oh, quit whining. I'm trying to help."

Seto took the cloth and wiped his face.

Her hand caught his injured one, sending gooseflesh skittering up his arm. She pulled it towards her to inspect his wounds. Her breath brushed across his skin, delicate as a feather, and Seto had to repress the desire to step closer.

"Just a flesh wound." She let him go. "My apartment's just up the street. I can patch you up real quick."

"That's not necessary."

"I'm not gonna let you bleed all over the inside of your car. Besides, I owe you one."

Her apartment would have fit easily into his bedroom. It was on the fifth floor of a dirty brick and mortar building squashed between two others, with a scenic view of the street below. Boxes lined the walls of the main living space, each labeled in thick black sharpie. Over some laid piles of garment bags, while others propped up two guitar bags similar to the one she had with her. The kitchenette was separated from the clutter by a thin counter, against which sat an overused loveseat. There were two doors on the opposite side of the room. Through one he could see a tiny bathroom and through the other was a bedroom.

Miss Miyoshi set her guitar bag among its brothers. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll get my first aid kit."

Seto grimaced at the fraying seams and flattened cushions of the couch. "There is nothing 'comfortable' about this place."

"Oh, I know." She flicked on the light in her bathroom.

The interior was tinted an ancient 70s style yellow with a thin stall shower squeezed into one corner. She crouched in front of the sink and pulled open the cabinet. There was a clatter as she shifted through the contents, followed by a muttered curse.

"It's the best I could get on short notice," she said. "I've got an application in for a nice little two bed, two bath condo. God willing, I'll get approved and be outta here by the end of August."

"Not soon enough."

She pulled a box from the cabinet and brought it into the living room. It was an old red cookie tin, the top emblazoned with an image of Santa's sleigh flying through a starlit night. The lettering underneath the image was in German.

"I didn't ask your opinion." She plopped herself down to sit cross-legged on one cushion. "Come on, sit."

She opened the tin and tucked the lid underneath. The inside was back with bandages of every size and bottles of antiseptic wash and ointment. He sat next to her, his every nerve aware of how close they were, and crossed one leg over the other.

"You were in a hurry to leave Berlin?" he asked.

"I was planning to leave anyway, but things kinda got… awkward."

"Meaning?"

She pulled out a bottle of antiseptic wash and a bag of cotton balls. "I thought you didn't want to get to know me."

"Call it curiosity."

She soaked a cotton ball in the liquid and held out her hand. He leaned away.

"Don't be a baby," she said.

"Choice words for your boss."

"My boss just laid a guy out in a bar." She motioned with her outstretched hand, sharp and impatient. "Are you gonna let me help you, or not?"

Tension clenched his shoulders. Her eyes were locked on his, the irises the bright blue of a clear summer sky. Bottomless. There was a faint ring of green around her pupils and freckles across her nose. She raised her brows and Seto looked away. He put his injured hand in hers. The warmth of her fingers sent pleasant sparks along his skin wherever she touched. There was a ring of black ink encircling her left wrist.

"You have tattoos," he said absently.

"Sure do. The agency told me most places don't like people showing off their ink if they got it, so I cover them up." She tugged on his hand. "Turn towards me a little. I can't work at this angle."

Seto clenched his jaw and shifted to face her, one leg coming up to rest on the cushion. He kept his eyes on the opposite wall, trying to distract himself from the sensations her touch ignited.

She spoke under her breath. "You can be so silly."

His gaze snapped back, hard and suspicious. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud. You got a problem with me having tattoos or something?"

Seto took in the intricate line work, the shading, the faint impression of scales that reminded him of the body of a snake. "No."

She smiled, then set about tending to his wounds. "So, you do the whole white knight thing often?"

"It's not something I plan to make a habit of."

Her hair was coming undone. Strands fell around her face, stuck to her skin, flyaways flowed in waves with the circulation of the air. She was silent as she worked, her hands gentle on his as she cleaned away the blood. He itched to reach up and brush the loose hairs behind her ear. He wanted to hold her face, feel her skin under his fingers.

He forced his eyes down and clenched his hand against his knee. "You never finished answering my question."

"Hm?"

"About why you left Berlin."

"Oh, that." She took up a clean cotton pad and started drying his skin. "I had a boyfriend in Berlin."

Seto wished he hadn't asked.

"He could be pretty intense," she said. "We were together for a little over a year. He always kinda knew I would move back home, but I think he was sure I'd change my mind. I wasn't originally planning to move back until December, but when I told him he kind of… flew off the handle."

Nails bit into Seto's knee. "He hit you."

"No. He never hit me." She fumbled with the seal on the bag of cotton balls. "Screamed, maybe, but he never actually hit me. He got obsessive. Started following me around, sabotaging any plans I made to leave. Eventually, I had enough and just packed up what I could and caught the next flight out."

"He didn't follow?"

"Not that I can tell." She unwrapped a packet of gauze. "I had to ask my aunt to flit the bill for the flight cause I didn't have the money at the time. I doubt he would've been able to get the money together quick enough."

"If he does show up, you tell me."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I have the means to make him back off for good."

She blinked, brows shooting up her forehead. After a long silence, her face relaxed. She chuckled and shook her head.

"What?" Seto asked.

"Nothing, you just- you remind me of someone. This boy I knew when I was little. He was hard-headed, but smart. There was this time-" She sighed. "You don't wanna hear this."

"Go on."

She lined squares of gauze across his knuckles. "We must've been… seven? We were at the playground. There were these older boys, middle schoolers. A bunch'a bullies. They were terrorizing the younger kids. Pushing them around, stealing, making cruel jokes. You know the kind."

"I do."

"Well, I'd had enough and told them off."

"I'm sure that went over well."

"They pushed me." She unrolled a line of cotton bandage wrapping. "Got the sundress my mom'd just bought all dirty. My friend he-" She smiled. "He jumped them." Her laugh was equal parts amused and sad. "It was a hell of a fight. Came out of it with a bloody nose and all kinds of scrapes and bruises, but the older boys didn't look much better. We thought his dad'd be mad if he came home looking like that, so I tried fixing him up myself." She wrapped the bandage snug around Seto's hand. "My dad was a waterman. Crab and oysters and such. He'd come home every day with cuts on his fingers and my mom would wrap them up. I'd watched her do it so many times I thought I could do it too, but-" Her movements stopped, eyes growing distant as if looking back on the memory. "Toilet paper doesn't make a good bandage, turns out."

"And were they mad?"

"Not really." Miss Miyoshi secured the bandage. "Sometimes the thought of getting in trouble is worse than admitting you did something wrong. You don't have the rationality to think how a dress can be washed or how something that seemed wrong at the time was the right thing to do."

"Wise words."

"My mom was full of them." Her eyes misted over with tears. She pulled her hands back to wipe them away. "Sorry."

A familiar sorrow he had not let himself feel for nearly a decade settled in Seto's chest. "How long ago?"

"Ten years this month." She rubbed the heel of her palm against her cheek, but the tears wouldn't stop.

Miss Miyoshi covered her face, knees drawing up to her chest. The tin clattered to the floor. Gauze and bandages and trash scattered.

Look what you've done.

Seto grit his teeth. No, this was not his fault. Not this time.

She jumped when his fingers brushed her cheek. She looked up, eyes wide and glistening.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to expel the sadness and grief he knew all too well. His brain screamed for him to stop, screamed every reason why it was wrong. His hand cupped her face, the other pulled one of her hands down. The motion was gentle, apprehensive.

She didn't resist. She leaned into his touch, gripped his hand with trembling fingers. When he leaned forward, she did too, and their lips met in a soft prayer.

It was a shock to his system, a tingling flash down his spine. He inhaled and his senses filled with her scent, citrus and musk. Heady. Addictive. Her fingers caressed his neck, his jaw, and all other thought stopped. He leaned into her, his hand leaving hers to hold the small of her back. She opened her mouth to him and he dived in, tasting the tears on her lips. He released her to breath, only to find himself trailing the curve of her jaw, following the scent of the perfume dabbed behind her ear.

She gasped next to his ear. "Seto… wait. My back."

The weight of what he was doing slammed into his brain. He pulled away. Heat rose to his face at the realization of their position. He had her laid over the arm of the couch. Her legs parted for him, framed his waist. Her hair was tousled. Her face was flushed an alluring pink.

Seto pushed back to his side of the couch. "I shouldn't have."

"No, it's okay." Her blush deepened, causing her freckles to stand out. "You were trying to make me feel better, right?"

He couldn't keep eye contact.

"Why'd you do it?" she asked.

"I know what it's like to lose a parent."

She didn't respond. The silence was companionable to their grief. One felt. One suppressed. Seto was about to stand to take his leave when her hand took his again. She inspected her work, her thumb running over his bandaged knuckles.

She took his hand and inspected her work, thumb running over the bandage. "Didn't do a bad job this time, did I?"

The words came unbidden. "You've done worse."

They didn't make sense.

"Don't be a baby."

Seto put a hand to his head, pushed against the sudden throbbing pain.

"Headache?" Miss Miyoshi asked.

"It's nothing."

She patted his knee. "I'll get you something."

"No. I'm fine."

"Don't be silly." She pushed up from the couch and moved as if to go back to the bathroom. "Have you eaten? I can order us some-"

"No."

He was starting to shake. Something was trying to come forward, boiling under the surface of his mind. It forced its way up, clawing, tearing. He knew that voice, but from where?

"Seto, sweetie, I'm so sorry. It's your d-"

Seto was cold. Fear sliced through his chest. "I have to go." He pushed from the couch and hurried for the door.

Miss Miyoshi was right behind him. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He grabbed the handle.

Her hand closed around his wrist. "Seto, wait, please. Tell me what's-"

"Don't use that name." He jerked his arm out of her grip and motioned to her apartment. "This was a mistake. This… that didn't happen, understand?"

"But se- Mr. Kaiba, we need to talk. There's something-"

"I don't want to hear it." Seto swung the door open. "I'll see you on Monday."

He was in the hall before she could respond. Her voice called out to him, echoing down the stairwell. It had become too dangerous to stay.

He couldn't risk remembering.

He couldn't say how long he sat in his car afterward, head in his hands, pushing away the thoughts and memories that threatened to surface. All they did was remind him of his mistakes, his pain, his failures. That being alone with her, intimate with her, would threaten to bring such things back to the surface had been unexpected. He'd let his guard down too easily. He couldn't afford to risk it happening again.

Then he remembered that the two of them were scheduled to spend three days alone in Berlin in a month and his forehead hit the steering wheel.

He was well and truly fucked.

The sun had long since set by the time he got home. The quiet of the manor felt more invasive than usual. It wasn't until Seto was walking by Mokuba's door that he realized why. The teen's bedroom, which at all hours was the source of all manner of noise, was silent.

Seto went to his office, intending to bury the growing void in his chest with work. There were video game consoles set up on the coffee table. Their cords trailed up to the television. Mokuba had spent hours the night before setting them up, pulling old games they used to play together out of storage. Every snack and soft drink his brother had asked for still sat piled next to the couch, untouched.

Worst of all, sitting on top of his desk, right where he had left it before leaving that afternoon, was Mokuba's birthday present. His brother had complained plenty about the state of his cleats over the past few weeks. They were worn down and falling apart. There had been a pair he'd picked out of a sports magazine. It was the most subtle Mokuba had ever been. Purchasing them had put no strain on Seto's wallet. It was the joy he'd imagined on Mokuba's face that made them worth the price.

Now he'd probably never see that again.

Seto picked up the box and carried it to Mokuba's room. He knocked, but there was no answer. He tried the knob. It was unlocked. The room was dark save for the glow of Mokuba's alarm clock. The teen lay in a ball in the center of his bed, a blanket pulled up to his chin, and his back to the door.

Seto put the box on the nightstand. He reached out as if to smooth his little brother's hair. His hand stopped and balled into a fist that he shoved into his pocket.

He spoke quietly into the dark. "Happy birthday, Mokuba."