Roulette

Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Tokyopop, and Zipper.

Warnings and rants: Eventual slash relationships. Weird spec-fic-ness. This is my baby. (Or one of them) I'm proud of it. ;_;

Summary: Paradise Kiss, five years later- give or take a few months.

Radishface

"So where are you now?"

"L'aeroport de Charles de Gaulle, monsieur. Et vous?"

"Une salle de classe dans l'ecole pour les arts de Yazawa."

"Oui, je sais."

"Si tu sais, pourquoi est-ce que tu me demande?"

"To practice my French, Seiji."

"I've already heard from Hamada that your French is excellent."

"These people are completely paranoid of other people butchering their beloved French."

"Then I suppose you have to practice."

"Oui."

Kaori was in the Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, wandering around the Cinnabon stand, wondering if she should forsake her figure for fifteen minutes and indulge in a caramel-pecan bun. Seiji had called, quite unexpectedly, and she had been pleased to hear from him, but she was waiting for the moment he would ask. Of course he would ask.

Kaori's resolve strengthened and she got in line for her caramel-pecan bun.

"Where are you headed off to?" Seiji asked, and Kaori shrugged the phone further up her shoulder as she flipped through a magazine.

"I'm going to New York."

"For the Caroline Herrera show or for BCBG Max Azria?"

"Silly Seiji." Kaori smirked. "Why would anyone showcase two leading brands in one week?"

"I don't know how long you're there for."

"I'm actually heading for Caroline Herrera, and then I'm going to Los Angeles for the Oscar de la Renta showcase."

" Is my little Kaori is rediscovering her feminine side?"

"No, she's just going to get inspired by the grand masters." Kaori laughed. "I'm basically getting last-minute ideas for my line before the opening week. Not everybody likes an Anna Sui copy, and Tokyo is filled with Anna-Sui wannabes." Mikako included, Kaori thought. And what's with combining the Burberry pattern with Chanel tweed?

"Kaori, even you couldn't put together an evening dress in a month." A pause. "And your line will be nothing like Anna Sui."

She sighed. "Anna Sui aside, I know the real reason you're calling."

Seiji laughed. "Nobody's seen him anywhere lately, and I had a bit of trouble getting your number from a very elusive Hamada."

The cashier waved for the next customer, and Kaori took her wallet out of her Louis Vuitton Murakami bag, a gift to her from George. She actually loathed the thing, but there was something about the tacky colors (and the ubiquitous "LV") that just screamed status!

"George is fine." Kaori smiled absently. "He's back at my place somewhere in the old quartier d'affaires."

"So he's in Paris?"

"Yes." Kaori pointed at the caramel-pecan bun in the display, and took out a five Euro as the cashier added it up. "And spending money like you wouldn't imagine. Yesterday he pre-ordered two tickets for Cannes, although I have no idea who he plans to take." Looks like little Johji is finally using his father's account, Kaori added mentally.

"Not you?" Seiji said.

"Nope." Kaori smiled at the cashier and took the Cinnabon box. "Besides, I'm already dating someone else, and George really isn't my type."

"I'm sure his characteristics don't suit you." Seiji said, and Kaori flushed.

"All right, so maybe we've fooled around a little. But he needs to find himself a new girlfriend..." She paused. "Or boyfriend. He's still pining over that Yukari Hayasaka girl."

"Caroline."

"Yes, of course, Caroline. Just like Caroline Herrera." Kaori sat down at a table and dug into her caramel-pecan bun. "Damnit, Seiji."

"What is it?"

"I just hate seeing him like that." Kaori felt her heart clench, and brushed it off.

"Pining over some woman? I know, it's not very characteristic of George."

"No, not just that." Kaori said, her mouth full. Damn, but it was sweet. She needed some coffee later. Was there a Starbucks nearby...? "He's gone into a creative slump. You saw the dress he designed at the Yaza fashion show. It wasn't completely original, you know, but it was gorgeous all the same. But he's just been getting worse and worse, and I swear, I've taken a look at some of his sketches lately and he might as well be designing for Miwako, since everything is patterened after the Gothic Lolita." She chewed. "He needs someone to pull him out of his funk."

"I think George is just a little exhausted after that whole ordeal with Caroline." Kaori rolled her eyes at the use of that name. "She was a very... should I say it... vivacious spirit."

"Best of luck to her." Kaori mumbled, and crammed the rest of the caramel-pecan bun into her mouth, chewing furiously. She checked her watch. "Well, Seiji, it's been great talking to you. I'll see you around when I get back to Tokyo."

"Is your flight being called?"

"No, but my bladder is."

Seiji laughed.

Joichi had offered to take Sakura to a well-known noodle shop in Shinjuku that Sunday, and after she got over her initial disappointment at wasting a perfectly good lunch hour at some home-cooking Japanese restaurant (instead of that French bistro that had opened down in Ginza that she had been dying to try), they were seated at the tables, calligraphy scrolls and hardwood floors and tatami mats making Joichi feel quite at home, even as Sakura squirmed impatiently in her seat.

A blond boy with an earring in his ear and a tiny but conspicuous hole on the side of his mouth came to take their order. Joichi had ordered the udon with the sukiyaki beef, while Sakura had opted for some cold sobe noodles and tempura. They had eaten their meal in relative silence, and judging by the look on her face, Joichi assumed that Sakura had not tasted Japanese food in quite a while, not with all her socialite friends going to the French bistros every day.

Sakura accidentally spilled her green tea over the table and broke into pseudo-hysteria when a few drops fell onto her new skirt. The waiter had come over with a dishtowel and she had proceeded to rattle on about the dismal quality of the service, the blandness of the food, so on and so forth. Joichi had taken to looking at that hole in his mouth again, probably for a piercing of some sort, and had reassured him that no harm was done. The deathly look the waiter shot towards the phillandering Sakura and the surpressed disdain in his eyes amused Joichi, and Joichi's good mood redoubled.

Sakura left the restaurant in a huff once they were done, saying she would be at the boutique down the street if Joichi wanted to come get her. Joichi sat there a little longer, picking at his teeth with a toothpick, marveling at how content he felt. He hadn't been this full for a while- all those French and Italian restaurants (with their miniscule servings!) had left him feeling a little bereft that the udon noodles had cured. The waiter came over and started collecting their dishes, and Joichi reached into his wallet and pulled out five thousand yen, watching the waiter's expression morph from one of perpetual boredom to bewildered astonishment.

"And tell me, young man" Joichi leaned in conspiratorily and smiled, pointing to the piercing hold on the side of the boy's mouth, "why you are here working when you could be frolicking around in Harajuku with the rest of your kind? It's Sunday, you know."

The young man flushed and stumbled as he lifted the dishes, averting his eyes. "This is my job, sir, and these are the hours."

"I wish my own son were a little more like you." Joichi sighed, got up, straightening his jacket. "It was an excellent meal- don't mind her." He gestured in the direction of the door. "It's about time I moved on, anyway."

The waiter was staring at him with a strangely intent expression, and Joichi raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry." The waiter bowed slightly, and transferred the dishes to his other hand. "It's just that you remind me of someone I knew."

Joichi chuckled. "Then you must be Arashi."

Arashi took a step back in surprise and blinked. "I-"

"No, Johji spoke of you and your group often." He paused. "Or at least, when he did speak with me."

"We haven't seen him in a while." Arashi ventured. "Do you- I mean- how is he?"

Joichi cocked his head to the side. "I spoke to Hamada-" He watched Arashi wince, and laughed. "Hamada told me she heard from Seiji, who had heard from a young correspondent in France, that George seems to be in Paris right now." Joichi shook his head. "And so Chanel and Louis Vuitton are quite accessible to him at the moment."

Arashi blinked again, and nodded. "If he's all right, then."

Well, I wouldn't say that. Joichi thought, and dismissed Arashi with a wave of his hand. "Off with you. And don't mind the tip. I'll leave it right here."

The young man eyed the five thousand yen uncertainly, but gave him a sincere smile, however uneasy he was. "Good afternoon, sir." He said, and then headed off to the kitchens, balancing the bowls and plates in one hand.

Joichi called for his chauffeur on his cell phone and waited as it pulled up along the curb. Sakura was nowhere in sight, and he climbed in the black Mercedes just as it started to rain.

Yukari nervously toyed with the edge of her Michael Kors halter top dress and hoped the electric blue wasn't too gauche for the occassion. She had seen Travis Fimmel just a minute ago in a Diesel Style Lab jacket and had felt slightly reassured- the former cologne model still wallowing in his bad-boy milieu.

For once, she wasn't here to model for anything. She had closed the contracts with Miu Miu a few days ago during her week in Seoul and would start working with the line in four weeks. The style of Miu Miu reminded her of Happy Berry, in some obscure way, with the layers and the jackets and the perpetual demeanor of mismatch.

The show had just finished, and receptions were in order. She stood by the counter, taking in the stage lights, the runway, and smiled absently. She wondered what George would say if he could see her now. After disengaging herself from the title of Mrs. To-Be-Koizumi, her career had skyrocketed, and she felt a surge of apprehension every time a new designer called- things could only go downhill from here. Yukari fixed her eyes on the rim of her martini glass and gave it a gentle swirl.

She had talked to Suguru yesterday, the little brat. Ever since she moved overseas, he had been keeping up with her schedule, with the emerging trends of the fashion scene- then again, he kept up with everything- world politics, the economy, the stock market in Tokyo and New York. They had talked for almost an hour yesterday, and he reassured her that their mother was fine and yes, they were receiving the monthly checks. He had gotten himself an English tutor and was working on his accent. And Suguru was working now- he had been promoted from the technician position at the arcade he worked at to its assistant manager, and with the wages he was making now, he told Yukari he would be able to take the whole family to Osaka in the spring.

"Including dad?" Yukari had said, surprised.

"It wouldn't be a family vacation if he wasn't included." Suguru laughed, and Yukari found a lump in her throat. "You'll come too, Yukari. Do you think you can take some time out of your busy schedule for the second week in April? I'm deliberately calling you a couple months ahead about this, just to get on your agenda. But don't tell mother about it- it's a surprise for the rest of them."

Yukari blinked back the sudden, unexplainable tears in her eyes and managed a weak smile, even if Suguru couldn't see it. "Well, I'll see. I don't even know if mother wants to see me after I bolted like that."

"Of course she does." Suguru reassured. "She knew you were searching for your own success. In my opinion, I couldn't care less about how somebody gets their money, as long as they get it."

"Suguru-" Yukari started.

"Of course prostitution and drug money and all that is bad, bad stuff. You know I didn't mean it that way." Suguru laughed, and Yukari laughed with him. "But the fashion industry doesn't hide from mother, and neither should you."

"Thanks." Yukari said, and heard Suguru snort.

"It's no problem. Speaking of which, aren't you in New York right now? Let me guess- it's either Caroline Herrera or Valentino."

"The latter." Yukari said. And here she was, in a blue Michael Kors dress and Manolos, a martini in one hand and a Prada handbag in the other. She had seen some people walk by her with a glimmer of recognition in their eyes- isn't that the Japanese model?

"Yukari Hayasaka?" A voice came, and she turned around to face an older woman, a little shorter than her, a vodka shotglass hanging between her fingers, blonde hair obviously dyed, large, wavering, glassy eyes holding a perpetually insecure expression.

"Yukino Koizumi?" Yukari blinked, and then managed her best smile. "How are you?"

"I'm fine!" The older woman said, breaking out into a smile. "I just- how are you?"

"I'm well." Yukari nodded. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"It was all right, I guess." Yukino turned to look at the runway. "Who knows what to expect anymore? I was never on the runway, so I wouldn't know- I'm too short for that, and I didn't get my vitamins... never really wanted to eat."

Yukari stared at the back of Yukino's head for a moment. Five years had passed since she had last seen her- the woman was in her mid-40s and already lapsing into incoherency. Maybe it was a result of her ongoing alcoholism.

"So, how's family?" Yukari said, deliberately testing herself, pleased when she felt nothing when she mentioned it.

"Oh, it's as irritating as ever, I suppose." Yukino scowled, and stumbled as she turned to the bar and slammed down the shotglass, signalling for another shot. "Being demoted down to the status of the twenty-second wife doesn't do wonders for my skin, if that's what you're asking."

Yukari looked at the woman out of the corner of her eyes and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Pity."

"I swear, his tastes just get younger and younger. It's a good thing I get some form of alimony, or I'd never be able to buy anything- even though we were never married. But he supports me anyway. That's not what you call alimony, is it? I suppose that's all right, but what's a woman supposed to do when she still loves the same man?" She turned to Yukari, eyes imporing, as if Yukari knew the answer.

"I have no idea." Yukari replied cooly, and set her martini glass down. "And how's George?"

"George." Yukino's eyes widened. "Oh, well, I heard that he was somewhere in Europe. I'm really not sure." She sighed, and looked at Yukari, a sincere smile on her face. "He really missed you when you left, though."

In vino veritas. Yukari thought, and looked away. She has some compassion for her son.

"But you have guts, Yukari." Yukino went on, and grasped the shotglass eagerly when the bartender handed it back to her. "George is an exact replica of his father, and when you left him- when I heard about that, I don't really know what it was that I felt- some form of happiness, I suppose? Don't be like me, Yukari." She said, and raised her hand in a semi-toast, a far-away look in her vacant eyes. "I used to be a model too, and- don't become me. Or anybody else." Yukino closed her eyes in concentration. "Just be yourself. That's the best advice I can offer you. Don't get stuck with a cold husband and a bastard son- I mean that both ways, just be yourself, and-" She tipped her head back and downed the vodka. "That's right."

Yukari pursed her lips and watched as Yukino slumped over the counter, hand loosely clenched around the shotglass. She sat down next to her and pulled out a cigarette from her handbag and then dug around for a lighter.

"Bad girl." Somebody said, and when Yukari looked up, the cigarette was snatched out from between her lips.

"Shimamoto." Yukari said, mildly surprised. "I thought you'd be around." She looked at Yukino's prone form, and hid a smirk. "She's never too far without you."

"Rather sad, isn't it?" Shimamoto said, and gently shook Yukino's prone form. "Wake up, Yuki."

"Kozue?" Came a burbled response. "Go 'way."

Shimamoto shrugged and sat down next to Yukari, flicking the cigarette somewhere into the mingling crowds. Yukari watched with some amusement.

"So how's the little model who could?" Shimamoto asked.

"She's doing well." Yukari replied, and looked Shimamoto over- Burberry silk scarf, Chanel tweed jacket, Anne Klein shoes, Louis Vuitton Murakami handbag (she didn't understand their appeal at all), and a pair of nondescript grey business slacks. She turned to her half-empty martini glass after her assessment, and looked at the runway again. "How's the modeling agency?"

"It's not exactly thriving." Shimamoto gave a wry smile. "It seems to Tokyo that you're the last Japanese model we'll ever have." She poked Yukino in the shoulder and got another burble in reply. "Congratulations on your contract with Miu Miu, by the way."

Yukari smiled but said nothing. Shimamoto seemed more subdued- less flashy, obnoxious- or perhaps it was just the five years in between them, between everything. Her eyes had a serene quality in them that hadn't been there before, her demeanor seemed less icy and derisive than it was indifferently sympathetic. Yukari couldn't explain it, and after a minute, decided she wouldn't bother.

"So," Yukari said, and searched her head for a conversation topic. "How's-" she gestured in Yukino's direction.

"Still pathetically independent upon everything." Shimamoto said. Yukari watched her out of the corner of her eye, saw how Shimamoto's fingers combed briefly through Yukino's hair before she drew her hand back. "And after so many years of hoping, her dear Joichi still hasn't come back to her."

Yukari nodded. "Do you take care of her?"

Shimamoto looked up sharply, and Yukari kept her gaze fixed on the runway, trying to imagine Yukino on the runway, hips jutting, shoulders swinging, head thrown back. In her head, she saw the ghost of Yukino's runway model trip over her expensive and high stilletos and fall face first into the audience. Instead of making her laugh, the thought disturbed her.

"I don't know who else would." Shimamoto replied distantly, and Yukari nodded again.

"Well." Yukari said, and adjusted her dress. She turned to Shimamoto and smiled. "That's my date over there." She pointed into the crowd, and Shimamoto eyes flickered in the direction.

"Really?" She said, and Yukari heard the derisive, sarcastic, mocking Shimamoto she once knew, maybe more in her mind than in reality.

"Yes." Yukari said, and her smile wavered. She knew Shimamoto knew, knew that it wasn't her date waiting there, knew that it wasn't Yukari's fault that there was that perpetual need for cigarettes, knew that Yukari was so alone, so hopelessly alone. "And-" She said, swallowing. "How's George?"

Shimamoto shook her head. "He's in Paris." She said. "That was when I heard from Kaori."

"Ah." Yukari said. "Well, I'll talk to you later."

"Come visit us in Tokyo."

Yukari walked to the restrooms and went into one of the bathroom stalls, sat down on the toilet, and held her tears back. No, it wasn't because of George and Kaori, she didn't care about that, they could do whatever they wanted to do. It was Suguru's optimism, and her mother, and a father she didn't even know. It was that she expected herself to be able to return, and that they wanted her to go back, and it was because she didn't know what was going to happen, if anything was going to happen.

Yukari sat there in the toilet stall, feeling completely pathetic and ridiculous. When she emerged, there was a line for the toilets. She felt absurdly proud of herself that she hadn't cried, for what a scene it would have been- she wasn't using waterproof mascara, and it would have left a trail of black ink running down her face, and all those people waiting would have seen her and thought, isn't that the Japanese model?

Ring, ring, ring.

"We're sorry there's no one here to take your call, but if you'll leave a message, we'll try to return to you as soon as possible."

"This message is for Isabella- this is George Koizumi. I'm sorry I haven't called you, but I've been… busy. Wandering around. I just wanted to say hello, to say that I miss you, that I miss Tokyo. Does Sebastien still have my bottle of Dom Perignon '84?"

Click.

The number had registered as George's cell, and Yamamoto had picked up the phone and had dialed, and had received the answering machine yet again.

"Hello, George. This is Yamamoto, returning your call. I'm fine, and Sebastien is well. I'm sorry that you've missed me. The Dom Perignon is still in the wine cellar. And George-" His voice caught. "If you ever come back to Tokyo, you bastard, I'm going to take that bottle of Dom Perignon and smash it over your head."

Hiro had opened the door to his apartment and had stepped back in surprise.

"Oh, don't mind me." Natsukawa smiled and brushed past him, her arms full of groceries. "I haven't lost the key- it's just that I don't have any extra hands."

"You don't have to do this, you know-" Hiro shut the door and trailed after her tentatively, wondering if he should comment on her skirt- she usually never wore skirts, and had only done so at school because it was part of the uniform. "I mean-"

"You silly boy." Natsukawa said teasingly, setting the groceries down on the counter. "You can't be eating instant food all day if you're going to pass your exams." She grinned at him. "And really, you shouldn't have looked so shocked to see me- I did call and tell you I was going to drop by today."

"Well-" Hiro said, a little flustered. "I thought you were somebody else."

"Who?" Natsukawa raised an eyebrow, and then her smile faded. "Oh, that boy." She turned back to the groceries and started unpacking them, and Hiro stood there, unsure of what to say. "Well." Natsukawa said. "How is the little yakuza doing?"

Her scathing disdain was barely concealed, and Hiro pursed his lips together. "Natsukawa, he's not like that."

"Really?" She said, opening the refrigerator door. "Well, that's good, Hiro, that one of us has faith in him, because I'm sure that's going to save him from the dredges of society."

"You shouldn't jump to conclusions."

She looked at him in the eyes and gave him a tight smile. "Didn't you jump to conclusions when you heard the doorbell?"

Hiro had no reply for that, and went back to his desk and picked up where he left off in his textbook. Moments later, Natsukawa came out of the kitchen and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He gave in and rested his head on her shoulder, and she pressed a kiss into his hair.

"I'm sorry." She said. "I'm just a little stressed."

"We all are." Hiro said.

"I was studying all afternoon for my own exams, and I thought you'd like a break." Natsukawa said. "So I came over, and then we talk about him, and you know I don't like him."

Hiro disengaged himself from her arms. "I know you don't." He said. "But he's an old friend."

"An old friend." Natsukawa said absently, massaging his shoulders. Her fingers dug painfully into his back, and Hiro winced. She stopped, pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, and went back into the kitchen.

Hiro didn't know why he felt so uncomfortable all of a sudden, and although he tried to, he couldn't concentrate on the book in front of him.

"How old of a friend is he?" Natsukawa called from the kitchen, and Hiro stared absently at the text, trying to understand it.

"I've known him since grade school." He replied.

"So how come I've never heard of him before?" She said, and Hiro heard the sound of something frying, the oil sizzling.

"We-" Hiro's voice caught. "We had a fight."

"Over what?"

"A girl."

"And I suppose you lost to him, because I've never heard you talk about this girl, either."

"She was his girlfriend until recently."

"So you had this fight in grade school?" He heard Natsukawa laugh.

"No. It was in middle school."

"And what kind of an idiot girl would chose a delinquent over you?"

Hiro looked up and saw Natsukawa's head poking out behind the kitchen wall. "She did what she wanted to do." He said.

"And why are you friends again all of a sudden?" Natsukawa asked.

"I-" Hiro buried his head in his hands. "I don't know. I just saw Arashi one day, and he saw me, and it had been years since the fight, and I had never been really angry with him anyway."

"And that's it?"

"What else do you want to hear?" Hiro said, frustrated. "And- he's was a little out of luck, but he has a job now, and I don't see why you think he's such a bad person."

"I like to think of myself as a nice, respectable girl, and you as a nice, respectable boy." Natsukawa called from the kitchen in a sing-song voice. "And nice, respectable people do not get involved with Harajuku gangsters."

"He's not-" Hiro clenched the edge of the table. "He was with a fashion brand that helped Yukari get started. And look at where Yukari is now. Tell me that's not respectable."

"Hiro, I'm not condemning your relationship with that whore." Natsukawa said, carrying out a platter of tempura and setting it in front of him. "But even she's better off than he is."

Hiro gritted his teeth. "She was your friend, too."

"Has she even called you once, Hiro? After we graduated, did you two ever communicate? I thought she had a thing for you."

No, Hiro thought, his heart sinking. No, she had never once called. And all that concern for her, all his efforts into trying to bring her back—to what? To security? To a job behind a desk? To college?

"What's his job that you were talking about? Is he corrupting the youth of our country? Is he selling narcotics?"

Hiro struggled to keep his emotions under control. "He's a waiter."

"Oh, that's wonderful." She said, and went back into the kitchen. "I suppose that's considered the top of the ladder among his people."

Hiro stood up and slammed his hands against the table, breathing heavily. "Natsukawa, are you deliberately trying to provoke me?"

She set a bowl of miso soup in front of him and didn't answer.

They ate their meal in silence, with Hiro occasionally glancing at his book, letting his anger settle. This wasn't the first time Natsukawa had done this. He looked up at her occasionally, wondering if she was going to apologize, if he should apologize, wondering if he should speak first. She kept her eyes averted and stared determinedly at the food.

When he had finished, Hiro put his notes away and stacked up his dishes. Natsukawa stood up at the same time, food still wiping her mouth with a napkin, and he looked at her, surprised.

"You're done?" He asked, and froze when he suddenly felt her lips on his, forceful. She took advantage of his shock and pushed her tongue through, insistent, trying to get a reaction out of him. His grip on the dishes faltered, and they fell to the floor.

"You're so dense, Hiro." She said when she pulled back, her voice coarse and husky, and she pulled herself against him. "God, Hiro, we've never done this and it seems like you never care-" She kissed him again, silencing his response. "But I know you do, just tell me-"

"Natsukawa-" He choked, pushing her away. "What-"

"What do you think I'm doing?" She whispered, and pushed him towards the couch, and they both fell onto it. Her hand strayed to his belt, and she undid it with one hand, her other hand winding around his neck. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

And it was a good question, and Hiro found himself staring up at the ceiling, somewhere a million miles away, as she undid his pants and pulled up her skirt. He wasn't really there, not really on the couch in his apartment- it was actually raining where he was, sunny at the same time, and there wasn't anybody in that street except for him. He was supposed to be a small boy, but he wasn't, and the person sitting next to him, watching the rain with him, wasn't a boy either, and Hiro thought it was a little like deja-vu, because he knew this place, this scene, and he knew he had splashed in those rain puddles once upon a time, but they had only been children then.

The person beside him took his hand and out into the rain even as he protested, and as soon as they were out in the open, lightning flashed and thunder rolled and Hiro opened his eyes and realized they were full of tears.

"Hiro?" She was saying, running her fingers through her hair. It was sticky between them, and Hiro blinked as his eyes focused to his surroundings, and he was back in his apartment, and Natsukawa was kissing the corners of his eyes, and he realized they were wet.

"If I had known it was your first time," she was murmuring into his ear, rocking on top of him. "If I had known-"

"Get off." He said, more calmly than he felt, and felt her go still.

"What?" She said.

He sat up, pushing her off of him, and she fell onto the couch. "Natsukawa, you didn't." He said numbly, and buried his face in his hands. "Not like this."

She tried to speak, and when she did, her voice was hoarse, disbelieving. "Hiro, what were you expecting me to do, it's been more than six months-"

"Just- go." He said.

He didn't watch her leave- he listened to the patter of footfalls and the slamming of the door, and then everything was still.

Hiro cleaned up the dishes on the floor and washed the rest, and then he took a shower. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as he dressed, grabbed his coat and scarf off the coat rack, not knowing where he was going, letting his mind wander as his legs carried him to the subway station, to a train bound for Shinjuku.

Miwako thought there was just something so confining about being in the house all day. It wasn't that she minded at all, no, of course not. Somebody had to take care of Alice while Mikako was sulking, still. Tsutomu had come back home now, after being away for days (that drove Mikako crazy, even if her older sister would never admit it), but they were on no-speaking terms. Miwako couldn't imagine what the problem was, but she guessed it had something to do with the new photographer Mikako had hired- and much of the new staff that Mikako had hired for Happy Berry.

Miwako had put Alice to sleep early just before Tsutomu came home so the child wouldn't be awake to witness another barricade of wills as her mother and father shot icy glances at each other. Miwako knew it was just a stage, but at this point in her life, she supposed that anything and everything could come to an end, and that nothing appeared as it really was.

Arashi, she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat. And Isabella, and Caroline, and George.

Paradise Kiss, she thought, blinking back the tears.

Technicalities aside, Paradise Kiss had been revitalized by the admittance of Caroline into their group. George had been the one to start it to fulfill the graduation requirements - Caroline was the thread that had tied all four of them together. And Caroline had been beautiful, glamorous, skinny, and everybody had warmed toward her, because she was what they all wanted to be- hidden talent, wallflowers waiting to bloom. They all saw something of themselves in Caroline, and when they had graduated, when Caroline had gotten her first real contract from a real modeling agency, not just Treetop, not just Shimamoto's apartment firm, they had all found in themselves a surge of hope, a tiny spark of optimism. Perhaps, they had thought, perhaps, if Caroline can do it, so can we.

And then suddenly, so suddenly, out of the blue, George had come back to Tokyo from touring with Caroline, his face was ashen when Miwako and Arashi went to pick him up from the airport. They had gone back to the studio via subway, hoping George wouldn't think it too plebian, and back in the basement, Isabella's greeting had been ignored, the dinner rolls pushed aside, cut apart and spread around on the plate.

They had found out a week later that Caroline had dumped George, dumped him because he was an old birthday cake, once fun and exciting and a luxury, and now old and stale and the frosting was flaking. And the three of them couldn't really fathom it even though they had all seen it coming, of course it was coming. Look at Caroline. Look at who she could become.

It was a revelation that they had pushed away, that they had denied simultaneously, but it was there. Perhaps, they had thought, perhaps Caroline, perhaps Yukari is the only one out of us who is destined to succeed and become somebody.

George had left one day without leaving a note, but he had seen Isabella before he left, even if he hadn't told that he was leaving. Arashi hid his anxiety and hoped the bastard "wouldn't do anything stupid," and Isabella had been unnaturally composed and quiet, sitting on the loveseat in the middle of the studio, eyes roaming over the pink wallpaper.

Miwako had felt something break inside her, and she had held her tears back that day. It wasn't her heart that was breaking- no, that would come later, when everything else came apart, when Arashi told her that, no, Miwako, it won't work, it was something else that day, that year. It was Paradise Kiss that had finally broken, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed it before.

During the years George had went on tour with Caroline, she had been helping out, time to time, in the Happy Berry boutique in Ginza. Arashi and his band were in the process of cutting a record deal and they performed concerts with other bands on Sundays in Harajuku. Isabella had been designing clothes, and although the couture was rather simple, the patterns reflected a certain strain of genius, and even Arashi had to nod approval. It had seemed like everything was going well.

And then George had disappeared, Arashi had said goodbye, and Isabella had become Yamamoto. It had been a little much for Miwako to handle all within a month, and Mikako's own drama was still ongoing. She barely exchanged words with Tsutomu in accordance with her sister's wishes, but Miwako still packed his bento every morning and set the table for him and left the dinner on the stove before he came home. The bentos would be gone from the refrigerator the next morning, so Miwako knew that Tsutomu was taking them with him, even if he wasn't eating them.

She wondered if George would be coming back to Tokyo. There was a part in her that hoped that once George came back, everything would be restored to the way it had been before. Yet even George's easy smile and excessive, histrionic charm couldn't repair the unrepentant, empty stare in Isabella's eyes, and it wouldn't bring Arashi back to her, and it wouldn't bring Caroline back to the studio, back to Paradise Kiss.

A few days ago, Miwako had been offered a job by Mikako. The bigger sister had approached Miwako in the morning when Miwako was making breakfast and getting ready to send Alice to school. It seemed that Mikako had not gotten a good sleep because her eyes were bloodshot again, premature wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes. Tsutomu had left extremely early in the morning, probably around four-thirty. Mikako had poured herself a cup of tea and was staring out the window when she offered Miwako the job of being Happy Berry's P.R.

Miwako had always thought that Mikako had handled all the P.R. affairs rather well herself, but Mikako explained that because she was so busy with the executive duties, she didn't always have time.

"Who's going to take care of Alice?" Miwako had shot back, inexplicably annoyed, and Mikako hadn't said anything else that morning. Alice had wandered into the kitchen moments later, waddling in her pink pajamas, and had given her mother a customary hug before going to stand by Miwako and lean against the counter as Miwako stirred the congee.

Mikako had left the house as Alice was getting dressed, and Miwako set out breakfast for her niece as she sat down on the sofa and stared at the blank television screen. They had rode the subway together, Alice's hand in Miwako's, and Miwako had dropped her off at the gate of the school, and waved good-bye to her.

As she watched Alice walk off, Miwako had a sinking feeling that maybe Mikako could be like Yukari, become so successful and cold and aloof that she would leave everybody else behind.

Arashi liked to think he hadn't been watching the door, but he had. He was servicing a table at the time- a young couple, and with the both of them drunk, it had taken a while to get their orders out of them.

Hiro's hands were thrust in his pockets, the familiar cream-colored scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck. Arashi had tried to catch his eye as he headed toward the kitchen, to no avail.

"Table seventeen." Arashi grumbled to the cook, who was smoking out in the hallway. "Two more orders- just a shaved ice and two Kirin."

"What the hell?" The cook muttered, exhaling, and Arashi watched as the smoke disappeared into the air. "Why couldn't they just go to a bar?"

Arashi shook his head. "No shaved ice?"

"Maybe." The cook held out the cigarette, and Arashi shook his head. "Suit yourself. Go to the refrigerator and take the two beers out of the fridge." He paused, sucking on the cigarette. "Make that three. I'm thirsty."

Arashi chuckled and did as he was told, slipping the bottle into the cook's apron pocket as his back was turned. "It's the last one." He said.

The cook looked up from grinding the ice and grinned. "Lucky me."

Arashi grabbed a tray and filled two glasses with ice, and was about to head out when he saw Satsuki in the doorway.

"Your friend is here." She said, crossing her arms.

Arashi shrugged and shifted the tray to his other hand. "I know."

"I told him you wouldn't get off until closing time."

"And suppose he wants to order something?"

Satsuki smirked and held up the order slip. "Beer." She paused. "And, if I'm right about his current disposition, he's going to need a lot of it."

"What's wrong?" Arashi raised his eyebrows, and then realized he had said it aloud. "I mean, I noticed something when I passed him, but-"

"I have no idea." Satsuki shrugged. "Well, get him the beer, and I'll let you off early tonight." She checked her watch. "It doesn't seem like there'll be more customers, anyway."

"We're out of beer." Arashi said.

"Damn." Satsuki rolled her eyes. "Is Tatsuya swiping freebies again?" She sighed good-naturedly. "That's coming out of his paycheck."

It turned out that the drunken couple had left and Hiro had probably gone to the bathroom, because Arashi saw his coat and scarf hung over a chair by the bar. There was no one else in the shop, and Arashi set the two beers down on the counter, marveling at their stroke of good luck- a bottle for each of them.

Arashi closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he saw Hiro next to him, smiling at nothing in particular. Arashi looked at the bottle clenched in his hand- half of it was empty.

"You drifted off." Hiro said absently, and took another drink.

Arashi opened his own bottle of Kirin, and took a chug. "How long?"

Hiro shook his head. "A couple minutes. Don't worry about it."

"So." Arashi paused. "What happened?"

Hiro looked up, his eyes glassy. "What happened?"

"I asked you first." Arashi pointed out.

It was quiet in the restaurant without the other customers, and the music blared faintly over the speakers (koto music, Arashi thought), and he could hear the voices of Satsuki and Yamato from the kitchen, presumably arguing about the stolen beer. He turned to Hiro, who was staring at him with an intent expression. Arashi blinked.

"How many times did you and Miwako do it?"

Arashi laughed, a little uncomfortably. "Do what?"

Hiro squirmed, and peeked out at Arashi from under his bangs. "Made love."

Arashi fidgeted in his chair, anger welling up in him for a reason he couldn't place. "For one thing, it's none of your business."

"You're throwing my words back in my face." Hiro said, a faint smile on his face as Arashi realized that he was. "The only reason-" Hiro started, and took a breath, "the only reason I said that before was because I didn't want you to know I'd never done it with Natsukawa."

Arashi wanted to laugh, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. "Well, that's you. Maybe she just didn't do it for you."

"No, I mean." Hiro sighed, and buried his face in his arms. Arashi barely picked up the next few words. "I've never done it."

Now this was surprising news. "Oh."

"It wasn't-" Hiro started, and faltered. "It just wasn't. You know. Something wasn't there."

Arashi sighed, and hid a smile. "What wasn't there? Too loose? Too tight? Breasts not big enough?"

Hiro sat up abruptly and looked at Arashi in open-mouthed shock. "You-"

"I'm just kidding." Arashi shook his head. "You said something was missing. Probably lube."

Hiro eyed him sadly, but a smile was starting at the corner of his mouth. Arashi caught himself staring, and looked away. "But," he said hurriedly. "Wasn't there that thing with Yukari?"

Hiro's eyes widened. "What about Yukari?"

"I just thought—" Arashi said, suddenly flustered. "That you and her. You know."

"That's what Natsukawa thought, too." Hiro laughed. "No. Never. She was going out with that guy. The one that Miwako told me about—wasn't he the boss of your fashion mafia?" Hiro smiled easily, and Arashi bit his lip, trying to keep from smiling like an idiot. Funny, how somebody else's laughter was contagious.

"Ringleader of our traveling circus." Arashi muttered. "His dad's a decent guy, though."

Hiro raised an eyebrow. "You know his father?"

Arashi shrugged. "I got a fat tip from him today."

Hiro's eyes widened. "What, he ate here?"

"You never come for lunch." Arashi said, keeping the accusation out of his voice. "You really should. Even though Tatsuya's a drunk-" Arashi laughed. "Anyway. I got five thousand."

Hiro smiled. "You can be nice when you want to, fucker."

Arashi bit his lip- yes, Hiro couldn't hold his alcohol. One bottle of Kirin and he was spouting profanities. Hiro's cheeks were flushed, his hair was jet black in the dim light, and Arashi self-consciously picked at his own locks- brittle, fragile, synthetic to the touch. And here he was, Hiroyuki Tokumori, depressed because his first time with a girl didn't go the way he planned. And yet-

No. Arashi shook his head, and suddenly felt uncertain, even though he didn't know what he was denying.

"Why the hell did you come, Hiro?" Arashi spat out, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, trying to block the fact that he was frustrated for no reason.

Here he was, Hiroyuki Tokumori, depressed because his first time with a girl didn't go the way he planned, depressed because something was missing, of all the stupid things, and he had to come and remind Arashi of Miwako, of Miwako's tightness and the heat of her, and Arashi shifted uncomfortably in his seat, telling himself it was Miwako, the dim lights in the restaurant, and that he really shouldn't- shouldn't-

Hiro's gaze was probably somewhere on Arashi's forehead as they faced each other, and Arashi's eyes flickered as he took in Hiro's features, and compared those to the memories he had in his head, that of so many years ago, and now that Hiro was deflowered, did he really look that much different? Did he?

"You've really changed." Hiro said, a gentle smile on his face, and for a split second Arashi saw everything clearly, but before he could understand it, he slipped back into the safe, warm veil of alcohol-induced drowsiness.

"How?" Arashi said, and Hiro's hand was on the counter, and Arashi placed his hand right next to Hiro's, so that they were almost touching. He heard Hiro breathe in sharply, and his own heart beat a little faster, a little louder.

"You're quieter." Hiro said. "Calmer."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No."

There was a moment of silence, their hands resting next to each other but not touching, and Arashi was so aware of himself, of the empty beer bottle in front of him, of the dim lights and Hiro's quiet desperation, the feigned tranquility.. "Hiro." He said.

"I came." Hiro said, "because you were here."

Arashi wouldn't understand it later, but at the moment, it made perfect sense.

They both seemed to have fallen asleep at the bar, because when Arashi woke up later, Hiro was slumped over the counter, the side of his face on one bent arm, and there was a note in front of him in Satsuki's handwriting, and a set of keys.

You lazy asshole. It said. When you wake up, let yourself out and make sure to lock the door behind you. I expect to see you at work in the morning, no excuses.

He shook Hiro awake, and they went and raided the refrigerator, the entire restaurant to themselves. When Arashi finally remembered there was no more alcohol, Hiro chased him around the tables until he collapsed in a chair, breathless and laughing.

He and Hiro took the train to Asakusa and went to one of the rural pubs. When Arashi was down to one thousand yen, they headed back down to the subway and took a train back to Hiro's apartment, not caring if anybody saw them as drunk as they were.

When they finally reached Hiro's place, Hiro threw his scarf and his coat somewhere in the kitchen and toed off his shoes and socks, asleep the moment he fell on the couch. Arashi was at a loss for a few moments, wondering if he should stay, knowing Hiro wouldn't mind if he spent the night. He hunted around for a blanket, grabbed the one off Hiro's bed, and draped it over the sleeping form on the couch. Arashi found a throw pillow lying on the ground and curled up with it, sitting down at the end of the couch, his fingers weaving through Hiro's hair.

"Mmph." Hiro mumbled, and Arashi smiled, feeling warm and hazy and pleasantly dizzy.

"Need a pillow?" Arashi said, whispered, because his voice was gone from all the laughing they'd done, from all the things they had said.

"No." Hiro said, and shifted so that his head was resting on Arashi's thigh.

When they finally fell asleep, it was five in the morning.

There seem to be a lot of post-PK-manga fics out on , so I'm going to assert this fic's authenticity. Or something. Maybe I shouldn't.

As for next time (considering there WILL be a next time, because there WILL!), be prepared for more angst on Isabella/Yamamoto's behalf (he only got like… a paragraph, in this chapter, so I'm sorry, Isabella fans! I'll make it up to you!). Yukari shall remain a confused bitch, Miwako will try to strike out on her own, and George is still at large somewhere. And always, my favorites—Hiro and Arashi—shall get appropriate fic-time.

Comments are much appreciated, and I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! ^_^