She always walked with a slight sway of her slim hips, forearms swinging freely while the upper halves remained stationary.

She strutted like a model.

Her eyes were big, and her face small: cute. She had short hair, cropped to the frame of her round face, and she loved to wear cute little fur coats. This evening she returned home in a short, black long-sleeved one lined with gray fur. It was her favorite coat, because someone special had bought it for her.

"Taka-chan," her girlish voice called out to her son.

"Hai, Haha-ue," the eighteen year old child answered with a slight bow from where he walked beside the shorter Japanese woman. He broke even pace with her and left her in the square of suited men that was her security at the pub she frequented. They were outside, one of the men standing to her right holding an umbrella over her in the rain. They stood there, neither with any overhead protection; not that they could openly protest, in any case.

But it was a privilege to be trusted with the safety of the Boss' wife. It was much greater than being held responsible for the Boss himself, in many respects. Who would the handsome crime lord hold most dear to his heart: his safety or to the caretaker of his child?

She smirked.

It hadn't been long; a black Lincoln town car rolled up smoothly along the walk of the bar and one of the guards moved up to open the back door. The petite woman, whom they called "Ue-sama," slid inside with a soft, "Thank you" before the door closed and locked her in securely. As if on cue, the square of men broke apart in two directions.

"Have you informed your father of our coming home?" The short lady asked her son.

From behind the wheel, the eighteen year old made eye contact with his mother in the rear view mirror. "Hai, Haha-ue."

"Ii desu yo," she hummed, looking down. Slender hands reached into a tiny black purse and pulled out a small pistol. It was carefully shined that morning, just like every other, by her son, Takamasa, and put into the bag he knew she was going to carry.

The town car moved slowly off the curb, following behind two other black cars while a third brought in the rear.

The city lights of Hiroshima weren't anything special: it was just neon and flickering. New screens covered building faces, headlines and updates in Hirangana scrolling along silently.

"Have you decided which tutor you'd like to have, musuko?"

There was a moment of silence before Takamasa finally replied. "You know I want to go abroad, Haha-ue. I can't just--."

He cut himself off, knowing exactly what would come if he decided to finish.

"I'll ask again later," his mother said evenly.

In the driver's seat, Takamasa was careful to keep his expression clear of the rearview mirror -- he was nearly overjoyed that she couldn't see his reflection in the side view mirror due to the tinting of the glass.

Hideto Takamasa loved his mother. He really did. After all, he was the impressionable age of ten when she appeared, and showed him the love of a mother he never knew. He would bend over backward to please the sometimes questionable wiles because he owed her more than he could ever repay. He didn't ask for much; all he wanted was to go abroad to school. His mother had good reason to keep him back -- in a sense. He was just eighteen and barely legal in most Western countries. She agreed to let him go at the age of twenty one. However, he would rather take his tertiary education in one fell swoop and get all of his credits done.

He was tired of homeschooling, damn it. But he knew, always knew, that if he bowed to her wishes, he would get what he wanted.

With a silent sigh, he continued on their guided journey through Hiroshima. It wasn't good to have his mother out too late.

"Job well done," a deep voice hummed, closing his shiny black cell phone with a sharp snap. 

With the other, free hand, a champagne glass filled with wine was brought to slightly chapped pink lips. The dark red liquid slipped between them, the lips pressing against each other to stop the flow when the man had his fill. To his left, he set the glass on a small end table.

Heavy footsteps from the left gave him pause and he glanced up to see the familiar face of another, red haired man. He was graceful and handsome; sometimes mistaken for a girl if he slowed his measured strides and merely cruised -- as opposed to himself, who left his scalp at the mercy of dark braided hair to complement his rather stunning pair of narrow eyes.

"Another one bites the dust, ne?" the approaching man drawled. He took a seat on the other side of the table and crossed his legs, ankle-over-knee.

"This one didn't even put up a fight," The first replied, resting his phone next to the nearly emptied glass.

"Maa," the other man sighed. "I hate it when they don't struggle." He poured himself a glass of wine and swirled it around in the glass before taking a sip himself. "Especially when the day's already bad and my boys want to vent a little."

The darker haired man hummed. "But it does make the day go faster."

There was a knock at the double oak door.

The red head glanced over at the entrance. "Enter."

A slender, younger male paused open the door and walked in, head bowed. "Haha-ue wa--. Uncle!"

The raven snorted lightly. "Finish your report, boy. It's not becoming Bo-sama to ignore the unwritten laws. Even in the presence of family."

The younger male winced and looked to the other man present. "Gomen ne."

The red haired man made a face. "Forget it. Just remember it for next time."

"Come on, pour yourself a drink," The darker haired male held up the bottle. "How's Miss Lady doing?"

"Haha-ue is just fine," the young man answered. "Still trying to get me a private tutor for college education."

"You need to grow some backbone, Takamasa," the red head advised.

"This coming from the man smitten with the little imp," the other quipped, taking another sip from his own glass.

"Go to hell, Satoru."

"Only if you tell me what it's like, first, Takarai."

The young man, Takamasa, couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him at his father's and uncle's antics.

"Speaking of," Takamasa hummed. "When's Uncle going to fill that space at the back of the bed?" The young man waggled his eyebrows and smirked.

Satoru pointed his finger around his glass at the young man. "Stop talking to your father."

The three shared a chuckle. "You're almost forty," Takarai wheedled -- nothing of the usual mannerism of the Yakuza Shinsengumi's boss 'Hyde.' "When am I going to meet the lucky lady?"

"Still hunting," Satoru said, giving his business partner and best friend a sly smile.

"Pretty long rabbit season," Takamasa chirped, garnering a playful glare from his uncle.

"You're lucky you're my favorite nephew."

"I'm your only nephew, Uncle."

"You won't even be a nephew if you keep provoking the man," Takarai spoke up. "You've had your weekly wine, now go tend to your mother."

"Always when we're this close to getting some information out of him."

"Taka-kun."

"Hai, tou-san." Takamasa sighed and stood, finishing the rest of his wine. He put down the empty glass between his father's and "uncle's" glasses. He looked at Satoru with playfully narrowed eyes. "You may be the great Kamui Gackt, but I'll find you out."

Satoru shook his head and chuckled as the eighteen year old closed the door behind him. "Where did you even find that boy?"

Takarai snorted. "Only my wife knows."

A cell phone went off. Takarai pulled his out and checked the ID. Answering the call, he stood and walked over to the large floor to ceiling window that overlooked Hiroshima's river view.

"Hyde," he spoke.

While the red haired Yakuza boss did his business, Satoru took another, slow sip of his wine and let his thoughts wonder to the 'space at the back of his bed.'

In truth, there was someone who actually had that spot reserved. A certain someone he was happy no one had any idea of.

Lee Jun Ki.... he thought, swirling the wine in his glass absently.

"You got a weird little smile on your face," Takarai commented, returning to his seat. "Something special on your mind?"

Satoru's smile widened behind his glass as he took a final sip. "You could say that."

The door to the dressing room opened quietly and closed just as carefully behind him. The room was more than large. It rivaled a master suite in a five-star hotel; plush white carpet, wine red walls, cream colored crown molding and a large crystal chandelier dangling from the center of the ceiling.

"Knock, knock," Takamasa smirked.

"You're already in," his mother said, not looking away from what she was doing.

The pretty thirty-four year old sat in front of her dresser in the far corner, busying herself. Takamasa strode up behind his mother, taking a look at her bare face. He removed her hands from trying to undo her diamond necklace and unlocked the clasp before setting the thing down into the jewelry box. Reaching around her, he took off the rings she wore, save for the wedding ring, and put them in the top drawer. He put his large hands on her shoulders and lowered his head so that it rested neatly on his left hand next to her face.

"Even without all the jewelry, mother is still the brightest light in Hiroshima," he murmured. His mother smiled and playfully adjusted her posture.

"But of course," she said. "My name is Hikaru."

Takamasa turned his head to give her a kiss on her smooth cheek before straightening. He moved to stand beside her, leaning back onto the dresser and bracing himself with the palms of his hands.

"Uncle still says he doesn't have a girlfriend," he said with a huff.

Hikaru hummed, removing her right earring. "He loves company, so he'd have a sweetheart somewhere."

Takamasa folded his arms. "But he still won't even confess to that. Maa... One time, he said that if he got a lover, he'd have her in that nice white estate he has in Korea. I'm not sure if he was joking or not. He loved that place like it was his first born."

"Don't worry about it, Taka-chan," the older woman placated gently. "Just focus on your future and your own wife, ne?"

"Hai, haha-ue."

Hikaru paused in her actions and looked up at her son. "It's only you and me, so call me Kaa-chan. This room isn't bugged."

"Yes ma'am."

There was a moment of silence.

"Have you decided?"

"No, Kaa-chan."

"Hm." Hikaru stood and pulled her robe tighter around her. "I want you to spend the day with your father tomorrow, alright?"

"Hai, Kaa-chan."

"Now," she turned and tip toed. Takamasa leaned over so that he could receive his traditional good-night kiss. "Go get some rest. Oyasumi."

"Oyasumi, Kaa-chan."

"Bless you," Reita murmured, looking over at a straightening Lee Jun Ki. The slender Korean man sniffled.

"I think the night's been long enough if I think someone's talking about me," he remarked.

Both were closing up at around three in the morning, finishing the cleaning of the bars and shelving glasses. Club Vanilla was officially closed to the public.

"Never know," Reita said, sliding onto a bar stool in front of the Korean man's station. "But it's been quite the party tonight."

Jun Ki paused in his actions, seeming to sag against the wall. Long eyes peered over a stiff right shoulder. "Don't remind me." He turned around and placed an arm over the same shoulder as he worked the joint. "I wasn't ready for that one."

"I think you should take tomorrow off," the bodyguard suggested, folding his arms on top of the bar.

"Reita," the barkeep started.

"You won't last the night," the Japanese cut him off. "At least not with an entirely good temper. You know how you get when you don't get enough sleep."

Jun Ki made a rude gesture and went back to his task, garnering a chuckle from the other man.

"I rest my case."

In fifteen minutes, both were making their way through the back door, Reita locking the steel entrance and securing it with a padlock. Jun Ki reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. ping the back of the leather pouch he fished for a quarter. A pale hand stayed his. He looked up at Reita in confusion. It was ritual, what they did. Every night they flipped a coin to see who was going to drive them home. There was no way he was going to have Reita do all the driving. Not only did it feel odd to be chauffeured, but he never liked the feeling of being worth more than he knew he actually was. And besides, Reita was his friend.

Not some gopher.

"Get in the car," Reita told him, walking over to the silver Mustang. "I'm driving."

Jun Ki tried to argue, opening his mouth to do just that, when a wide yawn tore through instead. His shoulders slumped and he muttered under his breath, sore about his swift argumentative death. After the particularly nasty brawl earlier that night, it left both of them aching in placed they hardly ever paid any attention to. The Korean man sat with his DJ for an entire twenty minutes stitching a wound on the other's forehead where an unruly patron had hit him with a bottle of Jack. Of course there were bruises everywhere else on both of them, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle.

Reita chuckled at his charge and led the way to the dark and rather large lump just inside the alley. In one fluid motion, he removed a layer of tarp to reveal a vintage town car. The Chrysler was old as sin itself, but the condition was always mint due to Reita's regular bouts of tender love and care. The Japanese absently ran a hand over the shiny black surface before opening the passenger side. The bartender, as a testament as to how tired he really was, just slid in without protest and buckled up.

The traffic was almost nonexistent this time of day. The sky was dark and people dotted the streets; hookers posed, beggars migrated and gangsters patrolled. The car ride was silent, not that it was unusual. They had their moments, but both were tired. Reita reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He cast a glance over at the other occupant of the car and snorted. The great Lee Jun Ki, powerful Owner G of Club Vanilla, was knocked out like a light.

He was always like that. In the middle of something uninteresting that had no weight of importance, Jun Ki would just slip off into oblivion. In this kind of life, if he were to fully emerge from secrecy, it wouldn't be entirely good. But if anything, he'd die quietly.

The blond man took a picture and sent it to his boss. At least that should stop the pointless calls from coming in for a while.

Almost immediately after sending, his phone rang.

"Wrong number," came the disgruntled voice of none other than his cousin, the right hand himself.

"I know," Reita smirked. "Give that to the boss."

"Are you insane?" Ruki hissed. "He'll never let me rest!"

"Well I'd like to sleep in tomorrow."

"You know how he gets when the Little Love's involved."

Both knew how Gackt got when Jun Ki was mentioned. Because of his status and his innate protective nature, he already keeps Jun Ki under wraps for his own safety. And so his visits and calls are spread far apart. The man was absolutely smitten, that much was apparent. He would question a person mercilessly until he was satisfied. Usually he'd call Reita in the morning and ask about the younger man but would never talk to Jun Ki himself.

Not that Jun Ki even knew that the Yakuza boss called every God-sent morning.

"Who is that?" came the familiar voice of Gackt.

"Taichou-sama," Ruki chuckled nervously. "Sore wa..."

"Oyasumi, Ruki-kun," Reita chirped.

"Oi--!"

Reita quickly hung up and turned off his cell phone, grinning ear to ear.

Reita: one; Ruki: zero.