THE PASSING WIND
-TheSilentReader-
He did know how he was able to make her agree with his proposal. For the months of being engaged to her, he tried his best to make her feel more comfortable with him. In his silent observations, one by one, he found things. Good things—well, at least he found things that she found likable—proper decorum, the classics, piano, flower arrangement, tea ceremony, paintings. Things that a proper lady should like. She did not seem like the outside just as he did, but in subtle persistence, he was able to take her out sometimes.
But for all that he had been doing, she was not herself. Her mind was somewhere else; her looks were very distant and foreign, as if she were looking for a needle beyond the horizon of tall grasses. He loved that look on her, the unreachable beauty, but that too, caused him pain. She would silently smile once when they took a walk on the rose garden of the Touma estate, gazing lovingly at the delicate red rosebud among the blooms of the mature ones. She would nestle it on her fingers, caressing it lightly with the pad of her thumb. She was lost in that, that she did not notice him intently watching her. He was an outsider.
He always assumed that it was because of her role as the Rosa Chinensis back at Lillian Academy, her close sisterhood with Mizuno Youko brought her fond memories. He always assumed that, because she never mentioned her little sister. He heard she had one. He did not ponder over it, neither asked. If there was something that he was able to do, it was to be as cheerful as he was. She mentioned once that he was very energetic but was not surprised by such attitude. He asked her if that made her uncomfortable, and she just endowed him with a small nod and a weak, pained smile. It was as if she met someone like him who she lost in the past. He asked her if she had a boyfriend before, but she said none, her eyes boring to him with insistence that she was telling the truth.
"I have never loved a man before," she said lethargically, her eyes without life. She was not yearning for it, it seemed.
"I hope that will change soon!" He optimistically said to her, grinning widely. But deep inside him wished that with all his heart that the man would be him.
- Touma Ryu (1993)
CHAPTER 14:
The first time Ryu came into the Ogasawara mansion was when he was twenty-two years of age, a university student months away from graduation. He was with his parents, and the three of them were given an invitation from the family patriarch for a dinner. His parents knew the older Ogasawara members well; the second-generation heirs of both families had been business rivals. His parents were serene and calm on their seats at the family's limousine, not talking to each other but hands linked. Somehow, the dread that he had been feeling for the longest time was silently disappearing upon looking at his parents. He did not notice that he was gawking at them until his mother offered him a subtle smile. With that, he shook his head and looked away to the window, to watch the fading surroundings as the car sped by.
He smiled to himself. He wanted his future to be like that.
This was the first time that he would be attending an omiai.
He'd be meeting Ogasawara Kyouichii, the current patriarch—one of many of their encounters.
They met at a gala hosted by another family two weeks ago. Ryu was always the chaperone for his mother (apart from his father) in social events, and was always beside her, as she required much assistance because of her poor health. It was the call of tradition—she wanted to be present as required of a wife of a Touma, and even though Ryu's father had strongly opposed to it, she did not want to embarrass the family by being absent. Ever since they realized that she could not handle long and frequent parties, Ryu had early exposure to the workings of the social circle where they belong to compensate for her. And it happened that in a party, where all of Ogasawara members were present.
Including Ogasawara Kyouichii, whose presence was rare in any social gathering, that his attendance would mark high honor to the hosts. His presence broke a sea of people into half; his return nod to those that greeted him was an indication that he had their high esteem, and the air of disregard to others was a warning. That's why when Ogasawara Kyouichii acknowledged the older Touma, the younger one had a share of that recognition. Ryu felt his father's strong and guarded stance when the patriarch began talking to him and (more so) when both of them looked at Ryu. Kyouichii's steel eyes were very much penetrating, almost invading to a person's soul. Young Ryu looked back at his father, who warned his son that this elderly man should not be trifled with. Ryu bowed to Kyouichii, minding his stance, his manners—everything—so that he would not be embarrassing his esteemed parents. Indeed, the Ogasawara patriarch gave him a bow, and suggested that Ryu should have Kyouichii's granddaughter the next dance.
Ogasawara Sachiko was behind her father. Her face was blank and serene that Ryu was almost afraid of her. Why does a woman with a very angelic face wore an expression absent of life? He remembered the last time he saw her years ago, back when he was still a high school student, and her livid stare the first time they met during a practice for a play of the Lillian Seitokai. When Ogasawara Sachiko stepped before him as instructed by his grandfather, she just gave her a perfect bow, but her eyes seemingly unfocused, as if her soul sucked away from her lithe body. They danced to the music of the orchestra, but she never spoke nor replied to any of Ryu's icebreakers. He asked her if she were ill, but she dismissed it with a languid flail of fingers and a silent, "No, it's nothing. Please, do not bother yourself with me."
Until then, he should have not forgotten about her all along. He should have not cowered years ago and pursued her as he planned before. Ogasawara Sachiko was more than the princess-like demeanor or her death glare. Where were those challenging eyes that he saw years ago? Stupid as it was, he felt the need to rescue her, to learn more than what meets the eye.
Touma Ryu fell in love with her again in that dance.
He noticed that he'd always asked her for a dance every time they see each other.
Now, he was visiting the Ogasawara Mansion. His parents had been reluctant to tell Ryu about Ogasawara's interest over their son, but Ryu was honest enough with his feelings. There was no need to hide his interest.
His vision was clear: he would court Ogasawara Sachiko.
It was an omiai, under the pretense of a dinner between the two families. Ryu was still as nervous as a deer caught in the headlights even though he had imagined this scenario in various circumstances . . . maybe because of Kyouichii-sama's presence. He had imagined the horrifying and even the hilarious ways of embarrassing himself, but in those contemplations, he could never imagine Ogasawara Sachiko smiling. Never.
Maybe because he never seen her like that then—happy. She always had a straight, unreadable face. He could have watched her face forever, bit by bit rendering every movement of her lips to form an expression, but limited conditions never allowed him to do so. Even with their elders' competitiveness in business, Ryu never did meet her. Even though they have similar social circles. Even though her school was in the same hill as his.
She was wearing a formal kimono, quiet as ever, impassive to table discussions. Yet all he needed to hear was her voice, her opinion for the topic in chat; all he needed to see was a change in her withdrawn eyes.
He could not even take a good look at her because he took most of the time responding to the Ogasawara men's interrogation. They were obviously sizing him up.
In a whim, he stopped everyone with what they were doing (talking and eating?) when he asked for a moment for the restroom. The first person who noticed was Kyouichii-sama, ever imposing with his cold dark eyes. Ryu braved himself, "I'm most sorry, Ogasawara-sama, but I think I need to excuse myself."
For the first time, his parents looked at him with disbelief in their eyes. (Are you actually blowing up this omiai now?)
"Is the cuisine not to your taste, Touma Ryu-san?" Ogasawara Kyouichii icily asked.
"No, not at all. I just think that I need to excuse myself for a while, to refresh myself, sir." Ryu looked at Sachiko and it was almost a hallucination for him when he noticed a slight twitch of brows and narrowing of eyes from Ogasawara Sachiko. He was being rude right now—yet he took his chances. He just could not be stuck in this Japanese dinner without talking to Sachiko.
(What was her role here—just a decoration? No, that's not right.)
"I am very nervous, sir, and I don't think it would be wise to endure it when everyone here noticed."
(It was a very stupid move.)
Ryu could have sworn his father was mentally slashing him with a blunt end of a bamboo stick. But still, he stayed put and looked at Kyouichii-sama without slipping into a flinch. Then, within a beat, Kyouichii-sama asked his granddaughter to stop eating and show him the way to the restroom. Sachiko-sama agreed and ended it with a short bow and a polite farewell. By the time they were rooms away from the dining hall, Ryu said, "Is it always stuffed in here?"
"Whatever are you talking about, Touma-san?" Sachiko flagrantly replied.
"I can't feel the air there. Can you, Sachiko-sama?" Ryu stopped walking.
"No."
"Is there a nice view of the garden here? Err . . . where can we get fresh air?" He jokingly asked.
"The next hall leads to the Japanese styled rooms. You will find the view of the garden there. And good amount of fresh air." She politely supplied, negating Ryu's cheery questions.
"Let's stay there for a few minutes. I can't have you stuffed in that room." Ryu said. "Could you show me the way?"
Sachiko motioned for the next hallway. He walked side by side with her as her feet took little steps, restricted by her kimono. He could have watched her face forever, for a sign of a change, but it seemed a hard endeavor—impenetrable as she was. But he had plenty of time.
By the time he looked once more to her face, he saw sadness. He felt her urge of walking away. She did not look like she was afraid of him (he thought that it was the other way around), but still, what could he have done that made her so distant from him? Was it still about her dislike of men as Mizuno Youko-san supplied long ago?
Ryu decided that it was best to let his intentions known, "I know you don't like this arrangement and all—"
"Here is the garden, Touma-san." Sachiko said as she pivoted to the left, which revealed the hallway of the Japanese styled rooms on the left side, and the garden at the other.
All that time, Ryu only studied her face. He had hoped he could see her smile. A real smile. No ice would forever stay solid. Somehow, there is a way for it to thaw—a circumstance, a person, a thing. He intended to find how.
"You're not comfortable there, right?" When he received no reaction from the kimono-clad woman, he added, "I'm sorry for being so forward."
Sachiko looked at him and only replied. "You don't have to apologize."
Present day
"Who's this?" The painter finally answered her cellphone after its fifth ring, irritated by the sudden disruption at exactly seven in the evening. She regretted that she charged the phone just this morning, just as she was preparing herself for the day. For her, the use of cellphones seemed to be so foreign for her—she doesn't even want it in her person, unlike most people. Yes, it was the most convenient medium of communication there was in Japan, but having one really bothered her. It was as if she could never be alone, by herself. Every time the phone rang, there was always a tiny sound of snapping in her brain that she could not get rid of.
She thought of Sei as she grumpily sighed as she looked for her ringing phone among the mess of her workroom. The cellphone that she had now was given by Sei after the celebration of the success of her second major exhibition years ago. In her heart she wanted to decline—to just gave it back to Sei—but Sei insisted that she should have it. "I already put my number there. It's up to you to add contacts."
She smirked at the memory. Yumi was already used to Sei's innuendos about the painter's personal life, and somehow, they understood that nothing might change. Yumi thought that it was Sei's way of censuring her, and she had no problem with that. Sei was the only sempai from Lillian that had been there for her; there was nothing Yumi would be ungrateful for. In the midst of thinking that the caller could be Sei, she located her phone in the piles of sketches that she made, she found her phone.
The number was unregistered.
She answered it with a polite "hello" but it was a beat after she heard the caller's voice.
/ Yumi, it's me. /
She knew that voice, and it was so automatic that her heart constricted tightly that she could not breathe. When she did, she wished silently that she should have hung the phone.
"How did you get this number?" She asked weakly, silently wishing to punch whoever gave Ogasawara Sachiko her number. She was thinking of Sei and Touko, but she concluded considerately that they wouldn't do that.
They would not betray her like that.
/ I got it from Yoshino-san. /
(Yoshino! That was unexpected.)
"That was expected. I suppose you must have a good reason for your call. Yoshino would not give my number to you that easily." She lied.
/ I suppose. /
Sachiko answered. Yumi bit her lip; with the tone of Sachiko's voice, she detected the lie. Yumi's brows were meeting in irritation; even though they both had gone separate ways, Sachiko still knew her. Yumi hated it.
"What did you say to her?"
/ I . . . I said that I wanted to speak to you. /
"If that were the case, I should have hung the phone a while ago."
/ Yes. But the truth is . . . it's better to talk like this . . . away from each other. I thought . . . I thought that it would be much more to your convenience. /
Yumi stood up and went outside her workroom. It was as if the open air outside could ease a little of her distress while she struggled not to respond. She was irking to throw away the phone, but for some reason she couldn't do it.
She was afraid that she knew the answer to her problem, but all she thought about after Ogasawara Sachiko left the Kinomoto compound was her lost painting. It was the remembrance of what happened in the past, to signify what she had become. Yet, as time passed by, her anxiety about her lost painting were diminishing little by little. She was afraid that the possibility, that in the future, she would no longer mind that she'd lost it. And that she could return again to who she was before.
She did not want that. Yet . . .
"You still haven't given up."
/ No, I haven't. / Sachiko's reply was firm.
She was seething while she spoke, "You never change, Sachiko. You don't falter when you have a goal."
/ No, I don't. /
"I've seen you giving up all hopes. Somehow, I don't believe anything the you said. The truth behind what you have done before . . . I don't need it anymore, Sachiko. The past was . . . it was long gone. Telling me the truth won't change it. Your chances were long exhausted. Even when you visited me, I did not give you a chance to explain yourself. What I know was enough.
/ What do you know? /
Yumi did not expect the sudden jolt of nervousness upon Sachiko's voice. "What you told me. He was chosen by your grandfather. You agreed to it. Whether or not your decision went against your wishes, I don't know. Still, you agreed to it."
She said feeling disappointed of herself. She could have said nothing, yet, why was she still pondering about the past? She hated it, yet she kept on talking about it. She knew that her intention was more than just blaming Sachiko, but of something else. Something else that she would not dare to name. The realization would mark her coward.
/ But it was more than that. /
"I know."
/ Do you think, if you have done that sooner . . . or maybe years ago, your apologies will reach me? /
/ I don't know. /
"You think pain could be weakened by time."
/ No—no . . . yes. /
"Yes, it did. It did, for a while."
/ I'm sorry. /
"We've been here before. Stop saying you're sorry. It doesn't matter. Even if you came back, nothing will change. Sachiko, you know I don't play hard-to-get."
/ . . . / A beat passed but it seemed Yumi got what she wanted—a floored Sachiko.
"I am talking to you. Isn't that a miracle enough?" The painter said, cockily. They're discussed the same conversation many times. She was getting tired of explaining herself.
(But then, why the hell did she bother to do so?)
Yumi was reminded of Icarus soaring close to the Sun.
Sachiko could not ask her. Jealousy was feeding her thoughts and she could not find a way to vent it out—neither to keep it to herself. She could not just confront her, even though they were separated and protected by space. She stared at the vast gardens of the Touma mansion through the tall windows.
"Who was on the phone?" Ryu asked—he just appeared out of nowhere.
She did not turn around, afraid that her face would betray her—even with her expertise. She couldn't, not when Yumi was involved. She inhaled enough to wake her brain and replied coolly, "Just a friend."
"I see." A trace of disappointment in his reply.
Ryu walked out of the room, without bidding his leave. As he walked away, Sachiko heard the constant, uniformed, and crisp taps of Ryu's soles against the floorboards of the hallway. Too uniformed.
It was already midnight.
Kashiwagi was not there for the night. Yumi had not smelled the aroma of tea from the outside, neither the silent taps of footprints upon the floorboards. But she felt the faint smell of tea served yester night. For her it was quite unusual, for she already treated his presence like an alarm clock. She could not describe it in any way—that was how she saw it—something that she could not leave behind. With his absence came her dread of being alone with her thoughts. It was either that damn Sachiko or her missing painting. Somehow, restoring Kinomoto paintings was already taxing and tiresome that she did not even notice being asleep in the middle of her room's mess, dreaming of ex-acto knives and her missing painting and Sachiko and Suguru.
She stared at her suspended hands (occupied with a palette and a brush) and never noticed that she stopped working for almost five minutes. She put them down and settled them on her lap, and she looked outside. Still not here.
She often wondered how he handled his business; she was immensely surprised of how lax his schedule was. Out of curiosity, she was baffled of how he managed his time wisely, and envied him.
(He was many things—things that she could not even comprehend.)
As she tried to focus of the Hinata that she was restoring, her mind shifted to the kiss Suguru and she had shared. It just dawned to her, just now—at the moment when Suguru was not seated at his spot for the night. She was not affected by it, not by a great deal—but she argued to herself that she was not herself when that happened. She knew that she was silently over-analyzing and over-reading her emotions now about the matter—but it troubled her. If she were herself, she would have not entertained such sudden familiarity from Kashiwagi firsthand. Even though she could be cynically flirtatious, she would never go beyond her station as his employee by accepting the gesture. She would retaliate, would flinch defensively, flashing a warning that she had the balls to consider it sexual harassment.
The truth sunk in—she was already considering him a replacement emotional soundboard, a role that Sei usually was responsible for. He knew that she had issues and was never afraid to slam it to her face, just like Sei. And for some sort of reason, she didn't mind.
Yet Sei was all a good friend. They almost had it—Yumi had tried to seduce her once, when she was hurdling in despair over Sachiko's betrayal—but Sei would not want of it. That time Yumi thought that she had found Sei to be such a keeper—she never fucks friends. Sexual innuendos here and there, but they never get anywhere, not even when Yumi had the mood to consider herself that she could.
Suguru was a different matter. Maybe because he's a man and being the opposite of her species marked him as foreign and a little bothersome. Men—she heard and experienced—were animals—with a very opposing view with Yuuki, she must add. Very interesting creatures, but animals still. About women: they were the submissive half of the species, but they could be sly creatures, using their charms—subtle or otherwise—to ensnare men and women alike. She had tasted both worlds and it was expected to learn things, even horrible ones about her own sex.
She thought of Sachiko.
She dismissed her from her thoughts.
"Tea?"
That jerked her out of her reverie; she did not notice that Suguru was already in his spot, already sipping his tea. He was wearing black slacks and a white shirt underneath a black blazer. His silver necktie was still in its impeccable place. She stood from her stool to retrieve his offered tea.
(Now, about that little diversion they had last time—)
"Do not bring it up."
Surprisingly, both of them growled that, and stared at each other with appalling scowls on their faces. In silent agreement, both of them would never breach the subject ever again.
"She called me."
"Who?"
"Sachiko."
"Is she the reason you're out of sorts?" He questioned.
"Is there a person who you could never forgive?"
He stiffened. She noticed that his eyes were staring heavily and darkly at the gardens, seemingly weighing his options whether to disclose the answer. Then he said, "There is one."
"Me too . . . there's one . . . there's one," she said in a sing-song voice—a bleak staccato. Then, she changed the subject. "Your friend, Ryu-san, is a very nice guy. I don't think he could hurt a fly."
He turned to her, gone was his sinister expression. "Is that how you see him?"
She sipped her tea. "Yeah. I wonder how he'd cope if something bad . . . really fucked-up bad happened to him." In her head, she imagined Sachiko leaving him. It was not a very foreign idea. It was so vivid she could almost pity the guy.
Like I said, is three years not enough for you?
Yumi shuddered at the memory of her own rejection.
"Cheerful, naïve types are like elastic bands." He said looking at her, his face relaxed, as if he knew what she was like in the past. In her mind, she blanched.
(Soundboard, huh?)
Outside, she smirked smugly, "I quite agree."
Several hours later
Murata Keichii had been hurting his bottom for the last four hours since he sat on his spot near the west wall of the Kinomoto compound where he could see Fukuzawa Yumi under surveillance. It was his job for the president for the last weeks ever since the painter went back from Musashino weeks ago. He adjusted the rim of his already worn-out fedora hat—his lucky charm—so that he could see the compound below. He was on the upper outskirts of the neighborhood.
Quickly, he pulled two magnums from the holster of his belt, twisted behind and stood up with his legs spread. His arms were straight, pointing the guns to two men wearing black suits, who were also probing their guns to his skull.
Then, he heard a click at the back—another was pointing to the back of his head. Three against one. He's in deep shit.
"Murata, you never learn."
"Shimata, nice to see you." He greeted to the man behind him. "You were working with Kinomoto before, and now, with Kashiwagi? You really can't stay away from the compound, can you?" Keichii goaded, but the bead of sweat on his forehead betrayed him.
"And you are working with Ogasawara. Turns out you're still in the lower of ranks, an errant dog personally spying my master." Shimata spitted, not an ounce amused. "Kashiwagi Suguru would like to talk to you, if you don't mind."
Keichii's three adversaries were still pointing their guns to his head, barely moving. He pivoted backward, aimed to have one of his guns pointing to Shimata, but the latter read his moves and swiftly stepped to reposition himself at Keichii's back.
Shimata said, a little annoyed. "Surrender your guns and just meet Kashiwagi-sama. You are at a disadvantage, Murata-san, and if you don't do what you're told, you might as well have a bullet or two in your brain. It would be a very strenuous task—to dispose your corpse, so please spare me the worst."
"Then why don't you just kill me?"
"You're too shrewd for that."
The two men in black suits raised their empty hands. Keichii lowered his arms and surrendered his two magnums.
He was lead to Kashiwagi's study, a room very different from the rest. He noticed both western and eastern paintings on the walls—The Scream looming at him like an idiot. He felt more pathetic as he stared at the art piece. The two men in black suits pushed him to a long couch, put both his magnums on the middle table, and walked out of the room, while Shimata motioned to a corner near Kashiwagi, who was sipping tea from a porcelain teacup. Shimata just stood stiffly at the background.
His guns were haphazardly resting at the table in front of him. What the hell was this game?
"Would you like tea, Murata Keichii-san?" Kashiwagi asked hospitably. Murata couldn't read him at all. He then decided to play his game.
"Yes."
"Shimata-san." Kashiwagi ordered. "Of course, Sir." Shimata suddenly produced a cup of tea and placed it between the guns. He did not mind to get the firearms away from the table. Then he resumed to his position in the room.
"I'm sorry my men were rough on you today. All I want is just to talk. And run errands for me. Were they rough on you, Murata-san?" Kashiwagi asked distantly.
Murata could not produce a proper reply. He tried not to stare at his guns. Then, he got an idea. "What do you want with me?" He looked at Kashiwagi in challenge.
"I want you to tell me what you were feeding to the old Ogasawara."
A beat passed. Before he could take hold of one of the guns at the table, a swish of air and an ear-shattering ping dashed to the gun he was about to grab. His magnum flew away. That stopped him moving—he could not decide the proper course of action, whether to take cover at the sofa or to stop moving. He's fucked.
"A little early, Master Kashiwagi." Shimata said nonchalantly.
"You think so, Shimata? You should give me a break—I took it from my belt at the back, having a Clint Eastwood reference here." Kashiwagi replied to his butler.
"The swing of the arm was perfect, sir, but the aim was off. You were aiming for Murata's head, weren't you?"
Murata's sweat rolled down his sideburns. That was not a fucking miss. Kashiwagi's arm was steady, unfazed—his aim was really on the gun. He was thankful enough it was not his head.
"Quite right. Having two guns in front of him takes me at a disadvantage. To think you were holding a tea set there." Kashiwagi replied to Shimata, as if Murata was not in the room.
And Shimata was.
"Now, Murata-san. Why did Ogasawara send you here? Was it because of Fukuzawa Yumi?"
Where was his fedora hat now?
"Yes, I'm tailing Fukuzawa Yumi."
Kashiwagi Suguru, the current master of the house, narrowed his eyes at Murata. "I thought so. I just want you to send this to your employer," Kashiwagi produced a green envelope to Shimata. Shimata settled the tea set to a table, and handed it to Murata. On it was a seal—Kinomoto.
"I want to meet him."
Yoshino was bored; no, rather, Yoshino despised inactivity. This probably stemmed out from her inability to be more proactive back when she still had her cardiac disease, but now, liberated from all that restrained her as a weakling, was now hungry for more of what life has to offer. It was fairly surprising that she had this job in the first place—she aimed to be a detective, just like how she read detective and samurai stories back in her younger days. She became and insurance agent when a client of hers commissioned her for a job years back. Since then, it was her side-job. It grew out on her.
Before, commissions were continuous, eventful, dramatic. For every piece of painting, there was mystery behind the owner, and everyone that surrounded him. It was different with the recent case. The painter and the owner were the same. Now, this would go with all that could be related to this ascetic painter—everyone in the past and the present would be included in the search. She did not sell the painting in the first place. She was among the new artist, and due to her recent works, she had garnered a little place among the contemporary masters. Very little, she emphasized.
Now, about inactivity: it seemed that something happened there at the Kashiwagi's place. Rei was particularly happy about it, that when Yoshino asked (indirectly and discreetly) what Sachiko might have told her during the best friends' afternoon teas, Rei gave a little glowing smile. Sachiko always had a special place to her heart, a place that Yoshino could peek but unable to barely enter. All she said that Sachiko was optimistic. That was a little bold declaration from the one that left Yumi in the dust years ago—so, in all cases, something must have happened. A reconciliation, maybe? Or closer to that?
A reconciliation. That would be a big leap. That would change something in the course of Yumi's human relationships. Reconciliation would open up doors that were sealed after they became enemies. These doors would open the reasons that they separated in the first place.
Reasons . . . what are they? Yoshino knew that their breakup had something to do with Sachiko's engagement to Touma Ryu, who she could assume as a forced advertisement by the patriarch of the Ogasawara family. Probably, her grandfather knew about Yumi and Sachiko's affair. If so, then, once this reconciliation reached him, what would he do? Would he be secured by Ryu and Sachiko's marriage binding, or would he be alarmed that a subliminal event had been happening without his grasp or understanding? Yoshino assumed that he doesn't like being out of control. He was a very organized Seitokai president, Yuuki-san commented once.
On the other hand, she supposed that Touma Ryu knew nothing of the whole affair. Even though he was easy-going, he would not allow his wife near the painter if he did. Yumi and Sachiko might have pretended that nothing was wrong; however, they would act as if they were long past the sisterhood magic that they shared long ago, which people so assumed about proverbial sisters from Lillian Academy. Ryu knew nothing of Yumi except that she used to be Sachiko's little sister and one of his favorite painters, according to Yuuki. Now, about reconciliation—he knew nothing of that. Sachiko would not even mention it, because, in the first place, he did not know that there was a quarrel. It would not make sense. So, what if he discovered something? If there were a reconciliation back at Kashiwagi's place, then, somehow, he would feel change. He would be curious. Somehow, he would discover something.
Those secrets are meant to be exposed.
(But that was a long shot.)
Yoshino sighed. Yumi could be secretive, more so in the case of Sachiko.
(Move, people, move!)
Sachiko threw the pebble to the lake; it's time for others to react to that as well.
Yoshino was bored, until Yuuki, who was sitting behind his desk, received a call.
"Sei?"
Yumi's visitor glomped her.
"Whoah . . . okay, okay, stop—dammit, Sei. Okay, okay." Yumi's first reaction was to avoid Sei's fierce embrace, but for an unforeseen reason, she stayed in her position and let her senior indulge. Indeed, something was wrong. Sei's grip was stronger than Yumi had anticipated, and her head was buried to her hair. "Sei, I might dirty you with the pigments. I'm still in my apron."
They were at the doorway of Yumi's workroom.
She still did not budge. "Sei, something wrong?" The painter suddenly asked.
"I was going to ask you that." Sei's hold became tighter.
"Why's that?"
Sei spoke muffled by Yumi's hair. "Last week. You never told me. I was worried."
They settled on the floor of Yumi's workroom, admiring the unfinished second Hinata painting. Yumi's head rested on Sei's lap while Sei played with the painter's chestnut locks.
"You didn't have to go here just to check on me. I was able to handle Sachiko perfectly. You don't have to worry too much." Yumi said softly; suddenly a little sympathetic. It had been too long ever since they talk like this. "I'm a big girl."
"Where's the cocky Yumi and what have you done with her?"
"You are ruining a very rare mood, Sei."
Sei suddenly bent down, planted her forehead to Yumi's own, and closed her eyes. Yumi was yet again surprised at the gesture—Sei was never this touchy. She seldom revealed her vulnerabilities with abandon as she did now. Yumi closed her eyes too. She could feel Sei's heat through the small contact of their foreheads.
But Yumi still could not read her thoughts. Sei said nothing. What's going on?
Touma Ryu was suddenly outside the office of his grandfather-in-law. He turned the knob of the double doors leading to the huge room, only to be greeted by Ogasawara Kyouichii's knowing stare. Pathetic—that was all he read through the lens of the Ogasawara patriarch. Ryu's defeat was defined with his presence in the president's office.
Even with his dismal feelings, Ryu stood erectly and faced Kyouichii.
The patriarch drawled, "You pathetic fool. Now you understand that I never tell lies."
Ryu's eyes were suddenly inhuman, void of moisture. "Yes, I clearly know what I heard."
TO BE CONTINUED
A/N: AUTHOR HAD A TERRIBLE CASE OF WRITER'S BLOCK. And she hate it so damn much. Sorry for the delay. She hopes this chapter is satisfying—it felt so lacking. She blames it to herself, and the damn block. Author needs comments about Ryu. Very badly—hoping that she was imparting the right perspective of him.
About the OCs: I can't help but set a little piece of personality in them. I really like butler types.