Lessons in Living

 

The train ride to the parking lot where Tenzou left his truck was a long one. He climbed into the H3X, locked the doors, and banged his forehead on the steering wheel a few times before cranking the gas-guzzling engine and heading home. The paintings rested in the seat next to Tenzou: a silent, watchful passenger riding shotgun. The night was clear and cold, the stars bright and taunting, and Tenzou couldn't shake a frozen image from that last mission, the one that ousted him from the armed services forever. They'd been in no man's land, just outside the Israeli border. It'd been early, crisp and still, just like tonight, and when a teenager with an assault rifle had opened fire, Tenzou had been looking to his right, in the act of giving the signal to halt and regroup. The bullets had cut Corporal Ritter in half. One second you're whole and human and walking, and the next you're torn, strewn, hamburger lying steaming on the ground.



All three impact sites where Tenzou had taken rounds to the chest, gut, and thigh woke up and flipped off Tenzou in old, familiar rebellion. By some miracle he'd survived long enough for help to arrive, by another one he didn't have any permanent nerve damage, and for the final act of God's kindness, Jack Lawson, Tenzou's high school crush, had found Tenzou in civilian life. Tenzou knew exactly how and when he'd used up all his Get Out of Jail Free cards. He just wasn't sure the usage had been advantageous for anybody.



Tenzou rubbed his leg, kneading it, and rounded a sweeping corner leading into his cul-de-sac. It probably didn't say anything good about his state of mind that his first thought upon seeing the flashing blue lights was that his dead lover had finally said enough was enough and set the house on fire.



It was probably even more telling that the next thought he had after ghostly arson was that his stalker had done it, instead. Tenzou made excuses to himself for the state of his obvious insanity, and when he rolled down the window, he rationalized that smelling for smoke was normal and not, say, an indicator that Tenzou should experience the inside of a strait jacket sooner rather than later. Tenzou hit the brakes and came to a halt next to an officer taking a statement from Diane, who was wrapped in a red robe with fur trim holding her poor dog in a suffocating clench. 



"Can I help you, sir?" the officer said.



"That's him!" Diane interjected, one finger tipped with a pink nail pointing at Tenzou in accusation. "That's my neighbor, Tenzou Asashi."



"Sir?" the officer inquired, tiredly.



"I live here," Tenzou confirmed, wallet already in hand to show as proof. "What happened?"



"The alarm was triggered, sir," the officer explained, giving Tenzou back his identification. "The security team came out, found evidence of a break-in, and called us."



"Shit," Tenzou muttered, but he was more exhausted by the news than worried for his home.



"We would have informed you earlier, sir, but we were unable to reach you."



"Oh," Tenzou said, guiltily thinking of his cell phone, which was off and in his coat pocket. "Ah, yes. I was... unavailable." 



The cop nodded, in sympathy or sheer unconcern, Tenzou wasn't sure. "There are more men doing a sweep, sir, so if you could wait here until we know it's safe--"



The radio receiver on the officer's shoulder clicked. "White, over," it chirped.



Officer White pressed a button. "Go ahead." 



"Interior of the house, shop, and perimeter are secure. Nobody here. Just broken glass and paint."



"Is that Shiranui?" Tenzou asked, recognizing the voice. 



White nodded. "You know him?"



"Yeah. He and Namiashi are friends of mine."



White's lips quivered at the edges. "No shortage of tragedy, is there?" he quipped, and Tenzou tried to return the smile. "Go on in, Mr. Asashi." White hit the radio again. "Owner's here. Coming your way, now. Says he knows your ass."



"That's an affirmative, White. Biblically, even."



Tenzou snorted, waved to White, and steered the Hummer along the drive. The security company's sedan was parked in front of a cruiser, and Tenzou pulled in behind the police car. Every light in his house was ablaze, the front door open, and Genma trotted toward the truck as Tenzou climbed out.



"What's the situation?" Tenzou asked, shaking Genma's hand brusquely, ashamed of his sweaty palm but entirely unable to get his heart out of his throat.



"Looks like vandalism," Genma answered. "No forced entry to any of the doors. Rai did the sweep of the house, said if it was burglary, they must have taken toilet paper, because everything seemed to be in place. Shop looks good, too."



Tenzou finally got his breathing under control, and tried not to slump to the ground in defeat. "So, what, broken window?" he asked, remembering Genma mentioning glass on the radio.



"Ah, yeah." Genma sucked on a cheek and cocked his head, gesturing for Tenzou to follow. "Something you probably need to see over here."



Tenzou didn't comment, falling into step behind Genma in silence. They passed the kitchen windows and walked on the sidewalk toward the garage. The stairs leading up to the apartment where Jack died and still lived, in a manner of speaking, were on the far side, and Tenzou stared at the stone corner of the house, waiting for an invisible hurricane to come screeching at his head.



"We don't know... quite what to make of this," Genma said, pulling a toothpick from a thin box he kept in his shirt pocket and putting it between his teeth. He ducked under a cluster of trees that blocked the view of the garage bays to the driveway. Jack had insisted on that bit of landscaping, citing that a view of metal doors, no matter how ornate or stately, mucked with the house's aesthetic. Tenzou had argued the point, saying they added symmetry to the structural lines, but he'd been overruled as usual.



"Make of what?" Tenzou asked, stooping under limbs and slogging over mounds of mulch. The security guys were ahead of them, facing the house and making notes. Genma didn't bother to clarify, and Tenzou didn't blame him. Tenzou stood in the glare of the mounted safety lights and a halogen spotlight that had been thrown on the... well, one really couldn't call it vandalism, exactly.



On the left bay door was a painting of Tenzou sitting on one half of an iron park bench. The rendition was breathtaking, akin to looking at an inked mirror. Tenzou's reflection wore a black trench coat, dark jeans and shoes, and stared off to the side, lost in thought. Wind ruffled his brown hair, the highlights so illuminating, it would be a shock to touch the streaked strands and discover they were two dimensional. Leaves in golds, reds, and browns blew around on the paved walk in front of the bench and created an illusion that they'd spill off the doors and onto the real ground. Behind Tenzou was a pristine lake, brilliant blue sky clear of clouds, and gently bent trees depicted in the height of autumn.



On the right bay door, Sai sat on the other half of the bench. He wore a long-sleeved shirt that was the color of a maple leaf in the fall, a sort of silken, umber-orange, and his pants matched. The fabric, much like Tenzou's hair, appeared supple and touchable. Sai's short, black hair was mussed by the breeze, his lips were full and pink, his rich eyes were wide, the lashes thick, and he looked with frank longing at Tenzou. Whereas Tenzou faced forward with head turned, Sai sat sideways, torso leaning toward Tenzou. One of Sai's hands was on the bench, sliding closer to Tenzou's side of the garage, the fingertips disappearing behind the partition separating the doors. The entire painting used tones of color that matched the stone, almost blended, and it didn't look out of place or odd at all. The mural seemed right at home.



"Tenzou?" Genma asked from far, far away.



"Yeah?"



"You all right?"



"Sure. Why?"



"'Cause you look like you might fall the fuck over. Sir."



Tenzou blinked dry eyes and rubbed them with thumb and forefinger. He did feel dizzy and weak, but that was probably because he'd skipped dinner. And lunch. Not the smartest move he'd made in the last month or so, but not the dumbest, either. "I'm fine," he said to Genma, who didn't look convinced.



"Asashi?" Raidou said, approaching with reverent caution. Tenzou always did like Rai. Man was calm, collected, and level-headed, all things Tenzou admired and that were good for Genma, too; they balanced one another nicely. "I found this in the garage." He handed Tenzou a large rock that belonged in a gravel bed flanking the house's front doors. "And this was wrapped around it."



Tenzou took the yellow legal sheet with his free hand and tried to appear far calmer and far more together than he truly was while reading it. 



Rendezvous. Noun. 1. A meeting at appointed place or time.



A line, a doodle, and beneath them, more words that Tenzou mouthed while reading. They had a gritty quality to them, as though written on the paper with the rock beneath it:



1a. What comes next. 



"Is it a threat?" Raidou asked.



"No," Tenzou replied. He dropped the rock, shaking his head and folding the piece of paper to tuck it into his jacket pocket. "Not a threat. Not burglary. And not vandalism."



Genma arched an eyebrow and the toothpick moved from one side of his mouth to the other. "Oh? Then what are we calling it?"



Tenzou swallowed. "A commission."



"Come again?" Genma chuckled.



"Are you saying you paid for this to be painted on your property, Asashi?" Raidou asked.



"Oh, I haven't paid for the work quite yet, but rest assured, the artist will get what's coming to him." Tenzou held Raidou's expressive gaze without faltering, and sweat rolled down Tenzou's flanks beneath his clothing.



"And the brick through the window was, what, exactly?"



Tenzou leveled a look at Genma, challenging, and Genma managed to maintain eye contact for approximately two seconds before dipping his head. "Are you accusing me of some wrongdoing, Officer?" Tenzou casually inquired. 



"Asashi," Raidou began. "We're all friends, here, let's--"



"We're not accusing you of a damned thing, yet," Genma said to the grass through his teeth before forcing his neck to straighten. He glared at Tenzou, and Tenzou couldn't blame him for the broiling irritation. "What you do with your own time and your own things is your business, and while I respect all your Master Dom Mover-Shaker bullshit, we're the ones with badges and guns and we still need answers for our report."



"He's right, Asashi," Raidou confirmed. "We understand your position in the community both public and private, but we will have your statement, now, if you don't mind."



Tenzou made a frustrated noise. He didn't like lying. He hated having to explain to the authorities anything about the ongoing insanity of his life. And he resented the fuck out of Sai for putting him in this position. This day couldn't get any longer or more angst-ridden if it tried. "I'm sorry," he said to Genma, who grunted but unwound at the honesty in Tenzou's voice. Nevermind that Tenzou was sorrier he breathed at that moment than for any slight he may have inflicted on Genma. "Long day, and this was a... shock. The police, I mean," he clarified quickly. "The man who painted this is a friend. I'm sure he just got done, tried to call me, probably got irritated when I didn't answer my phone because I was in a meeting and it was off." 



"So he did what anybody would do in that situation. Put a brick through your window to alert the cops." Genma bit the toothpick in two, eyebrow arched.



"Artist types," Tenzou said, contorting his features into a smile that was more a baring of teeth. "You know how they can be."



"Sure."



"So you won't be pressing charges, then?" Raidou asked.



"No." Tenzou sighed. "No point. I asked for this."



Raidou squinted at Tenzou, sizing him up, and must have decided that whatever Tenzou was going through, he was resolved to doing it alone without the aid of men in uniform. "All right. We'll get the paperwork finished and get out of your hair."



"Thank you," Tenzou said. Genma shook his head, Raidou waved over the security guys, and Tenzou endured questions, odd looks, and clipboards with documents that needed his signature. He didn't have it in him to force smiles or appropriate behavior. He didn't even know what "appropriate" meant, anymore, really. Social norms had never exactly been his thing, and he had no idea when he'd started caring about living up to them. Maybe when Jack died. Maybe when Jack got sick. Everything had dwindled to a stream of people and opinions and pleas to the outside world for help and solace and hope. They'd wanted a miracle and had been willing to do anything to find it.



But Tenzou had used up all his favors on himself.



Tenzou stood next to a tree that Jack had planted while whistling show tunes and stared at the painting until the spotlight winked out. He picked up the rock as the doors slammed on the cruiser and car, and he walked to his woodshop listening to tires crunch twigs and gravel on the driveway. He punched a code on the numeric lock, and as soon as he stepped inside, sawdust, metal, and stain flooded his nostrils and soothed his heart. He flicked on a light switch, and the disc player came to life, too, filling the room with an aria from Madam Butterfly. 



The shop was square, the illumination florescent, and the floor sealed cement. It was orderly with plenty of room to work. He kept the machines clean and clear of debris and dust, stored pallets of planks in corners elevated off the floor and under dry wrap, and cabinets held all the more toxic chemicals, solvents, and paints in closed, labeled, containers. There were beaten tables dedicated to measuring, cutting, and sanding, and Tenzou used a woodstove to get rid of scraps and to keep warm. One section of the room was a graveyard of unfinished projects, half a chair here, most of a molding there, and in the back were the ghosts of completed furniture never to be used, draped in sheets of plastic that whispered in the breeze slipping through the ventilation windows.



Staring at the rock in his hand, Tenzou paced to a table. He set the stone down next to a pile of unfinished picture frame edges. He pulled out the note, carefully unfolded it, and pressed it flat to the tabletop. He traced the lettering and knew he should be upset, possibly outraged. The anger at having to lie to cover Sai's ass should have been burbling just beneath the surface of his exhaustion. Hell, the confusion as to why Tenzou chose to lie instead of to tell the truth and press charges should be rampaging his nervous system right about now. There'd been cops on his doorstep, for Chrissakes. He had a window to replace and a fucking mural defacing his property. Even if he didn't want the real authorities involved, he should probably call Kakashi; tell the man that things had escalated. It was now more than a couple pieces of harmless mail and a strangely broken attempt to communicate through dictionary pages. When the paint started flying and the blue lights began flashing, Tenzou was pretty sure that meant shit was getting real and getting personal. Maybe even dangerous, but Tenzou wasn't worried. Or angry. Or even remotely irritated. And he didn't call Kakashi because fuck if Tenzou knew what he would say.



"Hey man, that Sai kid? He just painted a million dollar portrait on my garage that came with a rock wrapped in Websters, and the craziest thing is that it's not pissing me off... it's fuckin' doing it for me."



Tenzou cupped his cock through his slacks, closed his eyes, and breathed with the pulse that carried blood south and filled his length to plump and full. Anybody else with a dick would probably unzip and jack off until milk-white spray coated the object of Tenzou's odd but still valid object of affection. Especially while surrounded by wood, which simultaneously calmed Tenzou and reminded him of sex, fucking, begging, bondage: bent over beauties with nothing left in them but the love of their denied hard-ons and the sting of leather tails. 



Yeah, anybody else would masturbate and be done with it, but not Tenzou. It wasn't for lack of desire, and for once it wasn't some sort of flagellator punishment. It was a symptom. Because in addition to depression, anxiety, tendencies toward being a hermit, and a ghost infestation, Jack's death had also rendered Tenzou impotent. He could get hard, but he could not get off. Tenzou hadn't felt orgasm take him for over a year, now, and he knew that if he stood here and tried, it would end in the kind of frustration that made men crack and bomb buildings.



"Son of a bitch," Tenzou muttered. Pivoting, he stalked over to a tall tower that he'd designed and ripped away the plastic in a furious flurry. D-rings, arms, clasps, and braces, oh my, and Tenzou banged his forehead on the wide strut meant to be a support for a fully grown human body. "The hell is wrong with me?" he whispered, but he didn't really want to hear an answer in the rattle of metal or in the whine of winter wind. 



What he wanted more than anything was to be more confused by what he felt at that moment. He wanted to be in the dark like a good little toadstool, damp and dreary and covered in moss. Not three hours ago, he'd sat across from his best friend and maintained the façade of bold lies and staunch denials. It'd been an award-winning act, too. Tenzou could look back and see himself clearly from his current perspective of a man high up and roped in the metaphysical gallows. And now, thanks to a few strokes of ink, a rock, a French word, and an erection, Tenzou had a simple choice: own up or beat himself bloody on the bondage tower in the hopes that brain damage would do what three bullets hadn't managed.



Sai was a beautiful, damaged, talented, innocent who was not going away, and Tenzou didn't want him to. 



"Damn it," Tenzou spat. He braced his hands on the arms of the tower, wrenched and shook the structure, smacked a palm against the sanded and polished wood. Panting, he tipped his chin and stared at the beams criss-crossing over the concrete, and he was undoing his pants before his brain could once again caution his motor skills that this wasn't going to end well. He moaned without a shred of pride when he fisted himself and started to stroke. Jesus, but it was nerve-singing nice, and God, but he'd missed pleasure, another's touch, another's voice, another's mouth. He shut his eyes.



Jack was suspended, hooded and hooked with lower face unhidden. Jack's hands were in mittens, wrists and ankles fettered. Leather polish, sweat, and the scent of men struggling were heady on the air. Tenzou was half bare, nothing but leather on his legs, boots on his feet, and a harness outlining his chest. Jack liked the way the rings and rivets didn't give over the muscles they highlighted. Jack liked the sensation of Tenzou's chest hair and nipples and gloved fingers running over reddened skin. And Jack fucking loved to be kissed-touched-teased senseless in between sets of ridiculous anguish. Tenzou bit, Tenzou tasted, Tenzou sucked a ringed dick to the back of his throat and spat the dribbles of pre-cum onto the lips of his moaning lover. And then Tenzou circled: a predator playing with his dinner. He whispered. He caressed. He picked up a paddle that Tenzou used like a wrecking ball. He'd bruise and maim until Jack's ass and thighs looked like the goddamned Milky Way: a galaxy of blue, black, and red giant stars. 



Tenzou slid to his knees, gasping for air. He blinked to clear his vision, shivering in some nasty combination of unsatisfied lust and fearful chill. Wrapping an arm around the tower's main beam, Tenzou toyed with the wet head of his dick, hips rocking on their own volition. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to dominate. And that was the problem, wasn't it?



"Mmph." Tenzou grunted through his nose, unsteadily turned, and collapsed onto the ground, pants around his knees and underwear askew. Visions of Jack, helpless and hungry and more incredible with every ounce of unpolluted want, kept flashing on the insides of Tenzou's eyelids. The pictures were distant, though. Far away, fading, and untouchable as Tenzou kept stroking himself, but with a lazier pace set in time to a lolling head attached to a neck that couldn't quite carry its weight.



Tenzou wasn't afraid of death, he wasn't traumatized by how his lover died, and he didn't think that moving on would do Jack a disservice. It'd been long enough that Tenzou could acknowledge, in the solitude of his own mind, that change was something that had to happen, like it or not. Misery, however, was far, far easier. Far safer, and, for the benefit of others, probably far wiser.



Because if Tenzou tried, if he made the effort by meeting, dating, or fucking, then he knew he'd want to Dom the boy, too, and that meant Tenzou would want it to mean more than a chance encounter, one night stand, boyfriend, or even partner. Tenzou craved the intimacy he'd lost with Jack: lover, soulmate, boy, submissive. The ache for that kind of connection, power exchange, and trust ran so deep in Tenzou, it was part of his molecular makeup. It infused his red blood cells, it beat in his veins, and it festered in his lymph nodes like a disease once inflicted and without a hope in hell of immunity to unmake.



There was a library of self-help books, philosophical argument, and psychological counsel that enumerated the dangers and the stupidity of the "What If" game. But all that better sense, greater wisdom, and lengthy experience didn't stand a chance against Tenzou's single, insurmountable, shattering fear: What if Kakashi and all Tenzou's friends were wrong and Tenzou was right? What if there really was no one else but Jack for Tenzou? What would proving that do to him and to the poor man Tenzou dragged into this mess? Nothing pleasant, of that Tenzou was sure.



Tenzou swallowed and shifted his ass on the chilly shop floor. One foot lost its purchase, and his knees splayed wider. His hand was still throwing sparks into the overflowing oil drum of pent up sexual frustration, but Tenzou didn't think anything would catch. He chuckled at himself, at what such desperation must look like. Sure, he saw that lightning struck and struck often in this city. Kakashi got a second chance. Neji's wish came true. Gai came to senses in Lee's arms. Freakin' Gaara found hope. 



Three bullets. Three miracles. Asking more was tempting fate, and she was the cruelest mistress of them all. 



Jack made the same noise each and every time Tenzou pushed inside Jack's body: a groaning sigh that was shocked, relieved, and pained all in one. Shock that sex was at last on the menu, relief that now they were finally getting somewhere, and pain because being thus joined finished the job that the whips, tails, chains, and agony started. Making love stripped Jack raw and hung him out to dry in Tenzou's embrace. If he was physically capable, Jack would usually beg for faster or harder, sometimes slower and merciful, depending on what had come in the scene before and what was to happen after. And in the confines of Mastery, Tenzou would typically deny Jack, at least for a while, for what he requested was often not what he needed. Sometimes being at Tenzou's mercy got Jack off sooner, sometimes it earned Tenzou sweet, sweet whines and whimpers, occasionally it brought on tears, curses, or a combination thereof. 



But sometimes, when Jack could speak and was blissed out beyond what either of them thought possible, Jack would smile a whimsical smile and say...



"It rarely hurts to ask."



Tenzou startled and bolted to his feet, adrenaline screeching and reducing time to a crawl and heightening his senses. He spun around, searching for whomever it was that seemed to speak directly in Tenzou's ear. He saw no one, and after he shoved his limp dick into his pants, he stalked the maze of sleeping furniture, glancing left and right for the perpetrator. The plastic rustled, the lights flickered and buzzed, and the sound of silence was deafening. Eerie. Patient. Tenzou stood frozen for endless seconds until he had to do before he went completely out of his mind. 



The first piece Tenzou unveiled was a bench. The second was a suspension rig. The third a throne. When he got to the Saint Andrew's, which used to be his specialty, he was yelling over the sound of unfurling tarps. Incoherent and inarticulate, Tenzou bellowed and screamed until everything was uncovered. He gathered the wrapping, wadded it into a gigantic ball, and stormed to the trash can. He shoved the mess inside and slammed the metal lid with both hands, holding it down like it would try to fight him and breathing so hard he thought he might pass out. 



When the urge passed, Tenzou let go, staggering backward into the table where the rock and legal sheet still rested. Acting without thinking at all, he snatched them up and stalked to the door. He slapped off the lights, slammed the shop closed, and jogged along the sidewalk. He didn't stop until he was in front of Sai's latest attempt to get his attention, and he knelt before it. Tenzou placed the definition on the paved drive and used the stone as a paperweight.



"You want to meet me?" Tenzou asked the painted, beseeching boy. "Then fine. Let's meet."



~*~