Thank you to Tarantasik for betaing :)

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He did it. Holy shit, he did it.

Senior year at high school was the hardest, he only got one extra mark needed to pass the Math exam, and that was when all the actual delinquents kept trying to beat the shit out of him, but fuck them, because he did it.

After that, he moved out into a crummy little studio with peeling paint that was too yellow to be called white, and obnoxiously creaky floorboards that shrieked even though he wasn't even fucking stepping anywhere near that particular spot; but it was close to the university, it took him five minutes to get there on foot, so that didn't leave much time for trouble to find him on the way there or back.

He made a couple of straight-laced friends who lived in the same building and studied on the same campus as well: the idealist Kou, who studied IT, and Takato, the sensible one studying Accountancy; hanging out with them practically forced Akihito to be good.

The only thing that brought him close to a deal-breaker was his new way of art appreciation.

He lived and breathed imagination and creativity so much that he'd had art permanently put on his body in the form of two full-length sleeve tattoos, right from shoulder down to the knuckles of his hands, in traditional Japanese Irezumi style.

His right arm featured a twisting red dragon that lent him strength and determination on the days where he was itching for a face to smash or bricks to color on. It coiled from his wrist around the length of his arm, all the way up to the front his shoulder where the head of the beast roared in permanent silence on his skin in defiance of his urges that would piss on everything.

His left arm featured a pair of serene koi fish, reds and oranges blending in on their scales, the first koi flowed with the lines of his upper arm, tail starting at the elbow, swimming upward toward his shoulder. The other fish was swimming down from his elbow, molding over the length of his forearm. They brought him resolution and a new sense of clear-headedness that was impossible for the bad tempered person he was in high school; they helped him grow up and mellow out just a tad, because Takaba Akihito would never be considered mellow.

Both pieces were tied together with pink sakura blossoms placed tastefully as if floating on top of black and gray clouds flowing over his skin.

A large crimson Chrysanthemum took up the entire the space on the backs of each hand, deep in hue with clean lines and solid color, the work impeccable, they finished just above his permanently scarred knuckles.

He was proud of traditional Japanese art, and what better way for him to express his pride than to have the symbol of Japan in plain sight no matter what he wore.

He was pushing the boundaries a little bit with his folks with the tattoos, but the pain, the endless droning of the gun, and long hours on the table as the needle drove ink into his skin were all worth it.

Once Shige, his tattooist, sat back from his chair and announced it was finished, one year after the first dot for the outline went into his flesh, he felt this sense of completeness.

He was an artist in truth, not a punk brat; he was emancipated from all the bad reputations he'd gained as a teen.

Who he was on the inside was now reflected on the outside, and it was so much easier to stay out of trouble after that. Instead of painting on brick walls and drawing in wannabe gangsters to brawl with, he could look at the art on his arms, he could sketch on paper, put watercolor on canvas or take meaningless photos that meant something to him, because he was a goddam artist, and he wasn't too shabby either.

He stayed out of trouble, but it didn't mean that trouble never came to him, because it did, and often. His rep as a teen rebel might be gone, but his tattoos gave him a new sort of stereotype. Yet another reason to hold on to this deal, so he could get out.

He'd gotten into shit a few times in town when he went out drinking because of his body art, people sometimes mistook him for yakuza, and he'd often been chased out of certain districts because they thought he was from a rival clan. He was pretty fit as a result and knew the places he could and couldn't go to, not that it ever stopped him.

One time, at the start of his last year at university, he managed to take a wrong turn and get himself caught, and dragged back to a clan head, Yoshio Tsunoda, who laughed at the thought of the blonde posing any threat to them. He then sat Akihito down and they got drunk on sakè while talking about various styles of Japanese art and tattoos, from Hannya masks and samurai to three legged crows and Tengu of the ancient forests.

In the end, he even designed a back piece for the Yoshio of the Inagawa group, which Akihito learned was the third largest yakuza family in Japan.

He cut it pretty fucking close alright, lucky the old bugger saw what his underlings didn't, a stubborn young man with the knack for getting in the shit, not anyone dangerous, because forget about his overseas trip if the man thought otherwise he'd be sunk to the depths of Tokyo Bay instead.

The rest of his studies flew by after the tattoos were finished; he did his best to buckle down. Three years of post high school study was a long time, but a chance to see the world, to get out and travel and appreciate everything he desired was worth many more years than that. He was constantly online, looking for places to go and things he wanted to see, the list got bigger and bigger each day.

He stuck to his assignments, had a few boyfriends and girlfriends here and there, failed epically at the attempted relationships because he had no clue what he was doing really, attended all his lectures, he even commissioned a few pieces between semesters and made some money for himself, and finally before his 23rd birthday, graduated a Bachelor of Art with honors, he minored in English studies.

He was faced with a choice after gradation; leave Japan right away, or take up a job offer he was given; a short-term commission project that would last him until the end of July, the irony was though, that he was being commissioned to fucking spray paint murals of Japanese folktales in a popular gallery that had displayed some pretty big names. People knew about his talent with spray cans it seemed, and they offered him an entire wall from top to bottom, corner to corner of clean white paint that hadn't been tainted, and he couldn't resist.

At the beginning of August, his exhibit was put on display and it was announced it would be a permanent change to the walls of the gallery; his work was going to be there forever.

That itself was worth hanging around in Tokyo for the extra months.

Now though, that glorious plane ticket that was in his hands, along with the chrysanthemum emblazoned booklet that would get him out of this country and closer to his dreams.

The old man kept his end of the bargain, and right now you couldn't wipe the smile off of Takaba Akihito's face with a sledgehammer.

The reigns were finally coming off after four long years. He was almost, almost, to do one last graffiti mural down an alley, or he could pick a fight with all the pricks that still plagued him from high school, but there would be no point in that.

He'd made something of himself. He was actually allowed to express himself properly, legitimately, not illegally on a brick wall at midnight, or with his fists. There was no need for that shit now.

He was at the international terminal of the airport, his flight due to leave in an hour, his first destination, an artists' treasure trove, St Petersburg, Russia.

Paris, Venice or Berlin, he could have gone to any of those places, and he would eventually, but the soonest flight out after his commison project ended was to St Petersburg, so he picked that the moment he had the money from it in his hand.

In an awkward silence where words should be said, but no one could bring themselves to say them, so everyone present averted their eyes instead, he shook his father's hand, the first physical contact they'd had in years that didn't end in conflict. He still hand the instinct to shy away, a flinch from a blow that wouldn't come this time.

Their hands were stiff, unfamiliar in each others grip, the handshake of acquaintances more than family. He noted with no surprise that his old man didn't have his wedding band on, and then he looked over to his mom, she didn't either. It'd been like that since he was old enough to remember.

Being in each other's company wasn't like pins and needles anymore like it used to be. That's about as far as their family dynamic would ever go, and that was all good with him, because he had the plane ticket, his passport, a camera bag strapped over one shoulder, and a backpack with a sketch book, charcoals, oil pastels and travel guides in it over the other, his other luggage he'd already checked in.

The humdrum of the busy terminal continued around the small pocket of obstinate silence, a man in a suit ran with his briefcase flailing as he tried not to be late for his flight, a family huddled together crying as one of their children left for an obviously long time, one man sat and looked at his watch every five minutes while he read the finance section of today's paper, and a couple kissed intimately in the corner on their way to their honeymoon.

His flight was called, he was already picking his things up from the floor before the announcement finished, and his parents were already standing up to leave.

"If you get in trouble overseas, you're on your own." Takaba senior said as a statement, he still didn't fucking know how to talk to his own son.

"Yeah." Akihito shrugged it off, not like he'd expect help now that his parents weren't legally responsible for him anyway. "Catch ya later, mom, dad."

He walked away without a backwards glance, disappearing from his parents' sight as the crowds of the airport enveloped him.