Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Preface and Contextual Information

This will be an overview of the world that this fic is set in, explain some of the tags, and other decisions I made when putting this thing together. This is too long to put into a note, so it gets its own post. If you have any questions or want something addressed, leave it in the comments, and I’ll answer them in the notes sections of the chapters as they’re posted.

Timeline

The story is set in the future where Bonten exists, but I’ve changed some things for the sake of my wellbeing. I ran with what Draken said at Pah’s wedding, and so Mikey is legitimately having his Gordon Ramsay moment, and is actually a chef. He is alive and well, and I choose to believe he went to Italy where he cooka da meatball. He is like me, and only has dark impulses when he’s running low on his favourite kind of bread.

Bonten is now the Bonten Group, and Hanma is in charge. All of the members are the same otherwise, and I kept their Bonten tattoos. Instead of crime, Hanma turned it into a nightlife organization, and they own a series of nightclubs, casinos, party boats, and other entertainment venues. They cater to the ultra-wealthy, and are very well-known. He doesn’t tolerate any shady business happening on his premises. Anything that could potentially ruin or taint what he built is dealt with.

I like to believe that Hanma got into the luxury entertainment industry at first because he learned how absolutely loaded he could get off of it, and also because he thought it would help him feel something. Only one of those things turned out to be true.

Why Hanma?

Hanma is one of the most interesting characters in the manga for me, and ever since the “you were supposed to be in the car” scene, I have been wondering what it is that makes him so dead inside. Wakui gave us the one, small side story that revealed his connection to colour, and that’s why this fic is titled and structured the way it is. He is fascinating, and this is my interpretation of what colouring him in would be like.

Also I just really want to kiss him. Leave me alone.

Who is the businesswoman?

I couldn’t make up my mind. I was torn between writing this as a Hanma/reader fic and a Hanma/OC fic, but I didn’t want to write this in second person, and I also didn’t want to invent a whole character, so I just left her nameless, and other than describing her hair, outfits, and that she is a cis woman, she is a blank slate, with some personality embellishments. You can choose to flesh her out into a new character, you can pretend she’s someone from the existing Tokyo Revengers universe, you can see her as you, that’s entirely up to you. 

I know you’re only here for Hanma anyway, not her, so just believe what you like.

How often will you update this fic?

Once a week. All of the chapters are written and ready to post, but I play Genshin Impact and so I will be drip marketing them to you. As a treat though, I will upload the first two parts on the same day. If you're reading this on the day I first posted this and the second part is not up yet, be patient. I am procrastinating. If you’re reading this after all of the chapters have already been uploaded, congratulations.

How many chapters are there?

Nine: one for each colour on the traditional ROYGBIV rainbow spectrum, one for black (the absence of colour), and one for white (the unity of all light wavelengths). It felt the most complete to do it in this way.

And I think that’s everything from me. That being said, please enjoy the story. This is the first multi-chapter work I have completed in years, and it was fun. I’m happy. Please yell in the comments. It makes my day.

Peace. 

-- Nana

Chapter Text

I. Black

black -- adjective

\ ‘blak \

having the very dark colour of the night sky or the eye’s pupil

The dress could be considered plain. The skirt was simple, with two pleats, landing at her knees. A line of jeweled buttons led up from the mock-corset waist, towards a traditional collared neckline, and a pair of elbow-length puffed sleeves. Those buttons matched the clasp on her handbag, the corners of the folder holding her paperwork, and the crystals adorning her fingernails. They paired well with the short earrings she’d chosen, and the twin barrettes holding back her two-toned hair.  She was wrapped in shadow, yet gleaming, polished. She was onyx in a pair of Louboutins, their red bottoms singeing the ground beneath her feet.

That dress had a 300K yen price tag, costing about as much as his suit. Where Prada was concerned, he was well-versed.

He sat behind his desk, as his associate, a young man with rose-coloured hair, escorted you into his office. The hardwood of the hallway shifted to the near-velvet carpet of the office, the plush material silencing the sound of her heels. 

Sanzu met his eyes as she stepped into the room. He nodded, once, and Sanzu returned the motion, turning to leave. “Call if you need anything.” He shut the door behind him. 

“I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me on such short notice,” she told him, standing halfway between the two chairs in front of his desk, and the door. 

His gloved hands were folded in front of his face, his mouth pressed into them, obscuring half of him from her. He untangled one, and gestured to a chair. “Please.” 

She took a seat, placing her handbag on the empty chair, her folder laying on her lap.

He dropped his hands to his desk. “I was told you have a lot to offer me. That’s something I find hard to believe. Bonten Group’s pride is in its ability to meet our guests’ needs. I don’t think there’s anything we don’t already have in that folder of yours.” 

Her lipstick was matte. It didn’t move with the dim lights when she smiled. “Mr. Hanma, I acknowledge Bonten Group as the leading force in luxury experiences. I’ve been to your nightclubs, attended your exhibitions, stayed at your suites. You have the best music, and the most incredible food, all of that is a fact. Personally, I’ve never been more cared for.” Her eyes, lined with metallic silver eyeliner, met his. “But, all I could think of while I was there was that…” The folder’s magnetic clasp clicked open, “it lacked colour.”

She looked down as she rifled through the contents of her folder, her nail art twinkling against the backdrop of her dress like she was the night sky seated before him. She missed it. She missed the way his eyes widened, just a little, at her statement. Had his lips been parted, he would’ve gasped. 

“I can bring you colour.” She placed a sheet of paper on the desk, flipping it so it was readable. 

He picked it up, holding her gaze until he determined she would not look away while he read. 

The clock on the wall ticked away as he took in everything on the paper. 

“This is ambitious,” he stated. 

Her smile reached her eyes, revealing a small sliver of the teeth behind her lips. “That’s my favourite word.”

He didn’t return the expression. He put the paper down with care, making sure it didn’t crease or crinkle in his grasp. “You have my attention.” 

She adjusted her posture, shifting so she was more forward in the chair. “My specialty is in what is rare. The most highly sought after items in the fine arts and historical collection spheres are entirely at my disposal. Over the years, I have curated the best of the best, the pieces that would make anyone in this industry desperate. My collection is a spectrum of relics, and I want to offer that to you.” 

“And what would you get out of this?” His hands were folded again, back in front of his face as they had been when she’d walked in. 

“Connections.” She drummed her nails on her folder once, twice, before laying her fingers flat against it. “I want to continue to grow my collection, but also expand my reach within the world of curation. It is not enough to engage in private bids. It’s not what my collection deserves. My collection is the absolute finest, and it deserves the absolute finest of venues, if it is to be auctioned. I want it to be more than just the art. I want it to be an experience, something exclusive that makes those who get in understand that they are special. That is what you can give me.” 

His thumb was caught in the palm of his other hand, and he squeezed it, using the feeling to anchor him in place. When he blinked, the room was brighter. When he inhaled, her perfume came with it. Tendrils of something long forgotten snaked up inside his chest, wrapping around his heart.

With one hand he pressed a button on the landline phone beside him. 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Sanzu’s voice inquired.

“I’d like a bottle of wine, and two glasses,” Hanma responded, his eyes still on hers. 

Her smile morphed again, and she relaxed into her chair. 

“Do you have a preference for what you’d like tonight?” The sounds of glasses tinkling came through alongside his question.

Hanma tilted his head in her direction, the movement causing his single earring to sway. 

She mouthed her answer.

“Something red, Sanzu.” And he spoke it for her.

Chapter Text

II. Red

red -- noun

\ ‘red \

a colour whose hue resembles that of blood or of the ruby or is that of the long-wave extreme of the visible spectrum

Her red suit was made of velvet. Its pants were cropped, and tapered, ending above her ankles, revealing a different pair of black Louboutins. The blazer was fitted, its shoulders meeting hers so exactly it had been either tailored or custom-made. Her handbag of choice was a briefcase in a deep maroon, its hardware gold, just like the belt securing her blazer in place, and all of its chains that swished and jingled as she walked beside him. Her hands were hidden behind red satin gloves, with gold rings worn on several over her fingers. Her neck was bound by a chain so thin it was almost invisible, her hair gathered and secured out of the way with a golden claw clip. She was a ruby: she was powerful, and commanding, drawing the attention of every individual she passed into her scarlet haze.

Next to her, he was out of breath. His heart struggled in his chest to maintain its usual pace. It wanted to gallop. It was disobeying him. It was beating with a vigour that had been lost on him for the past twelve or so years. Something within him stirred, and he could not stop it from doing so. 

“For the first auction, I would like the focus to be on my artwork collection specifically,” she began, as they neared the unfinished installation within the nightclub. The lights were blazing as red as her attire. Each time she stepped through one of their beams, she seemed to catch fire.

“We began work on the display immediately, as requested,” he said, standing opposite her. “It should be sufficient for the pieces outlined in the proposal.” 

“Mm,” she mused, running a gloved finger along the framework, “more than sufficient. We still need to consider the overall funding, the catering, the entertainment, and the decor, not to mention the guest list.” She glanced at him, the beginnings of a smile on her crimson lips. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, Mr. Hanma.”

“Shuji,” he corrected. “We’re partners now. Let’s act like it.” His expression did not so much as even quiver. 

“Shuji,” she repeated, gesturing for him to elaborate on her thoughts. Warmth reached her cheeks for a brief instance. If not for the red lights, her blush would have been visible. 

“Funding is a non-issue,” he continued. “That can be handled internally with assistance from some of our investors, and my finance directors. I have connections within the hospitality industry as well. You’re familiar with Sano?”

She blinked several times, the small, cherry crystals on her upper lash line glittering in the club lights. “Of course. He gained a third Michelin star this past winter. He’s taken his work abroad, hasn’t he?”

Hanma nodded. “He was difficult to bring on board, but upon seeing the project plans, he assured me that the staff at his Japan location are fully at our disposal. As for decor…”

“I was thinking perhaps someone from within the fashion industry might be a good fit,” she filled in. “Given that fashion itself is an art form, it seems a natural connection.”

Hanma pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Someone is coming to mind. How do you feel about local talent?”

“I love it. Giving the spotlight to a local creator would be another selling point for advertising.”

“Good. I’ll have one of my execs reach out later today. That leaves entertainment, and that should be the easiest of these components to gather,” he stated. “Nightlife is where Bonten Group began before expanding into the arts and culture districts. Entertainment is what we do best. If nothing else, your guests will be far from bored.” For the first time in the few weeks that they’ve worked together, something thin and fragile that could be called a smile graced Hanma’s lips. 

“Our,” she said, smiling up at him. “They’re our guests. We’re partners now, right? Let’s act like it.”

He kept his eyes on hers, willing his heart to just stop altogether if it would not beat at an acceptable rate. “Right.” He adjusted one of his gloves. 

The moment of eye contact lingered a bit too long, and she was quick to break it by turning to a table behind her. “I have some figures drawn up that I’d like to show you. They’re rough estimates for the starting bids for each piece, and I’ve factored in our forty-sixty agreement.” She placed her briefcase on the tabletop, clicking it open. She picked out a packet of papers, and began to flick through it. “Your thoughts would be welcome… If I could just…” Her gloves provided no traction, and she struggled to get her fingers between the pages. She kissed her teeth, dropping the packet, and removed the rings on one hand, followed by her glove. 

As Hanma approached her, she let out a quiet, but pained, gasp. 

He was at her side in two strides, his hand on her elbow. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing.” She looked between him and the small line of blood that was blossoming up on the tip of her index finger. “A papercut. It happens to the best of us.” 

She lifted her hand, about to carry her finger into her mouth to suck the blood away, but he stopped her, taking hold of her forearm. With his other hand, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wrapping her finger in it. He guided her uninjured hand over, closing her fingers around the satin fabric. “Apply pressure,” he instructed, before he began to fiddle with his pockets.

She studied his face for the duration of his display. There was not a crease between his brows, and his lips remained in a flat, neutral state. His glasses were in the way of his eyes, their lenses reflecting the lights, hiding whatever was within his gaze from her. 

“It’s really okay,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. 

He took a small adhesive bandage from one of his pockets, and opened it up. She removed the handkerchief, and he secured it in place over her wound, taking care to stick it down. “I know,” he replied, tossing the bandage’s wrappings into a nearby garbage bin. “Now about those figures…” He reached across her, picking up the packet himself. His gloves were leather, and he had no trouble with its pages. “Hm. I’ll need more time to go over these. How late are you able to stay today?”

Flutters filled her gut, floating up into her lungs. “My schedule is entirely flexible. We can make an evening of it, if that works for you, too.”

He nodded, agreeing once more aloud with a hum. “How does dinner and a business plan sound?” 

If he had been looking at her, he would’ve seen the way her eyes softened, her shoulders pulling back in response to the sudden heat in her chest. “Wonderful.”

“I’ll have the staff start preparing something, then. What will you have to drink?” He waved over one of the club’s wait staff. 

“I’m not feeling for anything in particular,” she confessed. “I had champagne over lunch with a client, and I just--”

“I understand,” he interjected as the waiter arrived. “Two glasses of orange juice with ice.” He looked at her for approval. 

She bit the inside of her lower lip, releasing it soon after. Her lipstick would only survive so much. “Perfect.”

Chapter Text

III. Orange

orange -- noun

\ är-inj \

any of a group of colors that are between red and yellow in hue

The pastel orange pencil skirt was plaid, ending at her mid-thigh. It was trimmed with white fur, its pockets decorated with pearl accents. Her blouse was crisp, the frills of the collar extending down her chest. The matching crop jacket’s hems were outlined in the same fluffy white, the pearl bracelets she wore on each wrist just visible from the ends of her sleeves. Her choice of footwear was Valentino, the bottoms of her white sock-boots lined with gold. Her handbag was the same, its cushion pattern adding to the overall plush feeling of her attire. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, curled and decorated with pearl barrettes. She was citrine: she was radiant, like the sunrise by his side. She was peaches and cream with honey, dripping sweetness into the back of the SUV. 

“You know, I have to ask,” she started, looking over at him, “where do you get your hair done?”

That was the second time he smiled in the almost two months they’d been working together. It was not directed at her, but at the cityscape they drove through, his face still turned towards the window. The sunlight bounced between the glass faces of the nearby buildings, and the lenses of his glasses. His smile reflected itself back at her. “I know a man. He’s very talented.” 

“I can see that,” she said, a quiet chuckle following her words. “I might need you to introduce me. My stylist is retiring, and this is not something I can maintain on my own.” She ran her fingers through her two-toned hair. “I will say I’m surprised, though.” 

At that, he did face her. His brows were raised just a half-centimetre more than usual, his lips in their default state of stasis. 

“I’ve seen your board members. Blond seems like a rather tame choice compared to their purples and pinks.” She twisted one of her rings around her finger.

His hands, gloved as always, rested in his lap. “I’ve had the blond since I was a teenager. It’s become… natural, at this point.” He lifted a hand, pushing a blond strand back into the rest of his swooping hairstyle. “I don’t think I would be myself without it.”

“Hm.” She continued to look at him while he turned back to the window. “I can understand that.” 

He let out an audible breath as the car rounded a corner, sunlight flooding in through the tinted windows. It did nothing to dim its light, only succeeding in changing its hue to be more ocherous. “So, what is it about this bakery that makes it so special?” he asked. 

“Ah!” She slapped her hands against her thighs. The sound drew his attention back to her, catching the way the sun glittered along her golden liquid eyeliner. “Well, you know how I feel about local talent.”

“Mmhmm.”

“When you said Sano wouldn’t be providing the desserts, I was reminded of the direction you suggested for the decor, and it made me think of this place.” She stared somewhere beyond him, gaze unfocused, her smile softening at something he was not privy to. 

Inside his chest, his breath burned, the sensation growing stronger with every beat of his heart. “Dessert as an art form,” he said, and his eyes were waiting for hers when she returned from wherever she’d slipped away to.

She’d chosen a peach blush today, but her natural flush, something more red, came through beneath it. “Exactly. Edible art, but, as beautiful as each piece will need to be, they will also need to taste good.”

“Which is why you insisted that I accompany you,” he finished.

She nodded, her smile warmer than the beam of sunlight that lay across his face. “I know what I like, but this goes beyond me. I’ve got to make sure you’re satisfied, too.”

He remained silent, face stoic, once again looking out the window. He thought he was fast enough to burn away the heat in his cheeks with the light of the sun, but all it did was let her see it better.

---

A gold tray with two, small desserts was set before them on the bakery’s counter. They were set into straight glass vessels, displaying layers of orange, white, and beige, topped with candied orange slices, each cut and arranged into the shape of a five-petal floral blossom. 

“This is the one I wanted you to try the most,” she said, handing him his dessert and its golden spoon. 

“Why is that?” He hadn’t looked at the dessert until she placed it in his hands. It was delicate. He adjusted his grip so it was looser. 

“Try it, and see if you can figure that out for yourself.” She concluded her sentence by taking a spoonful of the dessert herself. She shut her eyes, the pleasure the sweet brought her more than clear. Had she been sitting, she might’ve tapped her feet on the tiled floor.

“I’m not fond of games,” he told her.

“Good,” she said, scooping out more of her dessert, “because this isn’t a game. This is a lesson in art, Shuji. Pay attention, and you might learn something.” 

He looked to his hands, and the small container they held. As soon as the dessert met his tongue, her intentions became clear. 

The memory was intrusive, but not unwelcome. He felt wind in his hair, the rough texture of his bike’s handlebars against his palms. His bomber jacket was flapping behind him as his motorcycle carried him down a winding road, towards the sunset.

He blinked, and it was gone. The taste of oranges lingered in his mouth. If he swallowed again, it would disappear altogether.

When he looked away from the dessert, the room was brighter, but not harsh on his eyes. It was warmer, but not uncomfortable. Citrus perfumed his breaths, and he turned to her. 

She was already staring at him, eyes wide, waiting for him to speak. “Well?”

“I--” His gaze dropped to her lips. “Um, you’ve got-- There’s--” He pointed with his spoon. 

“Oh, that’s embarrassing, hang on.” She went to grab her bag.

He set the dessert down on the tray. “Let me get it.”

“Huh?” 

He stepped towards her, holding her chin between his thumb and index finger. His gloves were warm against her skin, the leather capturing the heat of his hands. He tilted her head up as he wiped the corner of her mouth with a silk handkerchief. He’d invested in higher quality pieces since the last time he’d used one on her. Satin was not good enough. 

When he finished, he held her there for a moment extra, checking over his work. He had yet to meet her eyes. “There. All gone.” He dropped his hands, placing the handkerchief in front of her, next to her handbag. “Keep it.”

She stood in place, her mind circling back on the past thirty seconds, trying to make sense of it. 

Hanma picked up his dessert, savouring another spoon of its sweetness. “What’s wrong?” The spoon was still in his mouth as he spoke. His lips began to pull into a smile around it. 

A laugh escaped her. “Nothing.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, making sure he saw when she rolled her eyes. 

“Generally, when people are given something, they respond with gratitude,” he continued. He hadn’t taken the spoon from his mouth yet.

She grinned down at the counter, fingers gentle as she picked up the handkerchief. It was pale yellow, so similar to the layer of sponge cake in their desserts. “You’re right.” She looked over at him, holding his gaze. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He removed the spoon. His smile remained.

Chapter Text

IV. Yellow

yellow -- noun

 \ ˈye-(ˌ)lō \

a color whose hue resembles that of ripe lemons or sunflowers or is that of the portion of the spectrum lying between green and orange

The dress ended just above her knees, its skirt fanning out from its elevated waist. Its navy underlayer matched the velvet ribbon around her midsection, the off-the-shoulder, frilled collar swaying as she paced. Puffed sleeves clung sheer around her arms, made of the material the same as the outer layer of the rest of the dress. A gold, repeating pattern of the Gucci logo spanned its entire length, branding her. Her heeled boots were the same, their bottoms navy, a perfect companion to her dress. The handbag was its counterpart, its main body dark while its hardware gleamed. Her neck displayed a thick, golden choker, her earrings a collection of flaxen threads. When she moved, they sparkled, in the way of fireworks traveling through the sky. Her hair was pinned up in a coiling bun, held in place with a series of gilded hairpins. She was topaz: she was brilliant, lighting up the lobby of the casino. In a place where the sun could not reach, she radiated its light, banishing shadows into the far reaches of the room. 

She stopped pacing, pulling her phone from her bag. No new texts or calls were displayed on the screen. She locked the phone, putting it away. 

Someone behind the closed door to her right cried out, the sound wet and guttural.

She froze, holding tight to the strap of her handbag. Her legs moved on their own, taking her to the door. With a hand on the doorknob, she took a breath, relaxing her face and her shoulders. Then, she opened it.

The main floor of the casino was empty. There were no guests or staff, and the ambient, yellow lights were, for the most part, off. The machines stood silent, the card tables and other games vacant of participants. In the centre of the room, where patrons would mingle on a busy night, was a man. His shirt had once been white, but had long since been stained with a variety of reds. It was pink in some places, near black in others, and its colour would continue to morph as long as Hanma continued to beat him.

He wasn’t wearing his gloves. The character for “sin” stood stark against the back of the pale, bloodied hand he used to hold onto the man’s shirt. The man was forced to remain seated upright while Hanma, down on one knee, brought his fist down onto the man’s face over and over again. His jacket was off, draped on the back of a chair by the bar counter. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, but that did little to protect him from the violent blood spatters that trailed after each of his hits.

She felt her head nodding, piecing together the information she’d come to collect from him in the months that they’d spent as partners. It took her no more than five seconds of pondering before she walked into the room, heels announcing her arrival. 

A few punches later, Hanma released the man, throwing him onto the floor. The man grunted as Hanma rose to his full height, flexing the fingers of both of his hands. 

“Consider this a warning.” Hanma nudged the man with his shoe, and he whimpered, nodding, and clutching his face. “Our zero-tolerance policy for cheating is non-negotiable. You will never steal from me again.” He turned his back on the man. “If you ever set foot in any of my properties again, you will be dismembered, and returned to your family one piece at a time. Make a noise if you understand these conditions.”

The man gurgled. 

Hanma looked at two men in black suits by the wall. Each had a pin of the Bonten Group’s logo on their jackets. “Get him out of here.”

A pair of quick “yes sirs” followed, and they dragged the man out of a door on the opposite side of the room.

At last, as she reached his side, he acknowledged her. 

“You weren’t supposed to see any of that,” he stated, walking towards the bar.

She followed behind him. “You weren’t answering my calls.”

“I said I’d call when I was ready for you.” On the counter was a basin of water, two washcloths, and a larger towel.
“You said six o’clock.” She seated herself on one of the bar stools, dropping her handbag beside her, and unbuttoning the cuffs of her sleeves. “It’s six twenty.” 

“And I apologize for the delay.” He picked up one of the washcloths and put his hands into the water. “We had an unexpected circumstance to deal with.” He began to wash the blood from his hands, dragging the washcloth up his forearms. With this side of him facing her, she glimpsed the character for “punishment” on the back of his right hand, distorted by the ripples of the water. “It took more time than anticipated.”

She secured her sleeves above her elbows, taking the other washcloth, and dipping it into the water before it took on the colour of the blood. “Here.” She patted his upper arm. “Let me.”

“I can do it myself.” He continued to wash.

She sighed, sliding to the edge of her seat, as close as she could get without standing. “It’s on your face.”

He paused, pulling his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before turning to her. “Don’t leave any behind.” It was not a request.

“Never,” she assured him. 

His hair was disheveled, falling over one of his eyes. This close, she saw that the blood spatter had made its way to his lenses. She reached up, brushing his hair out of the way. She moved slowly, taking care not to pull, or disrupt his hairstyle. With his hair neatened, she pulled his glasses off, setting them on the counter, and then she stood up. He was too tall. She couldn’t reach well while seated.

She rested the fingertips of her free hand against his cheek as she began to gently blot the blood from his face. Beginning at his forehead, she worked her way down to his cheekbones, then his jaw. It was on his neck, too, so she went there next, noting the Bonten Group tattoo running down its side, just below his ear. When she finished, she cleaned his ear, careful to not catch the washcloth on his earring.

“So why the gloves?” she asked as she worked. 

He didn’t so much as blink. “You think it’s acceptable to have these tattoos visible?” For emphasis, he shook his right hand, spraying water onto the exposed parts of her legs. If it bothered her, she made no indication, and continued to clean him diligently. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

He considered how to respond, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “Investors would talk, in the past, calling me unprofessional. A thug. I was losing money, risking Bonten falling under.” He tried to look at his hands, but she nudged his head to stay still. “They were becoming their own consequences, so I covered them up, and… things started changing.”

“And what about you?” she tried his eyes, but found him unwilling to meet hers. 

“What about me?” 

“When the world around someone starts to change, it’s hard for them to stay the same, too.” Her voice was nostalgic. She was elsewhere as she spoke. 

One of his hands remained on the counter, gripping his washcloth. His other hand dangled at his side, fingers dripping water onto the floor. 

“I think we’ve chatted enough. You should focus. Blood can stain skin, too.”

She made sure to take her time. With business or otherwise, she was not one for shortcuts, or sloppy work. She would not fall short now.

He watched her, examined her, the way he would a project proposal. He noted that at her highest level of concentration, her lips always parted. Her brows pinched just a little, but her eyes narrowed quite a bit. She used one of her hands to direct his face for better access, and he allowed it. He welcomed it.

As she wiped away the aftermath of his discipline, his shoulders began to sag. He relaxed into her touch, and watched her face redden as she realized what he was doing.

He formed and dissolved countless questions in his head. Tightness pooled in his chest, spreading the unfamiliar sensation through his body with the beating of his heart. Memories of him cleaning up mess after mess surfaced, dragging him into their depths.

“Are you afraid of me?” 

A beat of silence elapsed before she replied. “I’m not a cheater. I’m not a liar, and I’m certainly not deceiving you. I am here to make my dream come true, and so what’s a little blood in all of the sweat, and tears we’ll shed along the way?” 

He felt his upper lip curl into a weak sneer. “Your trust makes you careless.”

“Does it?” She tried to meet his gaze once again, but was denied. “Remind me, when did I say I trusted you?” 

At that he regarded her. “So you are wary of me.” 

“It’s nothing personal,” she said, her tone nonchalant. “I have to be. I’m giving you my soul with this project. I have to make sure you won’t shatter it into a million little pieces and leave me without a yen to my name.” 

Blood rushed to his head as he scowled. “You’ve seen what I’m capable of, what I’ve built, and this whole time you’ve been doubtful—”

“Not doubtful, no,” she interrupted. “Skeptical, a little. Cautious, understandably. Prepared,” she lifted up the hem of her skirt an inch, and he caught the handle of the knife that was strapped to her thigh, “entirely.” She released the fabric. “I am optimistic, but not naïve. I can protect myself. I just need to be sure you’re as invested in protecting my vision as I am.”

He scoffed. “The scale of this project is on par with opening a new club location. I am invested.” 

“I meant beyond the money.” When he remained quiet, she continued. “That day at the bakery, when you tried the dessert, where did you go? I saw you slip away somewhere, and when you came back you were different.”

The space between his brows wrinkled as he tried to make sense of her words. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” 

“That’s what I want you invested in. The experience.” She stared him down the way one would a wild rabbit. “Are you invested, Shuji?” 

Beneath the amber lights, she seemed to glow. The purposeful movement of the washcloth against his face, the dance of her fingertips against his jaw, pulled him from his thoughts, grounding him in the present. The world turned from sepia to full colour as he blinked.

With his next breath, he noted her perfume. It was new, something with citrus that reminded him of the bakery. Behind her on the counter, he glanced at her handbag. Tied around the base of its handle was the handkerchief he’d given her. 

“I am,” he said at last. 

“Good. And I think…” She turned his face side to side, inspecting him for any last trace of blood. “...That’s all of it.” She met his eyes, and smiled up at him. It was a shallow thing that did not wrinkle the corners of her eyes. 

“Thank you,” he said as she dropped her hands, and stepped away, taking her seat once again. They lapsed into a tense silence while he resumed the scrubbing of his arms. “I’m… I’m not injured or anything like that, so…” 

Her hands were folded atop her knees. “I’m glad.”

Satisfied with the state of his arms, he shook the excess water off back into the basin, picking up the towel. “This isn’t who I am anymore.” 

It wasn’t clear if he was speaking to her or himself. 

“Then who are you now?” Her voice was soft, as her touch had been.

He dried himself off, and began rolling down his sleeves. “I’m not sure yet. ” With them back in place, he buttoned the cuffs. “I am… learning, though.”

“Can I ask what you’ve learned so far?” She was not prying. If he denied her, she would have changed the subject.

He picked up his striped jacket, putting his arms into the sleeves. “I’ve learned that there is… more colour in the world than I was aware of.” He pulled his gloves from his pocket, slipping his hands into them. 

As he sat in the bar stool beside her, he faced her. He had to force his face into neutrality.

She beamed at him, her smile as warm as sunset. Her cheek rested in the palm of her hand, elbow propped up on the counter. “It seems I’m holding up my end of this partnership fairly well.”

He permitted himself to show her a hesitant smile. “Very well,” he agreed. “I will be sure to do the same.”

She nodded, her expression unchanging. “So,” she lifted her head out of her hand, “in your email, you mentioned having an update on the entertainment side of things?” 

“I do, yes.” He took his phone out of his inner jacket pocket. He tapped the screen a few times, and her own phone dinged within her handbag. “I’ve sent you the details for you to look over in your own time. Right now, I’ll just give you the condensed version.”

She leaned in, gesturing for him to continue. 

“Your vision for the auction was something elegant, extravagant, and groundbreaking. You want to redefine the standards of luxury events, and to me, that sounded like you wanted to do something new, while still honouring the tradition of the auction.” He held her gaze, waiting for her input. 

She was flushed, as if she’d been drinking. “That’s exactly what I had in mind.” 

He smiled, fully, for the first time since they met, several months ago. “In that case, what do you think of both contemporary and classical music? There is a local orchestral group that focuses on the blending of music styles. They’ve been featured in several Hollywood productions, and through them I was able to connect with vocalists that would perform alongside them.” He began to chuckle at the wide-eyed look of shock taking over her face. 

“That’s… That’d be incredible. I— That’s beyond anything I could’ve imagined,” she said, only a few seconds from leaping from her seat. 

“Have a look at the email later,” he told her, “I’m sure you’ll recognize more than a few of those names.” 

“This is amazing. Thank you, truly.” She clapped her hands together, letting out a small squeal of joy. “This wouldn’t be possible if not for you and what you’ve made Bonten Group into.” She pulled her hands apart, placing one on his upper arm for a moment. “You should be so proud of yourself. We are making history.” 

It was his turn to look shocked. His smile was gone, replaced by a slack jaw and raised brows. 

“What is it?” she asked, the shift in his demeanor unmistakeable. 

“I—” He shook his head, sitting upright. “Nothing. I just…” He exhaled, the sound shuddering. When he spoke next, the words came to him slowly. “I’ve realized I still have much to learn. Thank you, for that.” 

He had never seen a smile like that before. It was without pity, without contempt. She was simply listening, and something inside him clenched at the understanding that such a thing could exist. 

“You have nothing to thank me for,” she told him, patting his arm, and standing up. She walked around the bar counter, making it to the other side. She began picking up bottles and a pair of green-tinted glasses. “Not yet, anyway.”

He spun in his bar stool. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” She winked, a bottle in each hand. He groaned, and she laughed at his response. “What’ll it be, Mr. President?”

He hid his face behind his hands, playful in the way he peeked at her between his fingers. “Surprise me.” 

Chapter Text

V. Green

green — noun

\ ˈgrēn \ 

a colour whose hue is somewhat less yellow than that of growing fresh grass or of the emerald or is that of the part of the spectrum lying between blue and yellow

Her veridian dress pants were wide-legged, but cropped, so that her navy heels and all of their crisscrossing straps were on display. She wore a simple white tee with thin navy stripes, tucked in behind a plain, silver buckled black belt. Her coat was loud, and he stared at it, having only seen it once before on a runway model. It was oversized and the same hue as her bottoms, double breasted with its sleeves covered in a thick, green shag. Though hefty, the coat had motion, and it seemed to dance alongside her every gesture. Her necklace was set of silver chains, each with a small heart-shaped pendant. Her earrings were heart-shaped studs, only visible for brief instances where her hair moved out of the way. She wore it down today, in its natural texture, without any clips or hair pieces. Her handbag was a navy clutch with silver accents, which she dug through, pulling out a lipstick tube. She was an emerald: she drew life into the venue, revitalizing the space and all of its occupants by just being there. She brought forth new growth into the once stagnant location, allowing it to be reborn in her image. 

She pursed her lips while looking at her reflection in the front-facing camera of her phone. Pleased with her touch-ups, she put both items back into her clutch. 

“Are you not warm in that?” Hanma asked as his phone buzzed. He typed something in response and pocketed it. 

She shrugged. “A statement piece is not without its drawbacks.”

“If you want to take it off, just give it to me,” he urged. “I’ll hold it.” 

She shook her head. “It’s fine, really. I’m not uncomfortable.” 

Hanma seemed to have more to say, but tabled his thoughts as two men approached. 

One with long, white-blond hair, his Bonten Group tattoo inlaid into the shaved portion of his head, and another with his dark hair slicked back, blond hair trailing from his temples behind his ears. 

“This is Kokoni and Akashi. They’re Bonten Group’s CFOs,” Hanma introduced. He placed a hand on her lower back, walking her to greet them. “I’m sure you both already know who this is.” 

“Of course,” Kokonoi, the blond, affirmed. “You’re a little bit of a legend in the curation world.” 

She laughed. “I find that all legends tend to have fairly humble beginnings, but, I’d like to be different, if that’s okay with you all?” 

Akashi, the one with dark hair, chuckled. “More than okay.”

She smiled up at him, looking between the three men. “I just want to make sure that the financing we discussed is secure for all of the pieces of this project we’ve yet to finalize. I understand that what I ask for is larger than life, but you’ve done an outstanding job of keeping up, and I’d like to be certain that I’m not setting an impossible pace for you all,” she said, gesticulating. Her fingers and their sparkling rings were mesmerizing. Hanma directed his eyes away and back to his CFOs. 

“Everything is most definitely in place,” Akashi told her. 

“We brought on several new investors for this project, and all are familiar enough with your influence,” Kokonoi continued. “We’re all looking forward to the final product, and will make sure that, at the very least, funding will never be an obstacle.” 

Akashi brought out a tablet with figures, all rough estimates of the costs of specific vendors she had in mind. The four of them worked through each item that was brought up, coming up with a mutual understanding of what the future would look like, financially speaking anyway. 

“Is that clear enough or…” Akashi glanced between everyone present. 

“I think this is great. I’ve got no further comments,” she stated. 

“Glad to hear it.” Akashi smiled. “Well, Miss, President, I think that’s it from us?” He looked at Kokonoi, and then Hanma. 

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Hanma said, nodding.

The CFOs departed, leaving her and Hanma amidst the noise of the ongoing preparation. 

“Now that that’s done, you said there was something else you’d like to discuss?” Hanma posed, looking at her. 

She smiled, beckoning for him to follow her. 

She led him to a table where she had catalogues of floral displays open. “I think we need a touch of greenery in the overall theme of the event. It will make the feel of it more cohesive, bringing in nature with all of the other elements. What do you think?” She began flipping through one of the catalogues. 

He picked up another, doing the same. “I can’t say I know much about florals and how they fit into the decor…” He trailed off, looking at a photograph of a white orchid. “But, I trust you.” 

Her attention was on him in an instant. She didn’t speak, just waited for him to continue. 

“I trust your intuition. Everything you have suggested so far has been exactly the sort of thing Bonten would have chosen with the help of other advisors.” He closed the catalogue, and handed it to her. “This will be no different. Whatever you decide, I’ll stand by it.”

Each of them held onto two corners of the catalogue, their grasp like their eye contact: unwavering, until Hanma let go of the catalogue, and so she let go of his gaze, trying to breathe away the redness she could feel warming her face. 

“Okay,” was all she replied, placing the catalogue back amidst the many on the table. She exhaled, putting her hands together. “There is one other thing.” 

“What is it?” His hand rested on the tabletop. 

She bent under the table, picking up a tall, white box, secured with a lime-green ribbon. “This is for you.” 

A surge of electricity spread from his heart to his hands, his head to his toes, overcoming him. “You didn’t have to,” he said, soft. He’d never spoken to her so quietly. 

“I know, but I wanted to.” She patted his back. “It was important to me, so please,” she splayed her hands towards the box, “open it.”

He searched her face for whatever else she might mean, but found nothing but generosity. She wasn’t asking anything of him with this. This was a gift, and it was his first. 

He found himself blinking as his eyes began to burn. He faced the box— the gift--, gloved fingers taking hold of the ends of the ribbon. He pulled, tentative, and the box sides came apart, revealing a sprig of white orchid blossoms in a glass vase. 

Everything about it was vibrant. Its stem, its petals, the yellow bits on the inside of each flower he didn’t know the name of, all of it was alive like nothing he’d come across before. 

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered. His voice was stifled, raw, lost somewhere at the bottom of his throat. He extended a finger and gently brushed it against the orchid’s petals. 

Before he could see, she swiped her hands across her cheeks, patting her face dry. She said nothing, or he’d know right away. 

He cleared his throat, still focused on the flower. “But… why?” 

She coughed, swallowing the tightness in her throat. “I’ve been thinking, since that day at the casino, about what you said, about discovering who you are, and I just found that all to be… very meaningful.” She licked her lips, giving her voice a brief rest. “What you’re allowing yourself to do is very difficult, and is something I didn’t want you to have to continue to do alone, so I chose this orchid. It, like you, is growing, changing. It is learning how to be a flower, and you are learning about yourself, this world, and where you fit into it.” She took another pause, taking a deep breath, her heartbeat loud against her eardrums. “I thought you both could help each other grow.”

He tipped his head down at the flower, hands gripping the edge of the table as if it would disappear if he didn’t. A tear, then another landed on the back of his gloves. Words flooded his head, but none made it past his lips. He stood there, trembling in front of the gift, wondering how to tell her he had never been alone on this journey. He already had a companion, but he was more than glad to welcome another.

Her heels clicked as she came to his side, something rustling in her hands. 

In his periphery, he picked up on the familiar pale yellow. Then came the smooth brush of silk against his cheeks, and he hissed, flinching before grabbing her wrist. A reflexive action. He held her hand in place, glaring as if she brandished the knife she’d shown him at the casino. 

In her eyes he searched for malice, but found none. His began to burn once again, and he squeezed them shut as he released her hand, allowing her to dry his face in silence. 

Chapter Text

VI. Blue

blue -- noun

\ ˈblü \

a color whose hue is that of the clear sky or that of the portion of the color spectrum lying between green and violet

The dress contoured her body, its material thick, but not stifling. Its heft came from its quality, hugging her hips, waist, and chest. It was ruched at the waist, mimicking a wrap-dress. The panels of the skirt did not quite overlap, but purposefully so, leaving a small gap at her knees. Its sleeves came to her elbows, the neckline stooping, just shy of being off-the-shoulder. The white base was printed with blue hibiscus flowers, the style of its rendition similar to watercolour paintings. She left her neck and her wrists bare, opting for thin, silver hoop earrings alone. Her hair was straightened, and a single, silver hair clip, covered with crystal flowers held back the shortest pieces of her layers. Her shoes were pointed with a low heel, made of black, brushed suede. They were secured around her ankles with a thin strip of the same material, tied into delicate bows at the back of her feet. In her hand was a black clutch purse, larger than the one she’d brought to meet the CFOs, but not impractically so. It did not take away from her refined image. She was a sapphire: she was calm, at ease whether or not she was by herself or surrounded by others. She siphoned the tension from the air, leaving tranquility in her wake. It was a much needed change in atmosphere for the meeting taking place. 

“He’s here,” Hanma said, pulling his sleeve back to look at the Rolex on his wrist. He had only just glanced at it before covering it back up. “Sanzu will be bringing him up any second now.”

She stood from her seat at the meeting table. She watched the shadows of the clouds drifting across the sky make their way across the surface of the table. Behind her, the floor to ceiling windows of the Bonten Group’s meeting room allowed the daylight in unfiltered, warming the otherwise cold interior. 

The meeting room doors clicked open, and Sanzu, along with a man with short, black hair, punctuated by silver sections. The fit on his blazer and the hem of his jeans were enough to tell her that each item on his body was custom-made. His hands were slender, but not fragile. She recognized those hands from the countless days she spent alongside designers across the globe. He was walking exclusivity, and she could see why Hanma had wanted him on their team.

“That’ll be all, Sanzu,” Hanma said, gesturing to the table. “Please, both of you, sit. This is Mitsuya, the designer I mentioned.” He directed the latter half of his sentence to her. 

The designer looked around the room, taking in all of its walls, and windows, its corners and edges. “To think you ended up with a place like this,” he mused, sitting across from her. When he met her eyes, he smiled. 

She returned the expression.

He looked at Hanma as he took his seat at the head of the table. “Is it so surprising?” Hanma was trying, and failing, not to smile.

“Well, I mean, can you blame me for saying so?” The designer grinned. “You’ve changed a lot.”

Out of all the words she could use to describe Hanma, this was the first time “bashful” became one of relevance. 

“You have, too,” Hanma replied, pausing for a moment after. 

“How do you two know each other?” she asked, trying to get at least one of them to look at her for more than a half second at a time. 

“Uh,” Mitsuya answered, “from middle school.” 

“Oh, that’s cute.” Her brows rose in understanding. “You went to the same school?” 

Hanma shook his head. “Different schools, actually.” 

She looked at him, quizzical of the strange awkwardness building between both men. “Then how did you become friends?” 

“I wouldn’t say we were friends exactly,” Mitsuya clarified. 

“It’s complicated,” Hanma added. 

“And in the past,” chimed Mitsuya, “and I’m good with leaving it there. You?” 

Hanma nodded. “Yeah.” He was breathless in his response. “Thank you for doing this, Mitsuya.” He changed the subject.

“I’m happy to. It’s an incredible opportunity.” Mitsuya regarded her again. “You’re the mastermind behind this, right? There’s no way this idiot came up with something so—”

“Hey!”

She laughed, shaking her head, interrupting the emerging argument. “I may have had a vision, but it’s taken quite a bit of help to make it a reality.” It was hard for her to not look at Hanma, or take the hand he had resting on the tabletop in hers. “I appreciate your willingness to join in on that front.” 

“I’m all yours,” he said, splaying his hands wide. “Tell me how to help you.”

She smiled her biggest smile without any reservations. Every moment spent piecing together the auction was fulfilling, and she wanted those she worked with to feel the same. “The theme of the auction is a merger. It is a joining of contemporary and traditional, modern and antique, nature and man-made.”

“Juxtaposition, or contrast,” Mitsuya clarified.

“Exactly.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “These,” she slid over a file folder of papers, “are the vendors we have confirmed so far, the artwork that will be up for bid, the food, the entertainment, and also the floral arrangements. I’d love for you to take a look at it all, and see what speaks to you. I give you free reign to share your vision with me, and we’ll see what we end up with.”

Mitsuya went through the folder as she spoke, considering each page within with an eye that only someone in the fashion industry would have. “What do you think of a focus on colour, and its absence as a point contrast?” He continued to study the references, and did not see her and Hanma share a look. 

“I told you he was the right one.” Hanma laced his hands on the table in front of him.

She squinted at him, deeming it an inappropriate time to roll her eyes. “I never once doubted your judgment.”

Mitsuya looked between them, his smile growing by the second. “I take it you’re both fond of the idea?”

“Very much so,” she answered. “Bringing colour to the Bonten Group was part of my initial proposal. It’s like you’ve been here since the very beginning.” 

Mitsuya chuckled, replacing the papers in the folder. “Your intentions are very clear in the work you’ve done so far. It’s not hard to pick up on what would suit your needs.” He closed the folder, laying his hands on top of it. “I can have a plan for you in about three days that will have a timeline and cost estimate for the materials and labour. My label is just me and a few other people, and this is a big project, so you’ll have to bear with me if we are on the slower side.”

“It’s completely understandable, and we are in no hurry,” she assured him. To her right, Hanma nodded along. This was all discussed prior to Mitsuya’s arrival. She was just relaying it to him. “You will be compensated generously, and please, consider this your formal invitation to the event. You don’t have to be a curator, or a bidder to enjoy yourself, so I hope you’ll be there and come see how your hard work paid off.” 

Mitsuya picked up the file, his eyes shutting as his smile deepened. “That would be amazing. Consider me RSVP’d.” He looked down, and sighed, before picking his head up again. “There is something else I’d like to ask. I didn’t come here with this in mind, but I think I would be stupid to not ask at the very least.”

She stared at him, expectant. “What is it?”

“I’d like to design a gown for you for the auction, if that’s something you’d be interested in,” he offered, fingers drumming on the file. 

She covered her mouth with her hands, the blue crystals on her new nails matching the sky behind her. “Really?”

He laughed, the motions of it making him look much younger. “Yes, really.”

She blinked at him, trying to find the words. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, yes, yes, I’d love that!” She held out a hand, and he took it, squeezing it for a moment before letting go.

“I’ll set up an appointment with your secretary to have you come in for measurements.” He moved to stand up, and she and Hanma joined him. “Hanma, I’ll send you the drafts in a few days then. Let me know if you have any revisions, the both of you. Once you give us the go ahead, we’ll begin work right away.”

“Thank you again,” Hanma said, opening the door for him. 

“Thank you!” she echoed. 

Mitsuya nodded, first at him, then at her, raising his free hand in a quick wave before he left, and once again, it was just the two of them within the meeting room.

Hanma let the door shut on its own, and came to stand by her near the table. “So?”

She mimicked explosions with her hands, moments away from jumping up and down. “He was everything you said he’d be and more! I-I-I’m speechless, I really am. I cannot believe how this is all coming together so well. You’ve outdone yourself, Shuji, at every step of the way.” 

He grinned, a cockiness she hadn’t seen before coming through in the arch of his brows and the openness of his eyes. Part of it came from her infectious excitement, but the rest of it came from within him. “I would have had nothing to make real if not for your vision.” He stepped closer. “I am honoured to be a part of this.” Two more words came to mind. “With you.”

Her shoulders softened, her head tilting as his words brought on a wave of butterflies within her. She played off the sensation by pouting as if about to cry from joy, hoping her face was too emotional for him to notice her blush. 

The silence that followed was far from empty. Cars drove by several storeys below, and the wind grazed the length of the window. Both of their heartbeats were all-encompassing, filling their soundscapes from the inside. 

“What are your plans for this evening?” Hanma asked, coming around the side of the table. He was measured in his delivery, as if each word was one he had just learned. 

Once her eyes were on his, she came to a standstill. “I haven’t made any as of yet.”

“May I suggest something?” He took a step towards her.

Her head nodded. “You may.”

He licked his lips. “There’s a restaurant by the river not far from here. I’ve been only once before with an investor.” He took another step. “The food is magnificent.” And another. “I think you’d like it.”

“Hm.” She could see her faint reflection in the lenses of his glasses. “That sounds lovely, but I’m not one to dine alone.”

He was close enough that she could smell his cologne, something warm and earthy, and the faint traces of cigarette smoke on him. The combination was dizzying. “I have a solution for that as well.” 

He offered her his arm, and she took it.

Chapter Text

VII. Indigo

indigo -- noun

\ ˈin-di-ˌgō \

a deep reddish blue

Her dress was knitted from an elastic material the same colour as the darkening world beyond the window to her right. It was the specific shade of nighttime that came after sundown that was too blue to be called black, and too purple to be part of the sunset. Its hem was asymmetric, and wavy, trimmed along its edges with white swirls leading up to its sleeveless turtleneck top, as if she wore the night sea and its aphros. Before she entered his apartment, she had worn black ballet flats. Currently, they rested next to his shoes by the door. Her bag was a sturdy Louis Vuitton duffle with enough room for her paperwork, laptop, and the wine she promised to bring. None of the bag’s contents remained inside for very long, and it lay, forgotten for the moment, out of sight behind the sofa. Her fingers had been bare, as were her wrists, and her ears. She bound her hair into a loose, low ponytail with a satin scrunchie the same colour as the bleached part of it. She was alexandrite: as day became night, so did she, shedding her obligations to the business world, and allowing the living room’s lamplight to illuminate the person underneath. 

Beside her on the sofa, Hanma had transformed as much as her. His coat was somewhere in his bedroom, his waistcoat unbuttoned. He had loosened his tie two glasses of wine ago, both of its ends hanging on either side of his chest. As for his glasses, he couldn’t remember where he’d left them at all. He held his tablet close to him in the newfound darkness of his apartment, waiting for her to speak again. 

Most of the light that they shared came from their devices, but the lamp just behind the sofa contributed, too. When she’d arrived, the sun had still been up, and the entire wall that Hanma dedicated to floor to ceiling windows, just like the ones at Bonten Group’s headquarters, had provided more than enough light. Now, as night settled in, the city began to glow, only a portion of its light making it to them. 

“The representative from the MET has confirmed,” she said, draining the last sip of wine from her glass. 

“From the MET…” he mumbled, scrolling on his own screen until he found the name of the guest. He checked the appropriate box, and looked over as her empty glass clinked against the marble coffee table. “Oh, let me get you some more.” He went to stand, his arm brushing hers as he moved, but she put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to sit. 

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” she shook her head, the shortest pieces of her hair almost hovering around her face, “I’m good.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Mmhmm.” She smiled at him, patting his shoulder a final time before dropping her hand. 

Satisfied that she wasn’t denying him out of courtesy, since he’d stopped refilling his own glass some time ago, he obliged.

She’d turned back to her screen. “The representative from the Louvre confirmed as well, and they’re bringing two upcoming French curators.”

Hanma picked up his tablet again, checking the box next to the guests, and adding a note of their companions. 

“And that…” Her mouse clicked while she paused, “is the last of them for tonight.” She closed her laptop, pushing it onto the table in front of her. Without it in her care for the moment, she leaned back into the sofa, groaning as she turned her face to the cityscape. She was silent for a few minutes, listening to the faint sounds of life beyond the window, and Hanma beside her, shifting into the sofa. 

“You seem to really like windows like these,” she noted after some time. 

When she regarded Hanma, she found he had been looking at her, and hurried to shift his gaze over her head to the window. His arm was propped up on the backrest of the sofa, the side of his head leaning into his hand. She hadn’t been paying close enough attention to tell if that flush on his face had been there from before, from the wine, or not. 

“When I stand by them, it feels like I’m floating,” he told her. “Is that childish?” He returned to her eyes as he asked. 

She angled herself to mirror him, resting her chin on her forearm instead. “Not at all. That sounds… peaceful.” When he remained silent, staring, unfocused somewhere beside her, she continued. “What else brings you peace?” 

His eyes drifted to the ceiling. He took several moments to contemplate. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it before.”

Her smile pursed her lips. “That’s okay. I’m glad you have your windows.” 

He returned the smile, their knees knocking against each other’s as she tucked her legs up under her. 

“Sorry.” It was her turn to blush. 

He lifted his head from his hand, laying his arm on the backrest. “It’s fine.” His heart jolted inside him, the ghost of the contact lingering, climbing through his body. Silence spoke for him for some seconds. “Actually, I wasn’t quite honest.”

“What do you mean?” She looked up at him, her eyes round and curious. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but could only sigh. His body seemed to pulse with his heart, buzzing with its fervid pace. 

She raised her head, so she could extend her arm, running her fingertips gently over his forearm. “It’s okay.” She stopped her motions, but didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “It’s just…” He was focused on her hand until this point, but now he met her eyes, noting the disarray of her hair. He brought up his other hand, leaning closer, gloved fingers weaving into the strands as he tenderly tucked them out of the way. “I can think of something else that brings me peace.” His hand remained. 

He didn’t realize he’d continued to lean into her until their foreheads touched, his hair tickling the side of her face. She dropped her hands, laying them flat against his chest. They smelled the wine on each other’s breath, and her perfume, the citrus one he liked, was more apparent than it had been all night. Her hands drifted down his chest, her fingers tangling around the ends of his tie, holding him in place. His breath hitched, a rough edge to his gasp. 

She didn’t know how to move. He remained still, unwilling to risk breaking the feeble, unnamed thing that existed in that moment. Neither went closer, or farther. They stayed like that, in each other’s warmth, everything else fading away.

“I should get going,” she whispered. Her words grazed his lips. “It’s late.”

He gulped away the sinking sensation in his gut as they pulled apart. Her hands were the last to go, reluctant to release his tie. “I’ll walk you out.”

Chapter Text

VIII. Violet

violet -- noun

\ ˈvī-(ə-)lət \

a bluish-purple color seen at the end of the spectrum opposite red

The entire outfit was made of brushed, lilac fur. The jacket went to her hips, transitioning from pale purple to off-white at its hem, and at the ends of the sleeves. The skirt was the inverse, becoming lavender as it ended halfway down her thighs, trimmed with a line of pearls. Her legs were crisscrossed in silver fishnets, small crystals decorating the intersection of every line. Her shoes were topped with a tuft of the same fur as the coat, secured to her ankles with white, buckled straps. On top she wore a strapless bralette of the same purple fur, the underwire lined with more pearls, as was her neck. Her earrings were large silver hoops, bent into the shape of hearts. She had her hair down, and curled, a pearl headband settled just behind her ears. This outfit was her most revealing so far, but it was one of her favourites. From the comfort of her private gallery, she was far from exposed. She was at home, and she carried herself as such. She was amethyst: the focal point of the gallery. She crowned the collection, acting as its guardian, and its ruler. This was her domain, and he had never seen her more alive.

Hanma followed her through the rooms, and she pointed out the pieces that would be up for auction in less than two weeks. In the almost seven months they had spent orchestrating the event, this was the first time he had seen the artworks in person. He was attentive, hanging onto every detail she gave him, asking questions of their origins, the artists, and what it was that drew her to collect them.

“This,” she started, fingers spreading as she gestured to the pedestal where the next piece was displayed, “is one of the only sculptures I will be putting up. I love it, but it needs to circulate, and who knows? It may find its way back to me again.”

Hanma bent down so that he was closer to eye level with the sculpture. It was a winding, twisting piece, carved out of a white stone with silver veins. Perhaps it was marble, perhaps it was something else. From its narrow base it rose upwards and outwards, flourishing in curls of stone so fluid it was hard to believe it was not liquid he was looking at. In the centre of the piece was the emerging figure of a person, almost formless, blending in with their surroundings. “Interesting,” he responded, tilting his head.

She pressed her lips together to stifle the laughter that was bubbling up at the back of her throat. “What is?”

His eyes unfocused. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. It just seemed like the most appropriate comment.

“You have no idea what it’s supposed to be, do you?” She couldn’t hide the teasing lilt in her voice.

“That’s not true,” he protested, stepping around the pedestal to view the sculpture from a different angle. 

She pushed her jacket out of the way so she could put her hand on her hip. “Enlighten me, then. What do you see?”

Hanma’s back was to her, so she didn’t see his brows draw together, his lips thinning as he studied the piece. “I see… perseverance. This is a piece that captures humanity’s strength, and ability to overcome hardship. It, uh, it’s…” He began to motion with one hand, as if doing so would coax coherent sentences from his blanking mind. With his other hand, he tugged his fingers through his hair, “fixing it,” though it hadn’t budged from how he’d styled it that morning. “It’s a testament to never giving up, and--”

She snorted, and then yelped, realizing what sound had come out instead of a laugh. “I’m sorry.” One of her hands hovered in front of her face, doing a poor job of concealing her growing smile. “It’s just so funny seeing you like this.”

Hanma stood upright, his mouth opening and closing, but producing no sound. 

“Here.” Still giggling, she stepped around him, stopping beside the statue. “Look.”

He followed her finger to where it pointed, to a small, golden square, engraved with the words “ Man Amidst Seafoam. Artist Unknown. Medium: Marble. ” 

She began walking away to the next room, still laughing.

“You were just going to let me continue to make a fool of myself like that?” he called after her, taking large strides to keep up. 

“It was cute,” she answered, turning the corner. Her statement hung in the air between them, much like the painting she had led him to. When he returned to his place at her side, she was already gazing up at it. 

“This one wasn’t in the proposal,” he noted. 

She nodded. “It’s not. I just wanted to show it to you.”

He regarded her, then the painting, taking more time with it. Any interpretations that came up would remain with him. 

It matched her attire for the day, composed of varying shades and tints of purple, and beige. It was an abstract piece with no clear form, and it was quite grand, taking up most of the wall on which it was hung. It was painted on canvas with a combination of oils and watercolours, giving it a dream-like quality. He approached the information plaque. 

He read it twice, looking over his shoulder at her. “You painted this.”

Another nod. “I did, a few years ago.” 

He stepped back from the piece, standing at her side again before he really looked at it.

In some places he saw what could have been flowers, and in others, he saw the sea. There were hillsides, and maybe that was a cliff face, separated with a thin road. When he blinked, it looked like his bed, unmade, with its pillows in a disarray, blankets falling off the edge of the mattress. Even so, it was inviting, lulling him where he stood. As he continued to observe, it continued to reveal to him new images, drawing out memories, and with them, sensations. He felt a smile asking for permission to show itself, and he granted it.

“It’s a prism,” he said, and she looked at him for the first time since they entered the room. “It refracts whoever is looking at it.” He adjusted his glasses. “You left it untitled, but it’s meant to be a self-portrait, isn’t it?”

Her lips unstuck from one another, staring at him like he had only just materialized before her. Her heart thundered in her chest, making her fingertips tingle. “How…”

He kept his eyes on the painting. “The more I looked, the more I wondered why it felt like I had seen it somewhere before. It felt so familiar, like I’d been looking at it every day for almost a year.” Their eyes met. “And then I knew why.”

She was the first to break away, turning to the painting as if it would calm her heart, or still her shaky hands. 

Inside, he was on fire. Everything burned, and he invited it. It was overwhelming, and he let himself be overcome. Each breath brought with it a pulse of something new, and he drank it all, allowing himself to be repainted.

The backs of their hands brushed, and slowly, he hooked a gloved finger with hers. He eased her hand open, settling his palm inside. 

She swallowed, feeling lighter with each passing second. In her own time, she shifted her hand, realigning her fingers so that they were interlaced, and she held on. She’d simply float away if she didn’t.

He held the contact for a few seconds before removing his hand. If he didn’t do this now, he never would.

One finger at a time, he pulled off his glove, unveiling the character for “punishment.” He did the same on the other hand,  pocketing the gloves when he was done. He placed his hand back in hers, intertwining their fingers. His hand was larger, the pad of his thumb slowly rubbing the back of hers.

At his side, she leaned into his arm, holding onto his sleeve with her other hand as she laid her head on his shoulder. 

Chapter Text

IX. White

white -- noun

\ ˈ(h)wīt \

the achromatic object color of greatest lightness characteristically perceived to belong to objects that reflect diffusely nearly all incident energy throughout the visible spectrum

The auction was held at one of Bonten Group’s social clubs, filling the entire lobby and foyer. Crystal chandeliers sprinkled rainbows along the marble tiles, each one polished until reflective. White, black and gold banners were draped along the walls, framing the windows, and between each were planters of white lilies and orchids. The centre of the room was kept open for mingling and dancing, with waiters circling the space, carrying trays of food and drink. 

The room was swirling with movement, of all the guests flitting from their seating arrangements, to the artwork display that housed the pieces up for auction. On a raised dais at the back of the room, between two grand staircases, was the orchestra, whose vocalist would rotate through a roster of several household names and local artists as the evening progressed. The music was slow, and ethereal, giving the event an almost celestial quality. 

Across the stone columns that spanned the room were ribbons of every hue, creating a wave of colour throughout the space that reached up to the chandeliers. 

Hanma mingled with the crowd, shaking hands, bowing, and trading business cards. It was clear that he was the owner of the establishment by what he wore. 

His tuxedo was fitted, custom made by Mitsuya, just like her gown would be. Mitsuya had insisted, after taking her measurements, that he allow Hanma to design something for him, and Hanma was glad he had agreed. 

The tuxedo was made of black velvet, the pant legs and jacket sleeves embroidered with a wave-like gold pattern. He wore no tie with his black shirt, but had a gold chain visible from under the folds of its collar. He’d chosen a new frame for his glasses, and had a pair of gilded chains linking them behind his head, with some shorter sections dangling near the lenses. 

He’d left his gloves at home. 

When he’d seen the tuxedo, he understood what Mitsuya had meant by contrast as the theme for the decor. All of the pieces of his attire complemented one another, but stood stark in comparison with the rest of the room. It was intentional, so that there was no question as to who was in charge.  

“What do you think?” 

He turned to the sound of the voice, finding Mitsuya approaching. 

“It’s exactly as we imagined,” he answered, looking up and around the room. “I’m impressed.” 

“Yeah, well, when I’m given standards, I make sure to exceed them,” Mitsuya said, confident in his ability.

After a moment, Mitsuya sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I don’t forgive you, you know.” 

Hanma looked at him, appalled. “You really want to talk about this here?” He leaned closer to avoid having others overhear his words. “What happened to leaving this in the past? You’re not the only ones who faced loss—”

Mitsuya held up a hand. “Let me finish.” He waited to see if Hanma would comply. Satisfied, he continued. “I don’t forgive you, but I’m letting it go because that’s what everyone else has done. That’s what Takemichi fought for us to be able to do.”

Hanma scoffed, looking away. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“Depends.” Mitsuya shrugged. “Are you happy now? Because you definitely weren’t back then.” 

Hanma was shaking his head. “You didn’t know me then, not in any meaningful way.” 

Mitsuya raised a brow, but Hanma was looking anywhere but him. “Was there anything meaningful to know? It seemed to me like you were just being used.” 

“Careful now.” A muscle in Hanma’s jaw flexed as he began to adjust the buttons of his shirt cuffs. “You might have decorated this venue but I could still have you thrown out.” 

Hanma was so focused on his display of dominance that he didn’t see Mitsuya roll his eyes. “I know I’m right, but I also know you felt alive then, didn’t you?” He regarded the tiles. “It was like that for a lot of us.” 

“So what?” Hanma was growing impatient. 

“I saw that again at our meeting.” When Mitsuya looked up next, Hanma was staring at him, too. “You’re calmer now, but it’s still there. I think it’s different though because it’s about you this time. It’s your project as much as it’s hers. That means something to you.” 

Hanma broke eye contact. “I wasn’t aware you minored in psychology.” 

Mitsuya couldn’t help but laugh. 

“But, you’re right,” Hanma carried on, “It’s different this time. And I have let go too, for the most part, anyway. I’m still making sense of it all.”

Mitsuya nodded. “Fair enough. And… take care of yourself, man.” 

Hanma grimaced. “Don’t say stuff like that. It weirds me out.” 

“Pussy.” 

“Shut up.”

Mitsuya laughed, the sound loud, before patting Hanma on the shoulder. Hanma hadn’t expected the impact, and so he swayed at the contact, glaring at Mitsuya, who continued to find amusement in the situation. “Anyway, she’s here. It’s time to welcome her.” Mitsuya tipped his head towards the right-most staircase, and Hanma followed the direction, feeling his breath rush out of him as if all the air inside the venue had been siphoned away. 

She stood at the top of the stairs, taking her time descending. Her hair was a collection of curls, pinned to the top of her head, and secured with gold hairpins. Each had an intricate butterfly on their ends, making it look like they were perched on her hair. Her earrings matched his, just a simple, gold threader, leading to her undecorated neck. 

The dress was sheer, made of a material he couldn’t identify. Mitsuya must have made it from scratch himself. It was akin to tulle, but inlaid with opalescent crystals, covering her in every possible hue. It was strapless, with a plunging neckline, hugging her body all the way down to where it fanned out around her feet, its train leaving a kaleidoscope cascade in her wake. She was made of stardust, every inch of her resplendent, illuminating the room as if the clouds had parted and the sun itself was walking among the guests. 

She split the crowd like a comet, almost too bright to look at. From his place on the opposite side of the room, he gulped, recalling then that he required air to breathe in order to continue to live. His heart would have to figure out how to regain its composure without him. He would be providing it no assistance, he couldn’t, not when his attention was needed elsewhere.

Mitsuya continued to laugh, but left Hanma on his own not long after. He let his plus one, a male model with a shaved head, lead him towards their table, so that Hanma could address her in private, or as much as he could, given the circumstances. 

Her smile grew as she wove through the guests, greeting each who she passed, until at last she was before him in all of her glory. She held her hands out to him, and he took them, keeping her from rejoining the stars from where she came. 

Up close, he took in every detail, every second of work Mitsuya and his team had put into her. 

“We did it,” she told him, squeezing his hands, tugging him closer. Her makeup was as iridescent as her gown, with small crystals scattering across her eyelids, all the way to her temples. 

The shock had yet to pass. He stared at her like she’d vanish if he blinked. “You are unreal.” 

“So are you.” In her smile he saw that she meant it.

A silence full of chatter, and string instruments occupied the space between their words. 

“Have you had anything to drink?” he asked. 

She shook her head. “No, but there will be plenty of time for that later. I don’t have long until I have to start introducing the artwork, and there’s still something I want to do.”

“Anything,” he promised. 

She started to pull on his arms, leading him to where other pairs were swaying to the music. “Come on.”

He let her guide him, only half-aware of his surroundings. For him, nothing else existed. It was just him and the celestial body that held him by the hand, bathing him in her light.

They stood before each other, and only then did it dawn on him what he was meant to be doing. 

He placed a hand on her hip, taking her hand in his other, pressing their bodies together. Even in the high heels she had on, he towered over her, the top of her head just reaching the bottom of his neck. She leaned into him, her other hand on his back, her face dipping towards his chest.

The music seemed to swell as they began to move, their dance entirely off-beat. They were slower, enamored by the sensations of being close to one another. 

His breath faintly stirred her hair, compelling her to lift her head. She was tentative, and so was he, shifting his face as hers came up alongside his. She was wearing the perfume he liked.

He gazed into her eyes, and all of the fractals surrounding them, unable to recall the state of his world before she’d refracted it. Glancing at her lips, he adjusted his hold on her hip, fingers tracing languid circles along her lower back. Bit by bit he lowered his lips to hers, their noses gently brushing together, and he nudged her, tilting her chin up. Her eyes began to close, and he did the same, releasing her hand so that he could place it on her cheek instead. Hers went to the back of his neck, tiptoeing to meet him halfway. 

Finally, he discovered how it felt to kiss a spectrum, to hold every kind of visible light in his arms. He studied the softness of her lips, tasting the sweetness of the gloss she had been wearing, feeling its stickiness as her mouth moved against his. 

Her fingers went to his hair, deepening the kiss. She sighed into his mouth as their tongues connected, and he held her tight, feeling her relaxing against him. 

Eyes were likely on them, but such a thing was inconsequential. In that moment they existed alone, and onlookers were a thing of irrelevance.

All of it overwhelmed him, her hands, her lips, her tongue, the sensations raw and electric across every inch of him. As much as he supported her, she grounded him, keeping him from burning away in her arms. 

The kiss broke as gradually as it started, lips lingering as he registered a few whistles and hoots between the crests of the music. Their eyes opened in sync, her eyes half-lidded, peering up at him. 

“I’m out of time,” she murmured, feeling him chuckle through where her hand rested against his neck. 

“I don’t think that’s true.” Like he had done back then in the meeting room of Bonten Group’s headquarters, he bent his arm, offering it to her. She took his arm without hesitation, fitting perfectly into place as this time, he led her through the crowd. “I think we’ve only just begun.”

-- End --