Lust
Part Seven
Part 7
The Kuroneko teahouse was one that we, as Schwarz, nominally owned, and used as a temporary base of operations when we were dealing with the underworld. Unlike most of the teahouses in the area it is not a brothel. In fact it is rather well to do, where middle-aged ladies meet to practise the tea ceremony.
I arrive at around half nine and fuss for the next thirty minutes, making sure that everything is perfect, that there is not a single petal of the flower arrangement out of place. I debated, for ten minutes, over whether or not to have a geisha pour tea for us. I finally decide against it as the Mama of the place lays out two tea bowls and small sugared rice cakes. I am as nervous as a teenager on a first date.
Aya arrives slightly early, in a taxi; I am being completely unsurreptitious hanging over the balcony watching him. Someone has explained to him the level of this place and he has dressed in kimono and hakama. He is wearing his kendo gear. I find I like it.
The teahouse mama leads him in, kneeling at the door just behind her, and then to the table where I have so impatiently waited. He thanks her profusely before sitting facing me. He looks so strange and so beautiful that I want to push away the tiny table between us and make him mine. Unfortunately I know just how easy it is to use hakama and kimono to hide weapons and as I have no intention of being gutted I don’t dare.
“I hope I’m not late.” You say in that mellifluous deep voice that seems at odds with your appearance. I half expect you, willowy thing that you are, to have a whispery voice, something breathy and sweet. “I got caught in traffic.”
“No,” I answer with my heart in my throat, “not at all.” I’m quite amazed that it makes sense. I had thought that being this close to him, after dreading this meeting since I arranged it the day before yesterday that I might forget how to speak a civilized language and started speaking Flemish.
It is Mastermind’s favourite threat for when we ignore him, he threatens that he’ll go mad and start speaking Flemish and we won’t understand what he’s saying.
Nagi tells him it will be an improvement.
I have been a nervous wreck about this date, I find myself daring the word date because I am pretty sure that is what it is. I showered no less than four times this morning, and spent over an hour on my hair, and baring in mind that I was here for half nine you can guess how early I was up this morning. And up being the operative word in this case.
I was jerking off with the regularity of a teenager these past few days, and with the stamina. Even Nagi has better control than me and he has taken to sniggering at certain non amusing juxtapositions. Things like cockpit, extend, and mobile home. He referred to mastermind as a monkey-humper yesterday as Mastermind complained that the last girl he had gone out with had more body hair than a gorilla. It has stuck.
I couldn’t spend too much time with them, as Nagi has discovered euphemisms and there are only so many times that a teenager can make a sort of snorting chuckling noise before the mad German bops him over the head with the pillow, causing the said teenage telekinetic hits him back with the sofa. I had no intention of being caught in the middle so I spent the day at the Well.
Perhaps this had not been the best idea because it meant I spent all day surrounded by my custom made “Aya Fujimiya wallpaper.” I can think of a lot of people I could market that to, but I honestly don’t think I could share.
He’s sitting opposite me now, cradling the tea bowl between perfect white porcelain hands. The tea is a pale gold colour that steams briefly as he holds it to his lips. I have what I would like to be a momentary vision of taking that bowl away from his lips and replacing it with my own. But as I said, I do not know how armed he is, so I don’t dare.
“Try the cakes,” I find myself saying instead, “they were made fresh this morning.”
“Why tea? Crawford, when I said you owed me a drink why take me out for tea.” He asks. It is obviously something he’s been considering.
“I couldn’t think of a bar in Tokyo that we wouldn’t run into either Balinese or Mastermind.” It is a crisp answer, but really I just wanted to frame him with the epitome of Japanese beauty. Here he looks like a samurai resting between battles. I wonder how much it would cost to have his portrait painted in full samurai armour possibly with a horse behind him. I like the idea. I like the idea a lot, now I just have to convince him into liking it as much as I do. “Besides, we are both civilised men of the world, sometimes it behoves us to avail ourselves of such sophistication.”
“Behoves?” he asks, “have you been practising the answer to that question, “I can’t think of anyone who uses the word behoves in everyday conversation.”
“Try a long monologue from Berserker.” I answer drily, “he uses it but in reference to people shoeing the devil.”
“But,” he says looking confused.
“I know, but tell him.” I sip the tea, it is tart and bitter, and I think might be flavoured with mint. It is not entirely pleasant but I daren’t say anything. I have already annoyed the teahouse Mama enough that I am actually a little afraid of her now, she may be half my size and look as if a stiff breeze would do for her, at most fifty pounds soaking wet, but I really don’t want to cross her.
“The Okasan of this place seems a little,” he begins but leaves it open.
“Just a touch.” I agree.
“My maternal grandmother was like that,” he confides leaning across the table so that I can see an expanse of pale throat that I want to sink my teeth into, “my father said she could punch holes through steel with her tongue, but you could rely on Nanny to get the job done, whether it was bullying me into doing my homework or facing down the Home Guard over table manners.” He smiles, a fond and distant smile, with his beautiful amethyst eyes looking down and to the left as he remembers. “She had the meanest hand with her fan, I swear she could knock you out cold without breaking the spines.” I laugh, because it is genuinely quite a funny reminiscence.
“My own granny was the opposite, a big burly woman who baked pies and had hands like slabs of meat.” It seems only fair to share that information with him, “I was terrified of her, she would grab me by the ear whenever I did anything wrong and then pinch my cheeks, and her thumbs were that big,” I make a gesture with my hand, “I had rosy cheeks till I was fifteen from Nana Crawford’s thumbs.”
He throws his head back and laughs before leaning forward, his elbows on the table and his mouth mere inches from mine, “I can imagine you as a snot nosed child running amok amongst your grandmother’s vegetable patch.”
“I’ll have you know I was perfectly behaved.” I say being mock offended.
“At your grandmother’s.” He finishes for me. “Nanny and mother were so different, Nanny wouldn’t be afraid to get her hands dirty and I can remember helping her chase her cat around the garden, but mother wouldn’t have done that. It was Nanny that helped me build a fort in the back garden, my mother was always ‘Ran, be careful, those clothes were clean on.’ And Nanny would shout at her that boys get dirty, that was when Aya was a baby of course.” He stops then, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Because you can.” I offer rather tentatively.
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” He concedes, “all the others had really unique childhoods and I grew up in the suburbs with my sister.” I think before his sister woke up getting that kind of information from him would have required power tools and an extraction team. “And for some reason I feel comfortable with you, maybe it’s because you’ve been stalking me all these weeks.”
I spray green mint tea at that. There is no way he could have known, I have been remarkably discrete.
“I mean it seems that every time I turn around you’re there.” He smiles at me, his lips are thin but look firm and determined. I get the distinct impression that he is teasing me. “Even when I least expect you, and then out of the blue you invite me out for tea, I mean what’s a boy to think?” I can’t think of answer. “Besides you’re my nicest stalker, there’s Sakura, and despite the fact that she’s in America she still phones me three times a week to make sure I’m eating. She’s absolutely terrible for it, you pay for me to eat.”
“I haven’t taken you out for dinner yet.” I stammer.
“But it’s on your agenda, isn’t it?” I have to admit that it was. “Good.” He says, “I really like Italian.” It could have been worse.
“I thought you liked American.” I tease, quite amazed at my audacity that I can say that.
“I do,” he assures me, “but I am really in the mood for Italian, it’s all Yohji’s fault, he was telling me about this date he went on last night and the pasta that they had and now I have a taste for it. So, shall we go out for lunch and have pasta and garlic bread and rich red wine.” He’s deliberately teasing me, I know it, Italian’s expensive.
“Fine.” I answer, “as long as you don’t mind getting pasta sauce on your kimono.”
His smile that time is wicked, “oh you’ll find that I don’t suck that messily.” I walked into that, utterly and completely and it’s all I can do not to blush and rearrange myself so that I can sit comfortably as erect as I have become at that comment. “And I really do enjoy meatballs.” I want to whimper. “I roll them around in my mouth to suck off all the sauce and then bite into them, quick and hard.” It’s a wonder he’s not laughing out loud, of course it’s entirely possible that I have spent too much time the last couple of days with Nagi and now I’m seeing absolutely everything as a euphemism. I can imagine Nagi stood there pointing and saying, “he said balls.”
“I’m a bigger fan of the seafood myself,” I manage, amazed at how calm my voice sounds, “especially the calamari, I love how soft and slick it feels on the tongue.” I can play too, you can’t live with Mastermind and pick up a trick or two about euphemisms, “and they always serve it in a salty creamy sauce that the linguini makes dribble down the chin.”
“A pity it’s too early for lunch,” Aya tells me then pops one of the sugared fancies into his mouth, “but these are divine,” he tells me after he swallows it. “I’ll have to get the recipe for Omi, he likes to bake but stops at flapjack, though he makes the best flapjack, it’s crumbly and sticky and sweet and chewy all at once.”
I wonder just how badly I’ll be maimed if I kiss him. Why is it in times like this I can’t get my precognition to work?
“So are you taking me for lunch?” He asks archly.
“Do you want me to? I mean aren’t you worried about being seen with me?”
“Of course not,” he answers, “as long as you’re paying."
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