Chapter 3 of the fanfic, up and running! I'd like to thank the people who have read the story thus far. I know, it hasn't been much.. --the story I mean. Not the readers! Thank you, thank you, thank you; all of you. And, especially thank you to those of you who have taken the time to write beautiful, inspiring reviews. You've really kept me going. Even if there was only one person who read this, I'd still keep writing it, for that one person. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. And, I sincerely apologize if this chapter is incredibly disappointing. I have no idea why it turned out so... crappy. The details are all out of whack, the personalities are falling deeper and deeper down the crapper. I'll try to make the next chapter, and the ones after that, better. If I fail... please have faith. And try to keep reading. I don't -intentionally- disappoint, so, you have my word I'll try my hardest. I did my best with this one, but.. well, sometimes things just don't work out the way we want them to. Next time. On a random note, I keep finding myself wishing so deeply that I could actually write Zabuza a happy ending... (But we all know how well that works. I.e., it -doesn't-. Hope that doesn't spoil anything?)
Don't hurt meeee! It's like, 1:21 AM, and I have school tomorrow. I wanted to finish this chapter up, so I can get started with the next one. And so you guys can have something to read. Be prepared; eventually we're going to get to a chapter of filler. But, promise, it won't take after the Naruto anime. I'm not -that- bad!
.. One final author's note. If you haven't discovered this yet, don't worry, I don't think it's painfully obvious at this moment, but... I do have an obsession with putting song titles as the titles for these things. Hey; got to give credit to the inspiration, right? And, who knows, maybe by the end of this you'll get a better idea of the -horrible- music I love. Kidding, kidding.
Chapter 3: Shelter
"She's a child."
"Is she? Men seem to be attracted to the younger ones, nowadays. Don't you agree?"
"She is a child, Gatou."
"Ah.. but Zabuza-san, you had no problem with it last night. If it's such a problem now, then don't buy her. Not that I'd ever expect you to waste your money on her again, anyway."
"..Yeah... You're right."
"Come, let me buy you a drink! How about it?" ...
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The first thing that Haku was vaguely aware of when she awoke, was the absence of another presence in the room. The chair her buyer had seated himself in was still in position beside the bed, but the feel of those eyes fixated intently on her was no longer there, to both her relief and dismay. He had vanished. How long ago did he leave, and where was he going? Had he spoken to Gatou on the way out? Was he feeling somewhat better, or had the night made things worse than it had appeared at the time..?
One eye cracked open, followed hesitantly by the other. Groggily she rolled over, and her gaze fell once registered on that now-empty chair. The red curtains had been drawn and tied, allowing from those large glass doors the morning light to spill in; bathing the bed and floor in its warming rays. A blue sky stretched endlessly out into the visible distance. Not a cloud in the sky, creating the atmosphere of an almost perfect day, straight down to the faint songs from birds as they perched out of sight or fluttered past the balcony. She couldn't help smiling.
But the chair did leave a small bruise on her heart. He'd vanished, just like he'd arrived, that masked man with the dark eyes.
A good portion of the night had been spent conversing; he would ask questions, and she did her best to explain, occasionally offering something for him to respond to if he felt like it. Never anything too personal, treading carefully to avoid ruffling any feathers. The question that stuck out most was his inquiry about her name. Was Haku really such an unusual name? It didn't seem so... His eyes had narrowed when he'd asked if it was her real name. Of course; the name she was given at birth. Her age? Fifteen.
Then he'd asked something that made her smile, and laugh--though just a little: how old did she think he was? It hadn't occurred to her. Really, she hadn't considered that he might have an age, as childish as it sounded. The conversation continued from there, spreading from ages to somehow the decorations down in the lobby; her puzzling over where some of them could have come from, while he nodded now and then or struck up two or three words.And when she yawned, he'd ordered her to sleep. Which, she had done with no difficulty.
Now Haku dearly wished that she had not. If she'd remained awake, then she could have at least said goodbye to him. Maybe, with some luck, he would have still been there, and their light talking could have continued just a little while longer...
--A knock on the door made her scramble off the bed and onto her feet. The door opened while she was slipping on her zori, tapping one foot at a time on the floor to gain a bit more comfort. It wasn't Gatou; thankfully. Instead, the same woman who had been helping her yesterday stepped into the room. The beautiful woman, with small yet gentle eyes, whose lips never needed to be painted. Haku stopped all movement. She was like a goddess. Flowing raven locks poured over each shoulder and down her back, reaching beyond a well-curved waist to curl just slightly at the very ends. On top of a scarlet kimono and gold-embroidered obi rested a darker red robe, gold trim running along its full length, reaching down to trail the floor. She wore little makeup herself; a note of foundation and hints of eyeshadow, but that was all that Haku could detect. The rest was natural. A hand lifted, fingertips resting on her lower lip; but she seemed preoccupied with something else as the room was taken into survey.
"Gatou-san sent me to get you. Please, follow me..." The words were spoken slowly, politely. However, she turned back to the door, a sea of red and black, and in a moment had disappeared, sending Haku in a mad fit to catch up to her. She was supposed to see him, like this? No time to freshen up, or at least get her kimono back on? A despairing glance was shot back over her shoulder at the mass of blue, remaining still where it had been placed hours before. Couldn't she at least brush her teeth and straighten out her hair? It had all but fallen from its hold, and the strands had gotten themselves into tangles. But, she didn't dare state any of this. It was not her place to argue, for all Gatou was doing for her by allowing her to work and live under him. Closing the door behind her, she hurried along the wide hall until she fell in direct line behind the older woman, careful not to step on the train of her robe. It was strangely quiet so far, even for morning; on arrival yesterday around the same time, the entire establishment had seemed thriving. Female voices had flitted from all directions, and there were girls of all ages wandering from room to room or loitering the halls. Now, everything was sleeping, or so she guessed. It couldn't be dead, which was unfortunately the next step up the chain.
The halls of the brothel were all dimly-lit, having no windows. Their lightsource stemmed from small Oriental paper lanterns spaced evenly along the ceiling. Running along the wooden floors were red carpets matching the one downstairs, differing only by lack of design on their surfaces. They always seemed to remain smoothed out, no matter how many feet walked over them; it was amazing. On both sides of this hall were doors, to more bedrooms naturally. Each girl was given a real bedroom to sleep in, a permanent one, but those were at the complete other end of the brothel. These ones were strictly for business. Men were not allowed in their given bedrooms, under any circumstances, Gatou had made sure to remind over and over. Personally, Haku didn't see the difference between taking care of business in either area; a bedroom was a bedroom. But if he said it, then it was law.
The end of the hall came into view, and in turn so did the top of the stairs. Haku stopped on the first step to watch the other woman. She moved with grace, faltering not once on her descent despite the burden her clothing should have placed on movement. She almost looked as though she were floating; never stepping on her robes, not even after the last step was cleared, and she was peering patiently back up at her younger coworker. When she saw that Haku was still following, her walking resumed, and the two made their way across the lobby to the lone viewing room in the back. Moving aside to clear the way, she lifted the fabric for Haku, releasing it only when she too had entered the room.
As expected, Gatou was settled quite comfortably on the couch facing the door, one short leg crossed over the other. Clad in another dark suit--almost black--, with those small tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. On each side were fellow workers, two on the left and one to the right; one of his hands had busied itself with groping one of the bustier woman's breasts while the other two cooed over their employer.
And, Haku found herself feeling sick. Something about the sight simply did not do well for her stomach, as little as she wanted to disrespect her boss. But she forced a nervous smile, in hopes of giving the impression that it didn't phase her, and that her mind was solely centered on both her daily tasks and the possible reasons for this summoning. Gatou showed his appreciation for her feigned devotion by offering a smile of his own, as twisted as it were; the man didn't seem to be able to honestly smile to save his life. It came across as more of a perverted leer than anything else. Meanwhile his female companions shot glares in her direction, as if to say, 'this is our territory; don't even think about trying anything.' That was fine; they could have him. -She- certainly didn't want him.
Alas, this only led her to wonder what exactly about him made them so... posessive. Was he really that wonderful a man, that they couldn't stand to share his time with anyone else? He didn't seem like a gentleman, not with the way he cursed and shouted, or the way he seemed to lack modesty. And he certainly didn't seem very friendly on a personal basis, either; what he'd shown her the morning he had found her was more a curious sort of glee. He'd been considerate, yes, and hadn't rushed her on deciding whether or not to go with him. Actually, he was the one who'd suggest she think it over first. But what was there to think about, when you'd been living on the streets with no one to notice your existence, and suddenly out of the blue someone offers not only a hand to take, but a real home to come back to? For such a long time she had been completely and utterly alone. Just when she'd lost all hope...
.. The more she saw him, as the day had progressed, the more she realized, and even now still confirmed, that he was no saviour. He did not give her a fresh start out of love or compassion. He probably just lost one of his usual girls, or felt like a new addition would be nice. She could not fault him, nor would she ever feel anger or resentment towards him, since no matter what the motive on his end, she was home now. This was where she belonged. That was why she smiled, a true smile, and tipped her head in a respectful bow. "Gatou-san."
Both feet planted on the floor, and he leaned forward, peering across the room at the room's newest inhabitants from above the rims of his glasses. That grin never left his face. "Ah, Haku, Haku. Good. Thank you, Umeko." Rustling behind Haku caused her to spare a tiny glance backwards, in time to catch the bow of the woman who had escorted her.
So Umeko was her name..? How lovely. This bit of information was stored, and her attention returned automatically to Gatou, whose hand had begun behaving again as it should have from the beginning. Of course, this was apparently to the disappointment of the other women, who settled back with mild annoyance and pouts gracing thickly-painted lips. Resting against the table in the center of the cluster of couches, directly in front of the group, was the older man's cane; leaning further forward the head was grasped firmly so that the item could be dragged over while he uncrossed his legs and rose. Yet he did not lean against it, as it should have been used. No; he stood sturdy on his own. And he walked fine, too, not a trace of limp in either limb. Around the table, maneuvering between the arms of two couches, until he felt close enough to Haku to continue their one-sided conversation.
"So tell me, did you have fun on your first night..?" All eyes were on Haku. Waiting, listening; almost expecting. For some reason, her hands had begun shaking sometime during the meeting. Something did not feel right. From Gatou's eager grin, to the glares of his assumed mistresses over yonder, even to the patient gaze of Umeko behind her; beneath them all she cowered, in fear and in confusion. There had been something very important that she had missed out on, and at least four of the five people standing by knew. Not only knew, but seemed to think that she knew, too. What was she supposed to say? Yes? No? Was she supposed to talk about what had happened? Had that man spoken to Gatou; yes, of course he had, but.. what did he say? Was Gatou angry? On the contrary; as if sensing the fear in her wide, innocent eyes, Gatou's head reared back in a burst of laughter. "Zabuza had a nice talk with me earlier, before he left. Do you know what he said?" But of course, he hadn't really wanted an answer from her. That was why before she could even begin to speculate, he again spat out, "He said that you are a good girl. A good girl, Haku!"
... She was... a good girl? A good girl? She lowered her head to hide both her rapidly increasing confusion, and the hints of a blush that were invading her cheeks. She..was... a .. good girl..? Honestly, if not for the fact that the man himself who'd apparently said this did not sound to her like someone who teased, the comment would have come across as more of a crude insult. From Gatou's mouth, yes; it was mockery of the highest degree. But from that strange man she'd met last night? ... No. He'd meant it. Though it didn't particularly make sense either way. Unfortunately, Gatou seemed too entertained by his own thoughts on the subject to be bothered giving an explanation, whether she were to ask or not. The conversation between Gatou and last night's customer was lost.
This conversation seemed to have died, too; but at least he'd settled into a quieter gigglefit--disturbing and funny as it were. She couldn't stomach any more of this nonsense. With a bow, she turned from the room, releasing a hidden sigh of relief when he did not call her back. Back out into the lobby, but when she neared the staircase, an extra pair of footsteps echoed in unison with her own: Haku stopped to look back, and sure enough Umeko was following. Following. A new glint had entered once soft eyes; nothing she'd ever witnessed before, sending a shiver creeping its way up her spine.
"We will talk in private this afternoon, Haku."
Numbly, the small girl nodded.
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"--Or white flowers?"
That caught the Momochi's attention. From where he was seated at the desk, that head lifted from its propped position, his arm that had been holding it up sinking lower and lower towards the hard surface. For once during the decoration planning for the funeral, not only was he paying attention, but his head servant recieved possibly the most unguarded stare given in their new master's history. And he said his first word in hours: "What?"
Seijirou wasn't the least bit bothered by this. He simply pushed his glasses further up on his nose, cleared his throat, and tried again. "For the floral arrangements. Would you prefer a mixture of colors, yellow, red, or white flowers?"
The bandages usually wrapping his face were absent, since he was in the 'comfort' of his own home; so the deep frown was perfectly visible. It was the old man's funeral, not his. Why ask -him- what -he- wanted? Based on what he'd known about his father, the man hadn't cared for flowers of any sort, especially after Zabuza's mother passed on. Then again, by that fact alone catering to the dead man's likes would mean no decorations at all, something that would come off as disrespectful to the rest of the distant relatives that would also be attending. Go figure he couldn't win. He'd just pick the best of the choices, for their sake.
A nice combination of colors might lift the spirits if things became too dreary or depressing. And who knew; maybe it would make his father smile down on them just once more in his miserable life before his body was finally laid to rest. The man hadn't been particularly cold, nor cruel... but as a military man, strict rules were constantly in place, and if disobeyed the consequences were always painful. That was what Zabuza remembered--and loathed--most; punishment. By all means, he was in no way abused as a child. And he scarcely disobeyed, feeling no desire to rebel. But, damnit when he did screw up, as all children have the tendency to do in their lives...
His mother, on the other hand, was the gentlest, sweetest, most beautiful woman, with the voice of an angel. It was only for her that his father smiled, for her and for the son that they raised together.
Too bad Zabuza had never smiled back, and now never would.
Aside from memories of the past that still lurked in the walls surrounding him now, there was something else too that troubled Zabuza's mind. Well... not troubled; just distracted. Horribly. White flowers. It was this very thing, that caused him to murmur a simple name, one that by all logic should have been forgotten the moment he'd walked out of that whorehouse.
Perceptive as always, Seijirou's ears must have picked it up, because thick brown eyebrows rose up above the rims of his glasses. "White? Good choice, sir."
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Whoever had said that once you leave, you can never come back was dead-wrong. At least to Zabuza this was the case. Every time he stepped foot on the grounds of his former home, he resented it. He resented every part of it, down to the tiniest details; and now, he resented it even more.
He resented the fact that whereas in the past nothing seemed to change, everything was different now, suddenly, with his father gone. With nothing better to do with the remaining daylight hours, he'd opted to survey his inheritance in his own way.
Once the decorations for the funeral had been decided upon and Seijirou had left to speak with the other servants about the arrival of the former master's family, Zabuza was abandoned at the hands of his memory's mercy. Every room in -his- estate held something different, something locked tightly away to be reawakened with the turn of an imaginary key; these doors that he longed to keep forever closed could no longer be contained. Could it be, that the Momochi himself was depressed?
Hardly. That was one thing that would -never- happen. The old bastard was gone, good riddance. He didn't care. It was the walls confining him now that dragged out this rather irritatedly empty mood tugging the strings of his heart. Once you leave, you can never come back; what a lie. Once you leave, something always drags you back, kicking and screaming, no matter how far away you run from it. That was what he had discovered, again and again, with the persistant letters that followed from camp to camp, city to city, even battlefields over the years. Letters that he always ended up burning with pleasure.
Empty words, each of those letters had contained, he'd always convinced his stone heart. They were empty words. 'Please come home.' 'I don't hate you, I never have.' 'No matter what kind of man you have become, you are still my only son.' Didn't the man take the time to realize that Zabuza had never been this son he spoke of? From a young age, it had always been obvious to not only himself, but those around him--including his parents--that he was not like the others. He was not like the other children, who preferred to run outside with their friends and play games until the sun began to set. He was not like the other children, whose innocent minds led them to believe that the fighting was not real, except in the form of Cowboys and Indians, and that they would grow up with the comfort of parents, siblings, and the knowledge that they were and always would be loved. Zabuza was not like them. While the other children laughed and carried on in their sheltered lives, the smell of blood had already reached his nose; exciting, intoxicating, polluting away any trace of so-called 'innocence' he had posessed. From the background he observed the real world; one day the games would end, their friends would disappear. Eventually the sun would set, never to rise again. The fighting was very real, and it was very much upon them, leaving casualties that in the end would most likely include their parents, siblings, and perhaps even they.
Why did the other children never realize, that Cowboys and Indians was the same game that the adults played, consisting of two sides fighting blindly for false ideals and the morbid glory of a murderer's victory? These children, who would grow into the adults that they so easily pretended did not exist, by playing their games were already tasting the fruits of war.
But Zabuza was different from them. He embraced the concept of death; though not his own. Rather, the death of others. He embraced at a young age the concept of killing, and traded his child's gloves for the blood-soaked hands of a soldier.
No.. not a soldier. A demon. He was a demon first. Only under the careful cultivation of a militaristic tyrant like his father did the soldier named Momochi Zabuza come into existence; however, that being was not long for this world, for unlike his father, dedicating his life to becoming a dog, easily replaced when deemed useless, whose only purpose was to fight for someone else's gain was not what he wanted. In an age where civil wars were constantly ripping apart their country, why should he die a senseless death for a cause he didn't give two shits about? ...
Flicking open his lighter, the newborne flame was raised, resting against the end of the cigarette pressed firmly between Zabuza's lips only long enough for it to catch. Then the flame was extinguished, lighter returned to the depths of his right pocket. He inhaled deeply, dragging in as much of the smoke as he could from the small cancerous stick, before slowly it was exhaled again, leaving a trail as he moved from one room to the next.
This had been his pattern for the past hour or so. Travelling from room to room, mentally engraving each one's image, and reminiscing about things he could no longer touch. Reminiscing on things that had not been overlooked, but instead ignored completely for so many years.
Each room he entered in his zombified wandering filled with the smoke from his cigarette, and soon each one held a dream-like quality through the gently suffocating haze. In the smoke, his memories took life; vivid, complete, preserved.
He was following a young boy through the house, a young boy whose strange world, long-since gone, sprang to life like a movie. Now, he followed him up the staircase, and down the hall of the upper story. This time nto a scarcely-furnished bedroom. Naturally, off to the far left of the large room resided an oversized bed, big enough for two to sleep in. There was a desk, with a dusty old lamp perched at one corner, and a single wooden chair that looked like it had not been pulled out in over a decade. On the opposite end of the wall, a window was built in. There was another door in this room, the only other one, and it was open, but in the shadow-filled room the outline of the clothes rack could be noted, along with the occasional hanger dangling from it.
On the dresser nestled in the corner were books, covered completey with dust. But they were large enough to be old school books. The boy grabbed up one of these books, and instantly the entire room transformed; the dust, neglect, none of it existed anymore, instead the room was restored to its old beauty. Even the ancient lamp was now turned on. Resting his school books on the desk in front of him, the boy withdrew the chair, and climbed his way onto the seat; absorbed in only the work he'd been assigned. Meanwhile, Zabuza had made himself comfortable sprawled out on his back on the bed, watching passively as he puffed idly on that cigarette of his.
Only when the boy walked out did the Momochi get to his feet and do the same, and the movie ended, the scene returning to its real form; down the hall, to another room, but this one was closed. Zabuza held no issue with simply opening the door, and so he did, stepping inside ahead of his illusionary companion.
Shelves of books lined every wall of this room, ending only long enough to allow three full-length windows to shine in their light. Like all the rooms in the estate, its size was a bit much, however this one's advantage was that the finely-carved desk in the back right took up a good deal of the floor area. An oversized plush chair had been left slightly ajar from the desk's alcove on the opposite side. Littering the top were pens and paper, abandoned by their owner, since he was after all deceased. This was his father's study.
No mind was paid to the bookshelves. Both sets of footsteps were silenced on the red carpet below--despite knowing one pair would not have made sound regardless. Over to the desk, but it was Zabuza who interacted with the environment this time. Fingertips brushed faintly against that soft, velvety champaign-colored backing, then he grabbed it, pulling it out enough to allow his exhausted body to collapse in it.
His body assumed the position that he'd oftentimes seen his father sitting in; leaning almost lazily back in that chair, with one arm dangling over the side while the opposite's hand curled thoughtfully beneath his chin. There was a distinct difference, though; usually it was a much thicker smell lingering in the air. His father had always been fond of cigars. Why, was completely beyond the demon of a man. They not only tasted disgusting, but they looked none-too good, either. Cigarettes at least killed with grace. So it was cigarette smoke this time filling the room in its entirety, not that of a cigar.
But, there was still that old ashtray among the piles of scrap. The same ashtray that had been used to put out cigars, was now used to crush out his cigarette finally; absently he grinded the burning end further and further against the bottom until the tiny sea of red glows had smothered out.
In this room, in the old man's chair, Zabuza's eyes slowly began to drift close, and soonly after he had drifted off into an uneasy slumber, coiling up in the chair like a child would.
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Gatou wasn't the only one with his hands full in the brothel. No; on the contrary. What really kept the girls in line was not the man they were working for, but someone much more... in-tune with their thoughts and feelings. It was someone who they could run to for a shoulder to cry on, for a listening ear, or just to converse and laugh with on a regular basis. It was someone who was not above them, nor acted as if they were.
Actually, the person with the second-most authority over the other women was one of them. What better person, really?
Most of the girls considered her the 'mother' of the group. She always seemed to have answers for everything; and with an endless supply of patience and understanding, it was no surprise that everyone loved her so dearly. She was an older woman, thirty-one, and of all the girls she had been working for Gatou the longest--oftentimes she would tell stories of the past, and of the women who had come before them, much to the delight of the others--, but her beauty was and always would be unparalleled, matched only by her inner strengths and heart.
However, Umeko was anything but vain. It was the others who considered her all these things, not she herself; another loveable trait on her side happened to be modesty. She also held an impeccable track record with those who had bought her in the past. They always came back, at one point or another, but one surprising thing about this particular woman was that it was very rare that the men who paid wanted her for her services in bed. They much preferred simply spending time with her, be it talking, going out for the evening, or watching her perform, for unlike the others her skills were very similar to that of a geisha. An artist, whose talents brought pleasure to those watching in the form of dance and song.
Gatou tended to favour her as well. Even when she corrected his errors, he avoided getting angry with her, finding something--or someone--else to vent his anger on. The two held a strange bond, the man with a temper as short as his height and the kind, motherly woman who he'd taken from her husband fourteen or so years prior just months after marriage due to skyrocketing debt and no money to pay it off. Her husband took little time in finding a new woman to share his life with, but even so Umeko regretted nothing; she'd been young, but nevertheless in love, so doing all that she could to give him back his life was only the right thing to do, something she still insisted on. And it wasn't as though her life were particularly difficult. As were the other girls, she was well-cared for.
Still, like any soft-hearted woman, she held some secrets locked tightly away in her chest. Secrets that no one knew existed, save for her employer, but they were only the barest assumptions as to what was going on. So it was quite a surprise when Gatou had told her that morning about a particular frequenter of the brothel and his return. Come to prey upon fresh meat, apparently, and with a laugh the owner had explained just how 'fresh' the meat he'd been thrown really was. Naturally he'd not noticed the paling of her features.
As agreed, now that the evening was drawing later in hours, Umeko was actually on her way across the wing to the private quarters of their family's newest addition. Her conversations with Gatou had been short, to the point; a rarety but blessing nonetheless given the circumstances. And there had been no men coming and going as payment permitted all day. Whether or not business would pick up later, she didn't concern herself with; if it did, it did, and if not then... there was nothing more to it. That meant that she, as well as the other girls, would finally get a dose of well-deserved rest. Not to say that their job was particularly difficult.
Sometimes... stepping back to take a breather is all that the spirit requires to pick itself up. Umeko knew this all-too well. She was willing to greet a vacation--even a single night--with open arms, and savor every individual second that passed by like it was the final moment she would live.
For now, the glamorous silk robes had been shed to reveal a simple white yukata, and her hair was brushed and pulled back with a thin strand of ribbon. Tonight, she needed no makeup; there was no one to impress. She was free to show her true appearance in its entirety. And what better person to show it to, than their new little girl? It seemed the right thing to do for getting to know someone.
She had already made the journey from her own room at the far end of the left wing down to the first floor lobby. What prevented her from returning upstairs to pay a visit to Haku, was actually something small, something unimportant. It was a new tapestry that had caught her interest. It didn't look any more expensive than the others, and it certainly didn't have any specific unique qualities that might set it apart. Set on black, the primary color used to weave the figure of what appeared to be an angel of sorts was gold, with lines of red or blue accenting areas of the clothing and wings. She peered over her shoulder, this angel, despite her back being turned against the harsh gaze of spectators, eyes sullen while small lips tilted downward. What looked like golden curls--only partially because of the thread--framed dainty features, and others fell to mesh with the full wings protuding from what would be bare flesh.
If there were new decorations about the brothel, then that probably meant Waraji and Zori had returned from their scouting duties. If this were the case, the only things they had returned with were the decorations, and no new employees for Gatou to pop a blood vessel over--since it was a well-known fact the two bodyguards held poor taste in women.
Waraji, having lost his left eye in a bar scuffle several years prior, naturally kept an eyepatch over the permanently damaged area. He was a big man, far taller than his partner, however... he could not be considered the brightest of men. Probably the very thing that had cost him half his vision in the first place. His fashion sense was a little off, this trait being one that did not help him any in the attractiveness department where he already lacked to begin with. And who could forget his sadistic tendencies, peeking out most often with talks of wanting to cut into skin? Both he and his partner shared a strange love for tattoos, though. Their bodies were covered by small, slender ink designs.
Zori was the smaller of the two. In a way, he was his slightly older partner's opposite. Shorter, smarter, far more attractive. His hair, unlike Waraji's brown, held more a silvery tint, hanging limply to each shoulder--a black beanie covering the top portion. He lacked the sadistic tendencies, and was generally a much friendlier, easygoing, if not perverted, younger male. What sort of women did he prefer? .. Wasn't that the question of the century. The stereotype he normally brought in were, well... to put it gently, tramps. Still... sometimes it grew difficult to believe that the two were not lovers, with the way they not only balanced each-other out, but moreso the way they tended to argue like an old married couple. They would argue everything from what color would look better for the carpet in the halls upstairs, to the best way to catch a runaway cat--without hurting it, Zori had to add in quickly before Waraji opened his big mouth about cutting it in two. It was no wonder Gatou constantly found himself annoyed by their presence, and thusly sent them out as often as possible.
Perhaps they had both been soldiers at one point in their lives, but had either left the service of their own free will or were forced to leave. Constantly at their sides were a set of katanas, which surprisingly they both knew how to use flawlessly.
It was probably Zori who had found this tapestry, as he had done the others. He held a good eye for detail. Waraji seemed more interested in more hands-on ornaments, like vases, or lanterns, or the large fans pinned ever-so carefully up above the front desk and door inside. Once, he had even helped create one, a gold-trimmed blue fan placed proudly in the center of two smaller ones.
The faint sound of Gatou's voice could barely be picked out from somewhere on the lower level. Whether or not he sounded angry, she couldn't tell, piquing her curiousity; was he speaking with the two aforementioned men?
With her attention focusing to one of the further rooms down the left hall, she failed to notice the creaking of the door until it was thrust rudely open. From outside rushed a cold gust of wind, and automatically she spun around towards it with a smile to offer a greeting to whomever felt the desire to disrupt the quiet state of the lobby.
"Wel--" But the looming beast in the doorway stole the breath right from her lungs. Umeko paled. Her hands began to shake, violently, and soon the rest of her body joined in, until it felt her knees would give out completely, and her full weight swayed to lean back against the desk for support.
He needed no, nor wanted a, greeting. The slightest movement of irises in her direction warned her of this. In a rare treat, just as her visage remained entirely unmasked, so did his. No bandages wrapped tightly around his face and neck, no hitai-ate draped haphazardly across his forehead. Each arm remained bare, exposing individual muscles as they flexed during his steps forward and the closing of the door behind him.
If she had not been so surprised, or if she had been younger, she might have blushed. As he moved closer to her area, a jingling sound caught her attention; her gaze dropped to one closed hand. Sure enough, held between two fingers rested a small pouch filled to the brim, which he paused long enough to toss to her, a gesture that only proved to louden the coins' jostling. Instead of taking the payment without question, the tiny black drawstring pouch was abandoned on the desk's surface. "Zabuza!"
He paused midway up the stairs. It was not a glare that he cast back at her; slightest amusement, but his expression seemed nothing short of exhausted. The corners of his eyes were bloodshot, beneath them darker than normal--even for his complexion's tone. Even his posture was not as straight as she remembered it being. What was she supposed to do? Let him go? Just like that? What did he want; who was his girl for the night, his little whore? She hurried up after him, trailing his heels like a puppy would its master. But it was not loyalty that drew her to the Momochi. It was curiousity. She wanted to know who it was that had the (dis)pleasure of this man's company, who it was that got the luxury of feeling that magnificent body so close to theirs, to hear that venomous voice whispering beautiful insults into their ear like the sweetest of compliments.
Strangely, he did not pay any attention to her as he went on with his business. Turning to the left, into the wing with the girls' bedrooms, knowing damn well he was not permitted to be there yet, not caring in the least the protests that burned behind Umeko's lips. Meanwhile, little by little the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place; now a question he'd posed to Gatou earlier that morning made perfect sense. A churning sensation began to form in the pit of her stomach. It had seemed so trivial earlier...
... But now, she understood. She understood why, laughing, Gatou had willingly released the information of their littlest girl's living space, her room's location. Now she understood why, with that gleam in his eye, he'd grinned up at this demon, and bidding him adieu, had been sure to stress the idea of a hasty return.
If she'd held any less restraint, she'd liked to have vomited right then and there.
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If he had known Gatou was busy, and had left one of the women in charge of sign-in, he would have waited until later to come. Or so he would have thought, if he'd been more conscious. Everything felt hazy, not dreamlike, but phantasmagoric. When had he left the mansion? Furthermore, when had his feet started moving, and why did they bring him here of all places? There was no room for argument, even if he'd felt the desire to give it a try. The mist had settled over an already unsettled mind. For now, the best thing to do was simply rest.
And rest was something he could not do in that damnable home, which he so deeply loathed. Where -else- was he to go? No family, no friends. There was no retreat for a man whose only companion was the weapon in his hand. This was as close as he could ever come, this whorehouse.
Gatou's favorite held quite an interest in him, to be following him the way she was. A pretty thing, this woman, a woman he had seen countless many times--and had already been with, making her just another number on the list. Though, he did recall her as being one of the 'better' few. Good conversation, an understanding and comforting shoulder, a gentle hand to soothe the wrinkles of life over for the night. She had one bombshell of a body, to boot. But she was Gatou's, regardless whether or not it was in a sexual manner or not. Funny, thinking of a man like that picking favorites...
He was tired. Incredibly tired. And which room had Gatou told him it was, again...? Zabuza's thin brows arched upwards. She was in one of the last handfull of rooms, down the left corridor. Well, this was the left corridor. The doors were not numbered, but instead had little tags on them, he realized after stopping to stare at a particular one with a thin, flower-covered strip of paper titled 'Asuka'. 'Asuka' was certainly not who he was looking for, whoever the Hell she was. It must have been down further.
The second set of footsteps quickly fell back in line with his own, enabling him to almost completely forget about their presence. 'Tomoyo'. 'Ikari'. 'Matsuhara'. Each door held a different name, but none of them the name that he sought out.
Around the corner stretched another hallway, and with the new hallway came new doors. It was about halfway down this particular hall that he did in fact find the door-in-question. A purely white nametag, with, written in careful kanji, 'Haku'. He reached for the knob and, without a second thought on the matter, opened the door to move inside, leaving it ajar in case his follower felt the need to continue the pursuit inside here. Which, he noted almost instantly, she did not; instead choosing to lurk in the doorway.
That was the entirely last moment he paid attention to her existence for the night, as was the case with the rest of the world. Gatou, his father, the military... all of them faded away into the shadows of his mind. He was tired, too tired to dwell any longer in the world outside. For now, this room was his new world, to do with what he pleased.
Just as Haku was his to do with what he pleased. His sudden entry into her private quarters caused fear in the small girl, evident in the way her body recoiled on her bed. Beads of water dripped from her hair, to disappear in the blankets or slide smoothly down still-damp skin. Her hairbrush had dropped not far from her. The only thing covering her was a towel, which she clutched tightly to herself.
He held no words for her, no explanation. He had none for himself, either. All he knew, was that his body felt the need to give out, if not once and for all then for a night. One night. One night of absolute peace. She must have realized this at some point, because slowly she uncurled herself.
In mere moments he too was on the bed. Sprawled out comfortably on his back, head resting in the lap of the innocent flower, he was asleep, as though he had never been awake to begin with. Haku had settled into her intuitive role, a steadying hand gently stroking a few of the mussy strands of hair that had fallen over his free forehead.
----End Chapter 3----