A/N: Okay, so. I have no excuses. (Except Opus and My Funny Valentine and a massive AU project, really, no excuses.) I'm terribly late and I apologize… I'll update earlier next time to make up to it, promise. In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this. –bows–
Disclaimer–I own nothing. Obviously.
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Three For A Girl
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The music is starting.
Picture to yourself the slow, sweet tunes of jazz, picture to yourself the dark enticement of black chocolate. Picture the trumpet and the violin, both instruments fast apart and wholly matching in what should be perfect, but isn't.
The Charleston fits with this flawed perfection, and accompanies the flow, running deep and slow, and then speeding up with the quick-stepped print of heels and taps on the polished parquet floor. It is fast and going faster still, and it fits with the alcoholic fury of the evening.
Partners face each other much quicker now, and never change anymore–hand clasped to hand, palm to palm, shoulder to shoulder. One and two and three and four, and each time the trumpet plays faster and faster five and six and seven and eight, repeat the basic steps, one up one back one up.
Breathless laughs in the never-still room, breathless gaps in the space between the dancers. Skirts flare with flourish and bobbed hair bobs as hips swing and sway. Legs tangle and untangle, forever a fragile equilibrium none of them completely masters.
The jazz plays over them, a black cloak of winter and night falling onto their shoulders. The alcohol splays in their chests, elation and falling-down all in one piece that shapes around the heart. One step up two steps back and three and four and five and six.
-o-
March 4th
"I don't think it's a good idea," Aoko says.
"It's not," Kaito agrees. "But then who cares?"
The radio crackles darkly.
"Well, anyway, it's not like we can do anything about it," Hakuba says, sitting back in his chair and running a thoughtful hand in his blond strands, casting a wary look in Akako's direction. She is chainsmoking, and does not return it.
"No, but really," Kaito insists. "Prohibition was meant to slow down alcoholic consummation, but so far it's only managed to do the contrary." He waggles the shaker violently and pours out drinks for Hakuba and himself.
"It's not like they're not trying to prevent it," Aoko says, pinching the end of her straw. "Police officers have been all over the place, trying to work things out and stop bootleg–but there's been a lot of corruption and–"
"Says the bull's daughter–"
Aoko swats at him. "Shut up. Where's everyone, anyway?"
It is late. The bar is thoroughly empty except for the four of them; even the band's estrada has been cleared of its instruments. Most of the chairs have been pulled up on the tables on the polished tables for the night, and only the counter's two pale lamps are switched on, casting extravagant shadows, deformed and twisting, onto the darkened walls.
"Off to attend the inauguration, the lot of 'em," Kaito grins. "The band wanted to go too, so we gave them half the day off. We're sorta closed right now. But we weren't going to toss out lovely ladies in the cold and the snow when they've come thus far, were we now?" A sharp, exaggerate nod at the umbrella in the corner.
"Akako-chan was the one who wanted to come," Aoko pipes up mischievously, with a sly glance at her friend, who is paying no attention whatsoever.
"Was she now."
"Shut up, you two."
Kaito laughs and turns the radio off. "These are no fun at all. C'mon, Aoko, let's dance." He tours the bar's counter and grabs her hand, dragging her off her high stool and between the tables to the bare stretch of parquet; she reluctantly follows.
"But there's no music–"
"Well Hakuba could sing."
"Dry up," retorts the bartender, not unkindly.
"Then we'll have to do without," Kaito laughs again, taking Aoko's hands firmly in his. "Charleston has its own rhythm. We don't need music–we just have to follow the course of our heartbeats." He starts slowly, coaxing her into the steps to then speed her up, and laughs all her breath away. Aoko closes her eyes, and tries to focus on the steps.
One, two, three, four.
Ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump.
One, two, three, four.
Ba-bump-ba-bump-ba-bump-ba–
"You know, you shouldn't look like that when you're dancing," Kaito's voice says, from very far away, and her eyes fly open, concentrating on his blue own. He grins, unapologetically. "Well, with your flushed cheeks and parted lips–men can be horny bastards when they've gone down a few drinks, you know."
She bats her eyelashes at him. "You included?"
"Well–" he doesn't look one bit offended. That grin is starting to look very much like a leer. "–I did kiss you, after all."
"You were jazzed," she scolds, with a No Trouble, Officer kind of look. "And still are," she concedes.
"You tasted nice." He smiles reminiscently, thoroughly unabashed, proud as a cat who's been caught with its whiskers splattered with milk. "Soft and bitter. Very nice. I'm devastated, Aoko." The cat tilts his head to the side; Aoko is almost surprised not to glimpse a cat-ear twitching with refrained amusement through the black locks. "Usually dames last much less than two months before they fall for me."
"… it'll do you good to be resisted to for once," Aoko says, and prods him in the ribs. "I'm more worried about them, though."
They were currently being stubborn. Seated at a table, smoking on one side, drinking on the other–both silent as death. Kaito heaves a deep, melodramatic sigh. "You break my heart. Really, truly. I open my wounded feelings to you and you tell me about–ow. Fine, fine, I'll figure something out."
"Last time your wondrous plan all but backfired–Valentine roses or not," she points out.
"I'll figure something out."
-o-
March 17th
He does, and when it comes it implies locking Akako and Hakuba together in the cellar and coming back to check an hour later and save what can be saved.
"I still think you could have come up with something else," Aoko says, fifty-five minutes after they've closed the door onto the two stubborn lovers. "They'll have ripped each other to shreds. Or at least Akako will."
"You didn't have any trouble with sending Hakuba over to the cellar, did you?" Kaito asks, and lounges against the closed door with as much affected nonchalance as though it were against the counter of the most ritzy club in town.
She shrugs. "I just had to ask him to fetch a glass of Chateau-Margaux for Akako-chan and he was off like a shot. I suppose if you had asked him he would have seen through the prank immediately." A nod. A suspicious glance slides sideways. "How did you get Akako to come over?"
A twitch, there, at the corner of his lips. "Not telling."
She narrows her eyes at him.
And Kaito must have warned half the bar about their proceedings, for when comes the time to open the door a small crowd is standing behind them, craning their necks. Kaito says something quickly, under his breath, something Japanese Aoko doesn't quite catch on but which makes laugh those who have heard it.
And when he opens the door, violently enough to surprise everyone in the bar, Hakuba and Akako spring apart abruptly, hair disarrayed to the point of chaos, lips bruised and limbs still entangled. There is, unsurprisingly, no blood to wash away, but embarrassment works just as well, and they both very thoroughly glare.
The crowd wolf-whistles and cheers, and Kaito laughs.
"And here we thought we'd have to fight you apart, guys–"
"Scram," Hakuba suggests fiercely, the painstaking arrangement of his clothes and hair now far gone; and leans in to grab the door's handle and wrench it shut. Aoko has hardly time to lock laughing eyes with Akako before the heavy wood span slams.
The mob boo-s and Kaito laughs, again. "C'mon, folks, Bank's closed for tonight. Free drinks at the bar for the first five who get there–"
They scatter like sparrows, and he grins at her in his childish way before following them, filling the five firsts' glasses at lightspeed before surrendering the bar to Jii-chan and jumping on the platform, snatching up his trumpet on the way.
The slow notes fill the crowded, dark underground room, then speed up sharply and make the couples on the dancefloor tatter over their own feet. Aoko squeezes in between them and inches toward her table and her drink. A rose is laid beside it, innocent and almost innuendo-free, and she grins at it as she sits down.
It's peaceful and calm for a while. The band plays. The couples dance, people talk in hushed whispers; the orange juice is stirring on her tongue and her chair enwraps her comfortably. Idly she wonders whether Akako and Hakuba can hear the jazz from down in the cellar.
Then it's all broken.
She doesn't really realize what has happened–what is happening– until her glass is shattered and on the floor and her table is all but torn in two, and both her wrists in the iron grip of what looks like an oversized giant. The sound is deafening around her, no longer mellow and pleasing, until she understand it's actually silence, ear-splitting silence and the full bar on their feet.
The gargantuan chest before her screens the band platform from sight. The trumpet has stopped. She panics for a second.
"Nakamori," says a voice at her elbow, and if she didn't recognize the gorilla she recognizes him. He's one of the Nakamichi crowd–oh, god, he must have been after Akako and followed them here–irrelevantly, she thinks of Jii-chan, Jii-chan and the neat way his jackets are always pressed and no–
"Now, then, Nakamori-chan, be a good girl. Where's Koizumi?" the man on her right says, voice like a thousand needles on the swollen balloon of silence. Someone shouts up at the bar, then breaks off. "Koizumi?"
"Shut up," Aoko snarls. "Let–go!" she scuffles, aims a kick at the gorilla's genitals, bites the leader on the hand that was stroking her hair. The fingers tighten there and then down to her neck, and she winces, is thrown back against her chair, dizzy. Metallic blood trickle in her mouth, stains her teeth–her lip must be sliced–why isn't anybody doing anything?
"Little bearcat," the man hisses close to her ear. "I'd keep you to me. Where's Koizumi?"
"Let g–"
–then the hands are gone and her wrists are free, stinging and red.
"I'd appreciate no trouble in my bar, gentlemen," says Kaito, voice light and calm and carefree, but when Aoko looks up, breathes, he has the man doubled over against the thrown table and twists his wrists in his back in a handcuffed grip. "If you've had too much to drink, I'd suggest continuing the party in the streets."
Four men are closing in, surrounding the gorilla–good god, when was he thrown off-balance? It must have been awfully quick and she didn't see it at all–and, already, escorting him away. Kaito's eyes are hard-blue and cold.
"I should suggest leaving my costumers have their time without beefing around," Kaito adds, "all of them. Don't you bother coming back," and releases him, so abruptly the man staggers on the spot and nearly makes a grab for Aoko.
"None of that." A hand on the collar, spinning him backwards and into awaiting arms. "Now scram. Escort the gentlemen out, Jii-chan, thank you."
Aoko from the chair, wants to protest, wants to shout, No, he'll hurt him, send someone else with them–but the man is gone already, Jii-chan is nowhere to be seen, and Kaito's hands are quick upon hers, helping her to her feet. "You alright?"
It went so fast, is her first thought, and then–Akako.
"… yes?"
"Good." He's not smiling. "He hurt your wrists pretty bad. C'mon upstairs. I'll handle it." He pauses, takes her hand, fingers lacing together to coax her toward the staircase, gently. Hakuba and Akako emerge from the cellar corridor just as they reach it, flustered and breathless from running and petting.
"What's happen–"
She always stumbles on the steps.
First landing. He opens a door. "Wait–"
"Sit down," he gestures vaguely at the couch–living-room? "I'll be right back." He disappears past another door and must turn a tap or something–she hears the flowing gurgle of running water.
Living-room, probably. He mustn't use it much–a few books piled up on a three-footed table, pictures on the chest of drawers. That boy over there in that frame must be Kaito–even in black and white she can imagine the blue eyes and that wild dark hair is unmistakable. And that couple holding each other tight, the woman with a wide-brimmed hat, the moustached man–
"–getting a good toss-out now," Kaito says incoherently, and comes back into sight with water and soap and bandages. "You're not hurt someplace else?"
"Only to my pride," she says, with a small, tentative lick at her lower lip, the sensitive cut. "I should have been able to break free."
"Modern women," Kaito says, with a roll of the eyes and not quite meaning it, and there is a little more laughter to his voice. "I hate it when it happens," he adds later, when he's cleaned her wrists with a damp cloth and is slowly bandaging them.
"… does it happen often?"
"Not often. Sometimes. When they've had a little too much to drink… my god!" he says vehemently, "how I hate violence and fighting–" he grinds out. He's sitting at her feet, holding her hand between his and staring at it gloomily. "… tonight's were different, though."
"–yes."
He cuts the gauze neatly and reaches out for her other hand, unclasping the tense fingers. His thumb brushes her knuckles, earning a shiver from her, and then does it again, and again, using soft pressure, a reassuring massage. "Koizumi?"
"Hmm. She used to hang out with the Nakamichi crowd for a good bit last year. Nakamichi was keen on her, and she liked it–but since she met Hakuba-kun, I don't think she went with them once. I suppose Nakamichi heard of the two of them and sent his men to–I never liked them. Akako said it was for kicks, but now the police thinks they're in the bootleg system–"
"They're not," he says, sternly. She looks down at him.
"No?"
"Nope. Quite a lot of dope running about there, though. We've had a few of them here last year–they're a bad lot. No inhibitions at all." He gives her hand a little flick of his fingers. "There. Done. I'll get the fuzz on my heels for tonight, I suppose," he adds absently, sits back on his heels, and brushes his clothes clean.
"… sorry about that."
"Nah. Nakamori-keibu would have come soon anyways–"
Aoko frowns. "Really?"
"–to check my stash, looking for giggle juice or whatnot and messing with all my good order." He grins, something of the usual grin. "I told you your father and I were old friends." There is something cheeky in his smiles, in the way he talks, in the way he probably sees some of her father's in her features. "Even before Prohibition he had this inkling I was up to something sinister. Dunno why. He just does."
"Come on," he adds later, taking her hand to lead downstairs. "My trumpet awaits. I'll play for you tonight–to make up for the disturbance.
Before he disappears he presses something cold and hard in her hand–her handcuffs–her handcuffs, the ones her father gave her when she was a girl and young and eager, as a gift, laughing at her enthusiasm–and he's gone before she can even say she thought they were in her coat pocket all along.
And later still, twirling orange juice in a glass that was on the house and listening to the dark, sweet tunes of slow, sensual jazz, Aoko finds herself thinking, I can deal with this.
-o-
The jazz plays over them, a black cloak of winter and night falling onto their shoulders. The alcohol splays in their chests, elation and falling-down all in one piece that shapes around the heart. One step up two steps back and three and four and five and six.
Seven, their breathing chant, their laughs and their air-less words. Eight. And all over again, we begin all over again.
The partners dance.
-o-
(In case some are confused by the lexical:
Bull–a FBI agent or law-enforcement officer.
Bootleg–illegal contraband system during the Prohibition.
March 4th, 1921 was the inauguration day of W. G. Harding as the 29th president of the United States.
Jazzed–also spifflicated, canned, corked, tanked, primed, embalmed, owled, scrooched, lit, zozzled, plastered, potted, ossified, fried to the hat and probably tons of others–drunk.
Chateau-Margaux–a very fine French wine.
Bank's closed–no more kissing or making out tonight.
Bearcat–a hot-blooded or fiery girl.
Beef–a complaint or to complain.
Giggle juice–another name for bootleg, among others.
All this lexical, apart from the Chateau-Margaux reference, comes from the Internet Guide to Jazz Age Slang.)
-o-
Hmm. Quite a bit in there, though I don't think we'll see much more of the Nakamichi crowd. Next chapter–which, hopefully, should come in… two weeks?–will see Nakamori intruding. xD sounds like fun.
See ya all then. Have some cookies?