Patience is not simply the ability to

wait – it's how we behave while we're

waiting.

– Joyce Meyer

Waiting

The fight unfurled effortlessly, poetry in motion, something magical that would disappear as soon as I closed my eyes. Sliding back on sure feet, the big man watched his opponent approach, smile sure, ready. Gelled hair already damp with sweat, the boy faked a lunge before pivoting to the side, firing three jabs with a boxer's grace. The giant was ready though, catching two of the blows before redirecting the last, a punch of his own aimed at that slick head.

"Are we going to do this, or what?"

I bit back a smile, making quick work of removing my other shoe. Tatsuo stood on the mat already, bare feet abnormally pale against the blue rubber. Donned in light sweats and a t-shirt, his stature and strange hair made quite a statement among the other patrons, salted locks twisted in a braid running between his shoulders. Slender arms corded with muscle crossed over a barrel chest, he raised a brow as I fished transparent ear buds from my pocket, plugging them into my phone.

"You're not going to have music in a real fight."

"Good thing this is just practice, then."

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped, sighing. Symphonic notes filled my ears and I was ready, slipping the device into a back pocket. I could still hear everything around us perfectly well but Tatsuo didn't need to know:

What better way to catch an enemy off-guard than feigned ignorance?

Pounding drums came next and I was moving, sinking into a ready stance, stalking my opponent. Tatsuo moved too, arms at his side, though I knew better than to take him lightly – countless matches proved him faster than me. He watched without presumption or pride, nonplussed at our height difference.

The electric guitars entered their gallop and the dance began in earnest, strikes flying at his face, chest, and stomach. His arms moved, then, deflecting a punch, a palm strike, cross-block catching my heel before sending me backwards. Ever the teacher, he allowed me to attack however I pleased, never demanding I stick with one style or fight fair.

A few minutes in, though, I landed a blow to his mouth. Years ago, blood welling from a split lip would have stopped me but not now. No, the sight made me bold, urging me to target vital areas, lethal if hit just right. Tatsuo noticed the change for his gaze darkened, body shifting into a stance of his own.

He began to fight back.

Our match didn't last long after that. Thankfully, the gym was mostly empty – only a handful of peers witnessed his complete victory. A Latin chorus overrode metal chords as he struck my clavicle and sternum, well-aimed jabs finding my armpit and stomach, kicks to my ribs stealing my breath. I crumpled when his heel dug into my inner thigh, shock waves running through my body to clench at the afflicted pressure point. He waited a few paces away, ready for my choice. The song ended with the dying trill of a violin and I raised my arm, yielding.

Ten minutes later found us side by side in the locker room, fresh from the showers. Bruises dotted my body from the shoulders down, though thankfully nowhere that couldn't be hidden. Struggling against my sports bra, I pulled the black long-sleeved t shirt down with care, grimacing at the growing discoloration. "I think you bruised my rib, Tatsu."

"Good. Maybe that'll teach you not to be overconfident."

I groaned, biting back a less than polite remark while working at my pants. When we first began training together years ago, I never dreamed I would be comfortable enough to let anyone see me without clothes. Decency had nothing to do with it – dance costumes saw to that – but the white marks stretching from my right shoulder to left hip. Five scars followed that path, each two fingers thick; ugly, jagged things which would never disappear:

Each from a day I longed to forget.

"You talk to your old man?"

"Not since last month."

The coins sliding into the vending machine rang in my ears as I propped against it, pressing a button with blind assurance. A 'clunk' and the water bottle fell into the tray but I made no move to retrieve it, forehead resting against one arm, the familiar scents of sweat and cleaning products prominent as I closed my eyes.

Four years was all I could tolerate of my father after the attack and, once I helped mom check into the Eiichi Sanatorium, I moved out. Due to the circumstances surrounding my family the school allowed me to take on a part-time job, though they had no idea I was homeless most of my last year in junior high. I stayed with friends as often as possible, though not often enough to rouse suspicion. Making up excuses as to why I was never home to receive calls or go out, my secret stayed safe – I was never one to talk about personal things, anyway.

When I couldn't find somewhere to stay, I slept outside storefronts, knowing no one would be stupid enough to harm a child with the world watching. If I slept past dawn, business owners would shoo me away, determined I was a delinquent or worse:

That's how I met Tatsuo.

Unlike everyone else, he didn't send me away when he found me on the steps of his dojo. No, he welcomed me in, made me tea, asked for my story. He closed up shop all day to listen to me, never interrupting or discounting my claims. No, he accepted the tale with grace, told me to use the washer and dryer in the back for my clothes–

Offered me a place to stay.

Faint wrinkles creased his eyes now, and his hair no longer held the fire it did then. I still don't know why I spilled my guts to him, why I accepted his offer. What began as a simple home-stay soon evolved into much more when he asked me to take classes under him, to 'earn my keep' by training with his other students. He never accepted any of the money earned from an eventual part-time job, either. By the time I graduated high school, I was Tatsuo's top student.

I think that's ultimately why he approached me about doing stunt double work.

"Get in touch with him more often – family's hard to come by."

A snort and I retrieved the water, taking a gracious sip. "He's a sperm donor; nothing more, nothing less."

He shook his head as I drained the bottle dry, pulling his hair into a loose knot at the crown of his head. "You need to get laid."

I laughed as we strolled back to the main floor, dropping the empty container in a trash can. "You're probably right. Don't worry, I'll find some poor fool to take advantage of soon."

The automatic doors swallowed his sigh as we left the building, hair shining in the setting sun. "Odawara–"

"Hey, as long as everyone has fun it's fine, right?"

Sleeping with strangers began the year I left home. At the time, the act served as a survival method: when I really wanted a place to stay, I found a lonely guy and we spent the night together; a win-win because I found a bed to sleep in and he got off. As an adult, the reason changed but the practice didn't.

Some habits die hard.

"I just don't see why you take the risk when there are plenty of guys who'd kill for a girl like you."

"Relationships are too much work, and most men aren't like you, Tatsuo. They're whiny, clingy – every bad stereotype they throw women into." I grinned, elbowing him. "My needs aren't great enough to justify all that over one man."

He shook his head but didn't broach the subject again, conversation naturally flowing to other things on the walk home.

If you are not to become a monster,

you must care what they think.

A groan and I sprawled across the couch, allowing the book to fall on my face. The words crept through closed lids, musky pages saturating my senses. Lounge music drifted from the record player – some jazz piece I'd already forgotten – drowning out squalling traffic and random urban sounds. The hair at my nape rose and I knew Toki was watching, drawn on silent feet by an insatiable curiosity, though I wasn't in the mood to cater to his whims.

Wendell Berry's words wagged on my tongue once, bled from my lips, fingertips. What possessed me to leave a poem for a stranger, a man I'd never even spoken to? And why those

lines? Why not the stanzas after, which discussed about freedom in forgiveness?

Most likely because that was a personal matter.

And I hadn't quite gotten a grip on forgiveness myself.

A white-clothed back flitted through my brain and I sighed, rolling over. I hadn't thought of Sato Odawara in months, not since a compulsive visit was met with cold indifference and no questions about mom. A deranged wife; a daughter with a suspect occupation–

He would have nothing to do with anything that could mar his reputation.

Without permission, another figure stole into my thoughts, one which came often since leaving the note with Ebisu. Another white dress shirt, worn without pretense or pride. A spotless brown coat draped over a chair back, dark tie loosened just so at the neck. Hair red as freshly spilled blood flowed forth to cover most of a face, a pale face with sunken cheeks and ivy eyes. Those eyes never glanced up from the book yet their rapt attention made me want to know what the pages held, what could be so worthy of this strange man's attention. He never said a word to anyone.

Minamino–

He didn't look Japanese at all.

For the hundredth time, I wondered whether he got the note and, moreso, why I cared so much if he did. Almost a week had passed and no matter how many times I asked Ebisu about it, he refused to say if Minamino ever returned. Even when I teased playing hard to get didn't suit him, Ebisu never took the bait, some untraceable code of honor binding his tongue.

Though the guessing game grew old, I respected his policy.

He'd already broken it once for me, anyway.

Warm breath on my cheek and I smiled, petting Toki before rising. Stretching sore limbs, I yawned, setting a Handel record to play. Cleaning products in-hand, I glided down the hall into the spotless bathroom, grasping for any distraction, even an imaginary one.

After all, I'd found thinking to be the worst thing to do when waiting.

I let my mind wander as suds flooded the earthen tile, thoughts traveling to the open-mic tomorrow night. Ayumu's latest project called for several night shoots, the first of which began tomorrow. Participating at Black Lotus would make reaching the set on time tricky but I knew I could do it. Thankfully, we were filming in Mushiyori and not a bigger city.

Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to go at all.

As chemicals burned my nose, several works vied for attention, each wanting to be heard by ready ears. Prose was out of the question: I'd have to say my piece, jet to the set, change and be ready to film at eight. Going first was out of the question but I could probably talk someone out of their early slot.

Poem after poem pulled at my tongue, begging me to taste the words, smoothing stanzas across my lips. However, the one that felt right caught me by surprise, mustering a smile as I recited the lines again.

I hoped the audience would be in the mood for something romantic.

A/N: Two updates in one day, oh my! Thank you all for continuing on this journey with me; I hope this chapter helped you understand Azumi better. Also, thank you to all who followed, favorited and reviewed!

Big thanks to WhatWouldValeryDo for beta reading!

So, the stage is set for both Kurama and Azumi to appear at Black Lotus. How will this encounter go, and will their be closure on either end? Our protagonists finally meet next chapter! See you there!