A/N: High school is finally over = good news on the writing front! Sorry for missing that promised two-week update, but hey - this chapter is longer! ^_^ Part of what made it late is that I did some more research. This time it was for the Japanese judicial system. (I bet you're wondering what that will mean for the story, huh?) Mind you, I try to make it accurate, but I live in America, so sometimes it'll probably sound more like the U.S. system. If anyone notices that something is wrong, please let me know! And if you don't, well, review anyway, onegai shimasu!
Thank you, all my wonderful readers!
Chapter 3
Ryoma sniffed and roughly scraped away his tears, wiping the wetness onto his shorts. He wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, staring red-eyed at his bedroom carpet. It was all his fault! If he hadn't brushed off Fuji's offer when they were running to safety, if he'd just swallowed his pride... He clenched his teeth. It wasn't as if he hadn't had any hints, either. With a shiver, he recalled the first time he met Sakurafubuki – the way his dark eyes had raked Ryoma's nearly naked body.
He leaped to his feet, scraping at his exposed skin, feeling as if there were a thousand centipedes crawling all over him. He desperately clawed open his dresser drawer, flinging clothes behind him before finally yanking out dark pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt. In a rush he changed into them. He breathed a shaky sigh, slightly calmer as he dug for socks. He tugged them on, careful around the bandage.
Wearied, Ryoma then collapsed onto his rumpled bed. His body ached more than he would have thought possible. But then, he supposed a tumble down the stairs and a few fists to the face would do that to a person. Ryoma chuckled wryly to himself, cutting short when his bruised ribs protested.
Still somehow cold despite the heat of too many layers on a summer's day, Ryoma curled into a ball. He felt just a little bit safer that way... even if it was just an illusion. Good thing no one was there to see it – to see his breakdown, his vulnerability. Nobody else should worry about him any more than they already were. Part of the reason he went downstairs was to prove that he wasn't that tired, even though he felt like he could sleep straight into next week. It was to prove that he really was okay.
Talk about a failure.
Ryoma snorted. At least now he didn't have to deal with anyone's exhausting, pestering presence. He was alone, wonderfully alone.
However, when in his mind's eye he saw again Sakurafubuki's too-white smile widen right before the chef's fist slammed into Ryoma's cheek, the twelve-year-old wished his dad was sitting there beside him.
Earlier on that same Wednesday morning, Ryuzaki Sumire strode onto the tennis courts of Seishun Gakuen and hollered, "Round up, everyone!"
Once they had all scrambled to line up in front of her, she surveyed them and directed, not unkindly, "Okay, juniors and seniors, pair up. You're playing doubles matches. Freshmen, you're picking up balls." The latter didn't dare to grumble, but their faces fell. She held up a hand. "Oh, I know you freshmen were looking forward to watching the regulars play against each other, but I need to speak with them for a moment. That said – regulars, please follow me." The eight frowned, even as in their downcast faces, confused eyes flickered to one another.
She marched stiffly to the locker room, trusting that they would follow. As she held open the door, their coach waved them through. Glancing askance at one another, they reluctantly filed inside.
When she closed the well-oiled door behind her with a soft click, her mask of forced normality fell away: her shoulders slumped and she seemed to age before their eyes. Their eyebrows lifted when she eased wearily onto one of the nearby benches. At last raising her careworn gaze to theirs, she encouraged, "Come, sit. Don't leave your coach as the odd one out." The boys' mouths twitched polite, weak smiles, and they complied.
Then she took a deep breath, held it for an unsteady heartbeat, and simply charged in. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you on that cruise – more sorry than I could ever express." Her eyes glistened with sincerity. "Maybe if I'd just been there… ." Voice shaking slightly, she admitted helplessly, "But I still don't quite know what happened. When Echizen's father called, demanding an explanation... I couldn't give him one." She waited, asking without actually daring to ask.
Inui adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger. At Tezuka's twitching face Fuji glanced, then quickly away. Momo and Kaidoh clenched their fists in unison, but didn't snap at each other. Staring at his shoes, Kawamura shifted in his seat. Oishi seemed petrified and on the edge of bursting into tears. Kikumaru slung an arm around his best friend's shoulders, an uncharacteristic sadness in his expression.
"Ryuzaki-sensei," Oishi began shakily. "He – Sakurafubuki Hikomaru... he… " His voice failed him.
Momo broke in, "He beat up Echizen!"
Then all their voices tumbled one over the other:
"He tied us up – "
" – threats – stabbed this chicken – "
"– guns –"
"– took Echizen –"
"– crying – found him –"
The coach's surprised eyes flicked from one speaker to the next in a frantic dance. Nervous laughter escaped her lips. "One at a time, one at a time!"
In the abrupt silence, Tezuka articulated carefully, "Of course, sensei." He met his team's eyes as he continued – half statement, half question, "Allow me to begin." No one protested.
Their Captain stonily recited the bare facts of their ordeal with only a slight tremble in his voice until he finally said, "Then Oishi called, saying that they'd found him." Here he faltered, glancing at said Vice-Captain.
Oishi started, staring wide-eyed at Tezuka. His wide gaze flicked to Kawamura's and Kaidoh's similar expressions of a deer in a headlight's beam. Oishi's throat closed up and his eyes watered. He hastily returned his gaze to the floor.
Tezuka licked his lips, hesitated, and then continued reluctantly; none of the three rescuers interrupted him. None dared to break Ryoma's trust and utter the unthinkable, though it tore up their insides. The memory of their kouhai's profound relief was too strong.
By the time Tezuka's last sentence had trailed off, their sensei was wiping tears away with a quaking hand. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice thick. "I'm so sorry you were forced to go through that." She raised her watery gaze to theirs, somehow finding the strength of will to gather up the threads of her frayed composure. "If I'd had any idea, any at all, I would never have let you go, never let you out of my sight!" Taking a deep breath, she entreated, "Please believe me when I say that if any of you need anything, anything, I'm here for you."
Fuji rose to his feet and approached his coach, resting an awkward hand on her shoulder. He gently echoed Tezuka. "Of course, sensei. Of course."
She laid an appreciative hand atop his, giving a watery smile. "Thank you."
They rested a long moment in the supportive silence before Ryuzaki released his hand, and he settled back into his seat. Their coach finally offered, "No one else has to know about this if you don't want them to." They all nodded.
"Okay, then," she announced, standing with a creak of aged joints. "We've disappointed the freshmen long enough, don't you think?"
Tuesday:
Sakurafubuki Hikomaru slouched back into the uncomfortable metal chair and smirked at the frustrated policewoman across the table. The two of them were enclosed in a dingy little room lit by a soiled fluorescent ceiling panel that flickered exactly once every four and a half minutes. There were no windows, not even in the scratched wooden door.
The policewoman folded masculine hands atop a manila file folder before her, clenching her fingers tight enough to mark her Hispanic skin. "So," she remarked, "you're alleging that you weren't involved in the fraud or the gambling? I find that incredibly difficult to believe."
He shrugged nonchalantly, noticing with humiliation the pull of bruises under his orange jumpsuit. "Regardless, I am ashamed to have to admit to you that my staff committed such acts under my very nose."
She lifted an eyebrow and murmured sarcastically, "Mm-hmm." Flinging open the file folder, she shuffled through the thick stack of papers before plucking out a photo. Sliding it in front of him, she demanded, "Well then, why don't you explain this instead?"
With a rattle of handcuffs, he stretched out both arms and snagged it, lifting it to eye level. Across his bruised and swollen visage flitted unfeigned surprise before he hastily closed down his expression: in the camera's harsh flash glinted vibrant pieces of glass that were scattered across a gleaming wood floor; blood had dried in thick, brown trails.
Her voice penetrated his angry reverie. "We've already tested that blood against the DNA sample we took from you, and some of it even matches." Pausing for dramatic effect, she asked softly, "Whose blood is the rest of this?"
Sakurafubuki flung the photograph back onto the table, sniffing, "I do not know. Quite frankly, I am dismayed and insulted that you would even consider the idea that I do."
She huffed in genuine amusement. "Besides the fact that some of that blood is yours? You should realize by now that that jumpsuit isn't for fashion week!" Shaking her head, she stuffed the photo back into the folder.
Interlacing her fingers atop the folder again, she gently stated, "Sakurafubuki-san, this blood found in your private quarters is very incriminating evidence, and assault is a very serious charge. But if you were defending yourself against an assailant, that's an entirely different story. So, tell me: who did you fight with?"
His thin goatee seemed to frown along with his mouth. "I did not fight with anyone," he insisted.
"I'll remind you that if it was self-defense, we can't prosecute you. So was it defense or assault?"
"It was neither!" he defended a bit desperately.
Her tone grew sharper. "Sakurafubuki-san, I advise you to stop denying it. The sentencing of some of these charges can be dire." After flicking a stray lock of black, curly hair over her shoulder, she began to count off on her fingers. "A) we've got several hundred people involved in the gambling hosted by the ship you own. That can land you five years imprisonment with work. B) we have documentation that every inch of that boat is fake, though you charged like it was gilded with 24 karats. That's 10 years." She allowed a small smirk to spread across her face. "C) we've already got a detention order from the judge and we can hold you for ten days while we investigate that blood in the photo… among other things." Her eyes narrowed minutely. "D) soon, I imagine we'll be able to add kidnapping to the list of charges, judging by witness accounts." Pleasure warmed her at the alarm growing behind his dark eyes. "Not including any assault charges, that's 25 years, right there." She leaned forward, whispering, "But if you confessed, I could talk to the prosecutor and convince him to cut you some slack, which, at the very minimum of the law, would give you maybe a year."
He shifted nervously in the dented metal chair and didn't reply.
"Sakurafubuki-san," she warned, "this is a very good deal for you, one that I might not be willing to offer later."
He hesitated before suddenly bursting out, "I want a lawyer!"
Anger tightened her eyes, but she rose with a murmur of, "Very well. That is your right, but I'll be back to continue this once your attorney arrives." The door opened and closed, leaving in her wake a relieved silence.
Sakurafubuki let out a shaky sigh and ran tanned fingers through his long, wavy hair. "Thank God she's gone," he muttered to himself. Then he pulled his hair into frustrated fistfuls. "What a bitch," he snarled. He'd spent years building up his ship, his reputation, his clientele. And now it was all for naught! His pride and joy – gone! He gritted his teeth. Yesterday, he'd gazed across his kingdom lit by the rising scarlet sun, and today he was rotting in this godforsaken, noisome hellhole.
When the light flickered once at its prescribed time, he jumped. His cuffed hands dropped to his lap. As he sat waiting for the guards to escort him back to his cell, his mind wandered involuntarily to another, older pain – a pain that was still sharp. He sighed, hunching in on himself. It happened less than two months ago...
Sakurafubuki rolled over in his sleep, hands seeking the warm body that should have been beside him. He awoke at the touch of cool, empty sheets, mumbling, "Hiroshi?"
Standing at the end of the bed, the twenty-three-year-old jumped at the soft sound of his name, murmuring in surprise, "Hikomaru!"
Sakurafubuki sat up; the creamy sheet slid down his bare chest to pool in his lap. A contented smile, ready to bloom, died suddenly when he spotted the suitcase in the other man's hand. His stare flicked immediately up to his lover's guilty, yet saddened expression.
"Hiroshi!" Sakurafubuki cried. "What...?"
The other man flinched and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Hikomaru," the young man murmured. "I didn't expect you to wake."
Sakurafubuki pleaded, "Hiroshi, please, don't tell me you're..."
The twenty-three-year-old flinched again, but straightened his shoulders and lifted his young face – a face still too young to shave – to his long-time partner. "I am," he whispered. His lower lip began to quiver despite himself.
Sakurafubuki shot to Hiroshi's side and grabbed his shoulder, forcefully turning the shorter man's body to face his. "No! No, you can't leave!" The magnate shook him.
Hiroshi reluctantly lifted large hazel eyes to the older man's. "I have to," he muttered, voice shaking. "I..." He dropped his gaze to his shoes.
Sakurafubuki's heart began to crack at that despondent look. The magnate brushed straight, black hair out of his partner's downcast face, cupping his smooth cheek. "Hiroshi," he breathed desperately. "Why?" A tear slid down that beautiful skin and onto his fingers. Hiroshi sniffled, then tore away from him, gazing unblinkingly at his lover with a pathetic, tortured expression.
"Hiroshi, please!" Sakurafubuki cried, hand outstretched.
The young man fled.
Sakurafubuki started when the door in the present day creaked open, revealing two surly cops. They marched to either side of him and grabbed his upper arms, lifting him to his feet. "Come on, it's time to go," the one on his left growled. Sakurafubuki obediently shuffled into the hallway, his head hanging.
A/N: Didn't that just break your heart? Really, I've got to find a way to get at least some comedic relief in there...
