Chapter IV

To begin with, Asami didn't really mean fuchsia literally but obviously Kirishima being Kirishima he interpreted it that way. Taking a long deep suck on his Starbuck's Venti Matcha no whip Frappuccino (just to drink something that glowed and live to tell the tale, not that anyone would listen), the paint colors blurred together until they made a rainbow in front of his eyes.

Fat Contactor didn't walk, he strutted, which looked rather comical in his ill-fitting white polyester leisure suit and bell bottom pants. Asami wondered if the man just stepped out of a circa 1970's American movie. He looked around for a time machine, the Delorian or the Tardis, but finding neither, he just assumed the fat hairy chested man never got the memo that the 70s were over.

"You see from these paint swatches that…." Fat Contractor began, wiped his sweaty brow with his sweaty handkerchief, and continued "that the choices are limited in that color scheme but if you add a brown undertone, you get a nice rich mauve." He pointed to a color that looked like a pink brown. Like Pepto-Bismol, only more dismal.

The word mauve made the bile rise in his throat. That was the ugliest word, for the ugliest color. It was the color of the apron his mother wore. Why she wore it when she never cooked nor cleaned was always a mystery. So the frilly burgundy apron had faded until it was a dull pink, but she still wore it as if she was a kitchen goddess, or a kitchen witch. That was closer to the truth.

Dull.

There was a reason the historians called this era the Common Era. Because it was common, people living their common, everyday lives, gray in their existence, their televisions flicking on and off until their eyes blurred and they went to bed, only to start the day again in their common everyday way.

He'd had this conversation with himself before. He'd had this conversation many times.

Being average wasn't for him.

Being common wasn't for him.

Being dull wasn't for him.

But here he was, discussing paint colors with Fat Contractor, contemplating putting a stop-payment on the 75 million yen check he'd just written to buy Okami's loyalty, just to shake things up. Still, scarred flunky was probably staring at it, still counting the zeros with his index finger (because there were a lot of them) his butt making a groove in his Ikea red leather chair and eating his egg sandwich that his blind brother somehow cooked for him, the yellow egg yolk dripping down his scarred face.

"If you say mauve again, I will fire you." Asami said without humor, and sucked on his drink again, enjoying the wide eyed look from Fat Contractor.

The prissy young lady standing next to Fat Contractor tapped her feet in annoyance, although her face was bright and smiling. She was easy to read, like a children's book. "Asami-sama," She began, the sama coming out with a tinge of disrespect, "The change in paint colors will delay the opening of the club another month at least. I would suggest painting the entire club a neutral color and then using colorful accents that can be changed out." To fit your mood, your royal moodiness. She didn't say it, but with her annoyed body language, she didn't have to.

Being neutral wasn't for him, either.

"I'm paying you to be a decorator, not oversee operations of my club." He said, his eyes narrowing, just because he felt like it. She looked like she was going to pee her pants. He let her stew a moment or two, watching as she shuffled her feet in those pointed witchy shoes of hers. "Fine. I'll leave it to you." He said finally, flipping a toothpick in his mouth. "But no wicker. I hate wicker. I even hate the word wicker."

"Thank you, Asami-sama." She was probably thanking him for not firing her skinny shaped ass. As he walked away, he was delighted to hear a rush of escaped breath from her tight lipped mouth, as if she'd been holding it while they talked.

"Come Kirishima." Asami said, like Kirishima was his dog, actually he kind of was. When the man hadn't moved, Asami stopped himself and turned.

Uncharacteristically, Kirishima was pointing rudely to the front double doors of the club. Asami followed the slightly quivering finger and caught the eyes of….

His mother.

If he had a soundtrack following him around you would hear the screechy violins right about now, indicating something terrible was going to happen to the sacrificial virgin in the scene. Since he was no virgin, he relaxed, but only slightly. It was Kirishima he was worried about. He still wasn't sure of his sexual status. He was going to get that guy laid or die trying.

"Welcome, mother. How are you feeling?" He said. They should bottle his honeyed words, he'd make a killing, but then bees would be out of a job. Asami kind of liked bees, the thought of stinging someone was particularly sweet.

"I'm not ill, but thank you for your….kind….inquiry." She said, the rustling of her kimono barely evident as she stepped onto the plastic covered floor of the club. "I see you still can't make decisions." She said, indicating the bright pink swatches on the walls.

"We are in the midst of a complete remodel." He said quickly, stating the obvious. It was obvious because the entire club was covered in clear plastic sheeting. It looked like an unopened toy that you would never take out of the box and play with but just stare at hoping it would increase in value, the Club Sion Playset (action figures not included). "So, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"I was in the neighborhood." She held out a file, which he didn't take. "It looks like you still can't make up your mind….on other things." She lowered the file with a frown, actually it was hard to tell if she was frowning, maybe her frown was permanent, like Asami's smirk. "There are dozens of omiai partners contained in that file. Perhaps that will help you come to a decision."

There was no smirking today.

"I've made up my mind already." He said flatly, his eyes lowering to the file and then back up to stare into his mother's liquid black eyes, so like ink. "Let's talk in private." He said, when he noticed the contactor and decorator leaning towards them as to hear a little bit of juicy Asami family gossip. He hated gossip.

There were a lot of things he hated today.

In silence, because he had nothing to say, he entered his office and ushered her to a seat. "A disturbing rumor has reached my household. You've taken in a lodger." She said, as soon as she was seated but he wasn't. He did take his seat before answering. Her little ways of catching him off-guard didn't work on him.

"He's not a lodger."

"Yes. A lodger would pay rent. However, this boy, this Takaba Akihito, doesn't pay rent, doesn't pay anything." She said. Her pale hands rested, one of the other in her lap, as if she was nursing a sore belly.

"I don't require him to, if he wants to, that is up to him." He said coldly. You could say Asami was the type of man to hate his mother. And you would be right, for once.

"Then the rumors are true. You've taken in a lover." The pale hands switched places, right over left. "I thought you learned your lesson the first time."

"What lesson are you referring to, Mother?" He knew what she was talking about, but he refused to take that guilt trip. He still was unpacking from that one.

"It's been a long time, perhaps you require further study."

He rose from his chair and averted his gaze. Suddenly the Tokyo skyline was so interesting, even in the daytime. "I was a young man then. You no longer have control over my personal life."

"You weren't a man, you were a boy, as is the little Nobody you've taken in. Perhaps Nobody will take my money and run, just like Kobayashi did."

Asami pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth to keep himself from screaming at the insane woman across from him. "It's difficult to run when you have a noose around your neck."

Silently, with precision, as if she were holding a fragile antiquity, she placed the file on Asami's desk, at least, Asami assumed it was the file. He turned around, surprised to see several pieces of official legal looking paper on his desk on the middle of his cowhide blotter, halfway between, in neutral territory.

"I've prepared the paperwork. I will give this Nobody the same deal as Kobayashi."

"Your deal killed him."

"I seek no forgiveness, as I am blameless on that matter. His mental status was unstable to begin with, it runs in his family. This Nobody, it seems, also shares some infirmity of his own, mental and physical. Perhaps his runs in the family too?"

"Your words turned Kobayashi to stone." He said thickly. He could feel the anger rising, the bile rising, the volcano starting to bubble, just by the very smell of his mother's sickly sweet perfume in his office.

"Hold up that mirror towards yourself, Asami. You will find you're the one encased in plaster." She retorted quickly, the tone of her voice rising slightly, but still very lyrical, still beautiful to listen to. Beautiful and deadly.

"I'm not so colorless as that." He responded pulling out a long thick cigar out of his humidor, the humidor that Kobayashi had given him on White Day, the day he died. Funny, many White Days had come and gone since then, and he always found himself alone on that day, despite the people around him, despite the party Sion Corp. threw every year. This year he had hoped would be different.

"I love you, Kobayashi-san." He had said, with so much sincerity, it hurt.

Kobayashi had touched his cheek. "With all my faults? With all my problems…you still love me, don't you?"

"We can get through this together. I can hold you when you're afraid."

"No, we can't, you can't." He had replied, leaving the humidor at his feet. He had run then, the tears trailing behind him.

He had said those three words to Kobayashi on White Day, said them to someone for the first time…

….and the last.

Kobayashi took his confession with him. His words were burned with him, the gray ash floating like falling leaves. His mother had hugged him that day, in some kind of fucked attempt at consoling him. He felt his heart give birth to hate that day.

"Trip down memory lane?" His mother said, snapping him out of his thoughts like a whip hitting a horse's flanks. "You look far away."

"I wish I was farther." He replied. "Takaba won't be swayed by money, so you can take your deal and go." He threw the papers at her and they fluttered to the floor, yet she made no move to pick them up. ""Don't open this Pandora's box, mother. You won't like what you find inside."

She made a clucking noise with her tongue against the front of her teeth. "I already don't like it. I will never like it, and there is nothing you can say to make me like it."

"Did I ever ask for your approval?" He asked quickly, before she could say anything else.

Her eyes narrowed and she muttered something under her breath, what, Asami wasn't sure of, but it probably wasn't I love you son, you can live your life anyway you want and I will welcome your lover with open arms.

He lit the cigar he forgot he'd been rolling around in his fingers and puffed on it, his tongue seeking the bitter taste of tobacco to cover the bitter taste of his mother's poisoned tongue.

She brushed imaginary dirt from the front of her black kimono. Twenty-five years since his father's death, and the woman still wore the clothes of a widow. "There are other ways to get my point across. In the meantime, I'll leave this file with you." She placed the omiai file on his desk, previously occupied by the paperwork, rose, and with no farewell or goodbye of any kind, left Asami, the omiai file, and the ghost of Kobayashi.