Chapter 1: Champagne Problems
Chapter Text
1. Champagne Problems
You won't remember all my
Champagne problems- "Champagne problems" by Taylor Swift
Lin enjoyed the feeling of coming home.
That is, it felt comforting to set foot onto the ground of the country that you felt most at ease in, after decades of searching. Arriving in New York City meant he was still parted from his hometown Los Angeles, that lay three thousand miles away in the distance. Nevertheless, smelling the East Coast air was a much-needed comfort after three months spent travelling between Morocco, Egypt and South Africa, only stopping to have his photos taken for luxurious fashion brands or overprized magazines that nobody actually read.
The airport was crowded and noisy as always, nosy security officers sticking their noses into Lin’s luggage and business that was none of theirs.
Lin posed with a cup of Starbucks in front of the US flag that dangled from the ceiling. One upload to Instagram and an angry sip later, Lin heard a voice behind him.
“Jiro should be here in around five minutes. You want some food?” His personal bodyguard, José “Maru” Martínez came to stand beside him.
Martínez was a tall, muscular man, who surpassed Lin by a good ten inches. Lin had originally hired him to save money, but he’d kept him around thanks to his light-hearted humor.
To Lin, who always had a temper and was angry more often than not, a level-headed, happy-go-lucky-guy like Martínez proved to be beneficial.
“Only if it’s junk food. I’m starving.” Lin slipped his iPhone into his Louis Vuitton bag, adjusting his sunglasses.
Lin Xianming, although being a supermodel that demanded an outrageous fee of more than two thousand dollars an hour, who’d been crowned the Sexiest Man Alive two years in a row and had been on the cover of more than twelve Vogue prints, was an obstinate advocate for junk food, pastries and all things high calorie.
“I’m just warning you, but Jiro won’t like that attitude,” Martínez objected.
Jiro was what one could call Lin’s personal fashion artist. He did Lin’s make up, created most of his outfits and he was the only one Lin trusted with his hair.
At photo shootings, every single proposed outfit had to be supervised and approved by Jiro before Lin would wear it.
It was what gave Lin the nickname “spoiled brat” inside the industry. It was the luxury that came with Lin’s name being a brand. It was a heavy price to pay for everyone involved.
But it was the one thing keeping Lin sane. It was the one thing that could spare him another incident like the one that happened many years ago.
The sliding entrance doors of the airport opened behind Lin, a crowd of bustling salarymen and whispering lovers spilled from within the air-conditioned building. From behind him, Lin could hear a shout that sounded like a jumbled mess of Japanese and provincialism. Just a moment later, something bumped into him.
Lin stumbled a step forward, reaching out his hand as if to keep himself from falling. However, his balance was soon recovered when a warm, albeit sweaty, hand gently packed his elbow. The grip of his bag slipped through Lin’s grasp and just as he imagined the expensive product hitting the floor, he saw somebody catch it for him.
“There you go, dolly.” There it was, right next to his hear. This weird provincial Japanese, except that this time, it was speaking English.
Lin’s head shot around to look at the guy next to him. The provincialism’s face wasn’t particularly handsome or special, his brown hair a total and utter mess. Jiro would have called it a bird’s nest and it really did resemble one.
The man that had saved both Lin and Lin’s bag from falling was tall, not as tall as Martínez, and lanky, his arms defined muscles.
It took Lin’s brain a second to sort through the mess of languages in his head. Before he knew what he was saying, he tore his elbow free from the other’s grip and spat an angry Japanese “Don’t touch me, asshole”, before taking his Louis Vuitton bag from him.
“Oh, the beauty speaks Japanese,” the man answered in this dialect that Lin couldn’t quite place. Perhaps because he didn’t know any better, the man reached out his hand for Lin’s, going in for a handshake.
Lin pulled his hand back just as Martínez stepped in between the two.
“Fuck off,” Lin roared, this time in English, a middle finger raised high before he stormed off towards where he could see Jiro’s car parked in the distance.
Martínez shot the stranger a sparkly, angry glare. Then he followed his protégé.
*
Banba Zenji hated driving in the States. That’s why he made sure to haul a cab whenever his team played an overseas match in America, no matter how tired or worn-out the flight had left him. A good talk with a driver was, after all, a good way to get into the right mood. And the bit of English Banba had picked up along the way was sure to need improvement.
The driver whose cab Banba had gotten onto this time was a young Hispanic woman in her thirties, a happy tilt to her voice whenever she pointed out a famous building they passed by.
“You’re not from around here, I gather,” she said, as they passed through Maspeth. “That’s a really expensive hotel you’re stayin’ at. Should I know you or something?”
Banba inclined his head, an unsure smile on his face.
“I got you,” the driver laughed, “Are you famous? Like, are you a celebrity or something? I’m just askin’ ‘cuz the place you’re stayin’ at’s pretty expensive. Top-notch.”
Banba wasn’t so sure he’d caught half of the words the woman had said. Nevertheless, he did his best to formulate a coherent response. “I’m a baseball player. From Japan.”
“Japan, huh? Baseball, too? Sorry, friend, you don’t look the part.”
Had that been an insult? Her voice was so cheerful, it was hard to tell.
“So, I’m taking it you’re here for a match, then? Your team any good?”
Banba smiled, one hand coming up to ruffle his hair that was already beyond saving. “Yes, definitely.”
The woman let out another hearty laugh. “That’s some confidence you got there.”
She hit the brakes so suddenly that Banba was catapulted forward, the seatbelt digging into his throat.
“Oh, fuck off.”
When Banba leant forward, his gaze was met with an assembly of wildly blinking cars, some trying to switch lanes, others honking loudly. The sudden utterance of a swear word reminded Banba of the beauty he’d run into at the airport.
“Do you know any man in women’s clothes?”
“Huh?” Their gazes met in the rear-view mirror. “Where’d that come from?”
“He had blonde hair. Long. Height 165cm, roughly.”
The woman pondered for a bit, letting the cab’s honk resound within a few short intervals. “That’s a super strange question, you know,” she said, understandably taken aback at Banba’s sudden, specific interest. “Did you happen to meet someone?”
Banba nodded. “At the airport. He was very…” He turned the word over in his mind, before he settled for, “Not nice.”
“Hmm…Might have been Lin Xianming. I heard he’s invited to the Fashion Week. I don’t keep up with that stuff, though. Might be easier to google him.”
Banba shot her a quick Thank You, before turning to look out of the car’s window. An awkward silence had just started to form between the two, when the driver suddenly asked, “What? You’re that hung up on him, but you won’t put his name into Google?”
Banba turned to look at her, rapidly blinking in obvious confusion. “How?” he simply asked.
The woman gaped at him. “What do you mean, how? Just, google. Surely you folks have Google over there.”
In a silent reply, Banba held up his phone.
The driver took one look at it, almost collided with the car on the opposite lane and decided that her customer was a lost cause.
*
“You have to be nicer to your fans, Lin-chan,” Jiro said as they pulled onto the expressway.
Since the encounter with provincialism at the airport, Lin had had a sour expression on his face, typing away on his phone, swiping through Insta feeds and his Twitter timeline.
“Who says he’s a fan?” Lin spat back when his phone’s battery died. Stuffing his hand into his bag, he fished around for his charger, a disturbingly hot pink power bank.
“Yeah, I doubt it,” Martínez said, “He didn’t even know Lin’s name.”
While Jiro pretended to be shocked, his daughter Misaki ended up tearing her croissant in half and sharing it with Lin, who bit into it angrily.
“Thanks,” he mumbled between his chewing, “Damn, being home feels good, though.”
“Was Africa that much of a yawn?” Jiro asked, their eyes meeting in the rear-view mirror.
Lin shrugged. “The countries were nice. I especially loved Morocco, all the colors and the vividness. The people were kind, too, but…” He trailed off, leaning his forehead against the window, enjoying the bit of coolness it offered.
The trio shut up, an odd silence forming. Everybody inside the car, Lin included, was aware what it cost the model to use the word “home” – and mean it.
Misaki, who sat next to him on the backseat, stretched out a hand to rest it on Lin’s thigh. She patted it carefully, before shooting him a small smile. “Don’t worry. Jiro-chan always says that home is wherever the people you love are.”
Lin replied with a smile, lifting one hand to ruffle Misaki’s hair. Then he turned towards the two men that sat silently conversing in the front of the car.
“That’s super cheesy, Jiro,” Lin said, propping his feet up against the driver seat’s headrest.
Martínez used his hand to try and push Lin’s feet down. “Come on, go be a nice piece of shit for once.”
Lin stuck his tongue out at his bodyguard.
“Could you please~ stop swearing in front of Misaki-chan?” Jiro pleaded, a whine to his voice.
Misaki shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
Jiro leaned in to turn up the volume, just as the announcer turned to the sports news. “New York Yankees manager Alex Perez says he feels exhilarated to welcome the newest addition to the team. 28-year-old Japanese, Zenji Banba, will join the Yankees as a second baseman, starting this season. After arriving just this morning at JFK Airport, he’ll answer the journalists’ questions regarding his personal career from here on out at a press conference, later this evening.”
“Ugh, baseball,” Lin groaned, disapproval evident in his voice.
Martínez laughed. “It still amazes me how you’re literally a twink, but the pure thought of sports haunts you.”
“Fuck off, I’m not a twink!” Lin shot back, reaching between the front seats to turn down the volume. “Besides, what should I care about some idiots running around a field, hitting balls with a baseball bat? That’s just stupid.”
“It’s exercise, you should try it once,” Jiro suggested.
As the tide grew around her, Misaki drowned it out with music.
*
Lin would have loved to just fall face-first into the freshly made sheets of his hotel bed, but first, there was work.
Enokida, or “mushroom” as Lin liked to call him, was a long-time friend of Lin’s. Besides his evident preference of all things high-fashion and flashy, Enokida also happened to be a hacker mastermind who’d more than once crashed Wall Street for shits and giggles. Lin personally took advantage of his skills, having him supervise Lin’s social media sites and create firewalls for all his digital devices.
Today, though, they would meet up so that Lin could have him extract some information about a target.
Even if this was work, Lin was still going to enjoy it. Lin was still going to make sure he looked cute. So, he started to rummage through the luggage that the hotel staff had already carried up to his room, looking for his bag of swimwear.
His phone started ringing just as Lin stood contemplating whether he should go with the white Calvin Klein swimsuit or the indie-brand pink bikini, with the frilly top. Chancing a glance at his display, he saw the name Enokida written in Katakana.
Sighing, he picked up the phone, squeezed it between his cheek and shoulder and started taking off his clothes.
“I’m undressing,” Lin said, skipping the greeting.
“Well, that was TMI,” Enokida replied. It sounded like he was right in the middle of a crowd, words coming in-between sips of soda through what sounded like he was using a straw. “I’m at the pool, anyway.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Lin hesitated before reaching out for one of the swimsuits. “Calvin Klein or indie?”
“Mhm.” Enokida took another sip of soda. “It’s kinda lowkey here, you might as well go for indie.”
Lin put the phone on speaker, threw it onto the bed and started to put on the pink bikini.
“I’m surprised you’re going for girls’ swimwear, though,” Enokida mumbled, “What happened to the good old trunks?”
“They’re ugly,” Lin asked, pulling the top over his head. “I got a good deal with this shitty Internet platform that pays me a shitload for trying on swimsuits and sending them the photos.”
“Now you’re just selling your body. – Ah, excuse me!”
After having to listen to him ordering a bunch of drinks off the menu, Lin muttered under his breath, “That’s a model’s job, after all.”
“Hm? Sorry, what? I didn’t catch that.”
Lin grabbed his sunscreen off the shelf, putting on his sunglasses. “Yeah, whatever.”
“I’m at the pool, then. See ya downstairs.”
As the call ended, Lin stood rooted to the ground, letting his gaze wander around the room. There was a ridiculous irony to having everything but feeling like you have nothing.
*
Banba pulled his suitcase behind him, along the hotel’s hallway, looking for the number on his room card. He usually preferred the rooms on lower floors, but his new manager had booked a suite on the top floor, ending the video call with the advice that Banba should enjoy himself as much as he could.
Banba, his English skills being what they were, hadn’t understood the implications Perez had been making.
“1207.” Banba took a glance at the plate above the door. “This is it, huh?”
As he inserted the room card into the slit, the door next to his opened abruptly, a flash of blonde dashing out into the hallway.
“Someone’s grumpy,” Banba mumbled to himself. He didn’t think much of it, making to enter his room.
“Hah?” An angry shout re-sounded down the hallway.
Banba barely bothered to turn his head, after all, he didn’t suppose it was directed at him. Chances were slim that anybody in this hotel even knew who he was.
“Who’d you call grumpy, shithead?” the angry voice taunted – in fluent Japanese.
“Oh, my.” Banba let his room’s door fall closed behind him, turning around to look at the owner of the angry Japanese voice.
To his surprise, it was the beauty from the airport. What was his name again…?
He was wearing a pink, frilly bikini, his feet clad in high-heeled beach sandals. His blonde long hair, which Banba had previously mistaken for a wig, was tied into a high ponytail.
He was stunning.
“I’m sorry your day hasn’t been too nice this far,” Banba tried an apology. Perhaps he should have quit his dialect and used proper Japanese instead, but then, the man didn’t seem to have difficulties understanding him, anyway.
“Take three guesses as to who ruined it,” the blonde shot back, lifting his middle-finger.
It was the same sourly reaction Banba had received at the airport and he knew he should feel insulted, but he just really couldn’t bring himself to feel offended by a finger.
“I even caught the bag for you, I don’t see where the problem is,” Banba replied, calm as always. He shrugged the man’s anger off, nonchalantly.
“You touched me, asshole! Without asking!” He gestured to the elbow that Banba had gripped a few hours earlier. “Do you even know who I am?”
Banba considered the question for a second. Technically, he had known the man’s name once, but that had only been a few minutes after the taxi driver had told him. She had also said that he was invited to the New York Fashion Week, but Banba didn’t really know what people did at a Fashion Week. Perhaps they went shopping? Shopping for seven days straight sounded really exhausting, though.
“A celebrity?” he tried his luck. And, really, the fact that his intonation made it sound like a question might as well have become his cause of death.
“Wait, are you kidding?” The blonde made a face as if Banba had just stomped his boot onto his foot. There was evident confusion in his eyes, before it abided and gave way to something that resembled exhaustion.
The blonde let out a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, sure. I mean, what kinda country bumpkin are you, even? I’ve never heard anyone speak such cracked Japanese.”
Banba crossed his arms. “This is Hakata-ben. It’s really cool, I must tell you.”
“Mhm.” The blonde threw his hair back, a gesture that might have very well been in a cosmetics’ commercial.
“So? If you want people to know about your profession, let them know,” Banba suggested, “Are you a journalist?”
The man blinked. “The fuck, no. Do journalists look like this where you come from?”
“There’s all kinds of journalists,” Banba countered, “A photographer? A tailor? Maybe a dancer? You’ve got such a quick mouth; you could also be a presenter on TV. Your Japanese skills suggest you work with languages. …Wait, are you from Japan? You don’t look Japanese, though.”
There was a throbbing vein visible on the blonde’s forehead. “Well, my passport says I’m American, if you care to know.”
“American, huh?” Banba turned his head sideways. That’s not what he’d expected, but he wasn’t going to say that.
“Look,” the man walked up to him, stabbing a manicured, red-painted nail into Banba’s chest. “My name’s Lin Xianming, I’m a global top model, been on the cover of the Vogue 13 fucking times and you better make sure to remember my name, you country bumpkin, because I’m a fucking star.”
Banba lifted his hands in a defensive manner. “Alright, alright. Lin Chiamin, yeah?”
“Xian-ming.” The man called Lin Xianming drove his point home by repeatedly stabbing Banba’s chest with his finger. “Remember it.”
Screwing up his nose, Lin threw his hair back, storming off down the hallway.
*
Saitou’s efforts had proved to be fruitless. Apparently simply moving to Tokyo and asking for jobs at top-notch popular fashion magazines was not the right way to set foot in the world of high society and VIPs.
Somehow, he’d assumed life would become easier if only he’d made his way to the States, to the glittering cities that bustled with life and celebrities. As it turned out, life was never as easy as one dared to hope.
Saitou had to realize this as he sat munching away on a pineapple parfait that was going to cost him half of his daily salary, not one step closer to the story his boss had assigned him. ‘Find something about top model Lin Xianming that has not yet been revealed to the public’. While this sounded like a creative writing task you might give to a high school student, Saitou was well aware that this was, from now on, part of his job routine.
If he wanted to climb the career ladder up to the very top of a renowned magazine, he would have to start with the dirty stuff first. And after all, revealing somebody else’s secrets for your own benefit was a key fundament of a paparazzi’s job.
Even if they couldn’t help it, most of the time.
“This will be tough…” Saitou mumbled, his own tongue stumbling over his mother tongue. Japanese had become rather strange to him in the past half year he’d spend living abroad in the US.
He placed the empty parfait cup on the table next to his beach chair, pushed up his sunglasses into his hair and let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.
Just to begin with, what about Lin Xianming wasn’t known to the public already? His height, weight and sex were public good, just like most of his body parts had been captured on camera a million times. He was born in China but is said to have been raised in Japan. Lin Xianming’s youth appeared to be the biggest mystery in the model’s life. His IMDb and Wikipedia page both stated that he had been employed by a famous model agency when he was thirteen, but before that, there were barely any records of him…of him existing.
It was as if the person called Lin Xianming had been created and raised in a laboratory for thirteen years, before he’d been released onto the catwalks of this world. So, that was a lead. Perhaps Saitou could dig up some top-secret intel on the top model’s childhood.
He let out a silent laugh. Yeah, right. Who did he think he is?
*
Lin caught sight of Enokida rather easily. His platin blond mushroom hair style stood out among the crowd, as did his clothes that couldn’t possibly be less fitting for a day spent at the pool. Enokida wore his favorite neon-yellow sweater, with those red skinny-pants Lin had considered burning more than once.
As Lin approached him, Enokida didn’t lift his gaze from his tablet. However, he did lift his hand for a lazy wave.
“Did you find anything?” Lin asked by a way of greeting.
Wordlessly, Enokida handed him his tablet, while taking a sip from what appeared to be a cocktail. “Hengston Rogers, 45-years-old. Not just his name’s shitty, but he’s also pretty Goddamn ugly.”
“Huh, I know enough girls who go crazy over him,” Lin replied, scrolling through the pages of information Enokida had just handed him. “Woah, five marriages already?”
Enokida nodded. “Yeah, and all of them flopped.”
“No wonder if he can’t get it up till he sees a toddler.” Lin’s face twisted with disgust.
Hengston Rogers, a famous actor that had become famous exactly five years ago when he starred in a cheesy Telenovela that got broadcasted worldwide. Just a few months after his sudden surge of fame, almost as if planned, his house in Beverly Hills blew up, killing both his two children and his first wife. Naturally, Rogers was shooting a movie in London at the time it happened.
He apparently got over his family’s death quickly. Too quickly, for Lin’s liking. Afterwards there’d been nothing but a steep Hollywood career, a bungalow in the suburbs of San Francisco, two dogs, three children and four other wives.
There’d been rumors, roughly two years ago, that Rogers had touched a co-star of his inappropriately. A young boy, barely five-years old.
The rumors had died as soon as they’d arisen, the parents of the boy had never filed a lawsuit.
But Lin had had a feeling. Lin had been sure that there must have been something. A five-year old didn’t lie with no reason, not about something like this.
A month ago, Lin had been asked to shoot a commercial for a globally well-known cosmetics brand. It had been a rather silly project that he hadn’t been too fond of, but hearing that Rogers would also be involved, he decided to give his investigative skills a try.
He’d lingered around Rogers in various stages of nakedness, but the actor had never even spared him a glance.
Instead, that same afternoon, a younger girl had come barging into Lin’s dressing room, mistaking it for her own, face streaked with tears. When he’d asked her what’s wrong, she’d been honest enough. She’d told him everything.
That was the day Lin had decided to bury his hands in Hengston Roger’s throat.
“I already told Gen-san, but that Rogers guy will attend the same party you were invited to.” Enokida leaned back in his chair, forehead barely escaping the parasol’s shade. “Too bad you decided not to go.”
Lin gritted his teeth. He’d been invited to a semi-formal event at a refurbished warehouse in Brooklyn that evening. A get-together of famous people, mainly those involved with the glam and glitter of the fashion world.
As soon as he’d received the invitation, he’d reclined. Those events were impossible to survive when sober and Lin had quit drinking a long time ago.
Groaning, he dropped the tablet on the table, hiding his face behind his palms. “This shit sucks. I don’t wanna dress up all pretty and pretend like I care.”
“But you are pretty,” Enokida interjected.
Lin glared at him. “Not the point.”
Enokida grinned. “Oh, but you were happy just now.” He pulled a pack of bubble gum from his hoodie’s pocket and popped one into his mouth, before handing the box over to Lin.
Lin shook his head, instead asking the hotel staff to bring him a tall glass of coke.
“Watch those calories,” Enokida said, but it didn’t sound like he meant it and Lin didn’t take offense.
This was how most of their conversations went. Meaningless, stupid banter. But most of the time, this was exactly what Lin wanted.
“Oh, by the way,” Enokida continued, taking his tablet back, “I updated the firewall program for your MacBook. I suppose I’ll run a diagnostics’ check this night, but just wanted to let you know that fifteen people tried to crack your social media passwords today.”
“Huh, that’s the lowest it’s been for a while,” Lin mumbled, downing the coke that had just arrived in big gulps.
“Mhm, well. Maybe they’ve gotten wind of the fact that people who try to crack Lin Xianming’s social media end up infected with terrible viruses.”
Enokida was talking about technological viruses. He’d done something with Lin’s social media profiles that made it basically impossible to hack them. And if somebody did try to decipher the password, it would simply infect the source digital device with a virus that made it delete all its data.
“Yo, hold up a hot second,” Lin broke through Enokida’s train of thought.
He’d seen something flash in the corner of his periphery. When he turned to look at it directly, he almost couldn’t believe what he saw.
“The fucking audacity,” he spat, before almost jumping off his chair, storming off towards the pool side.
The most annoying sort of paparazzi, Lin knew, were those that couldn’t even keep lowkey. Apparently, this fellow wasn’t even smart. He was too stupid to turn off the shitty flash on an already sunny day, making him stand out among the crowd.
He’d sat on a beach chair close to where Enokida and Lin had been sitting, his phone’s camera pointed at the two.
“Motherfucker!” Lin screamed across the pool, drawing the staff’s and most of the other guests’ attention to himself. He was marching straight towards the reckless paparazzi that just seemed to realize what situation he’d gotten himself into.
Enokida leaned back in his chair, a proud grin spreading on his face. “Have a safe trip.”
*
Banba had just finished swimming his second lap, he heard a high-pitched scream from somewhere around him.
Lifting his gaze, Banba’s eyes came to focus on a brown-haired man with a phone in his hand, obviously fumbling to turn off his camera’s flash. Too late, it seemed.
The man dropped his phone in an effort to get off the beach chair, scooting on all fours across the wet pavement, trying to get away from the hot-headed celebrity.
But it didn’t seem like the blonde model was going to let him off the hook this easily. He grabbed the man’s phone, aimed, and threw it right into the middle of the pool.
Most people present had gathered around the spectacle in a circle, watching Lin Xianming’s harsh action with only mildly contained astonishment.
“Hah, serves you right, you sucker.” Lin grabbed the man’s shirt lapels, pulling him so close their faces were almost touching.
Banba sighed heavily. “Oh, boy.”
Taking a deep breath, he dove for the man’s phone, grabbing it off the pool’s ground.
As Banba stepped out of the water and slung his towel around his shoulders, he watched Lin Xianming making a move to throw a punch to the man’s face.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, now in English. Hands raised in a defensive gesture, Banba stepped between the two men. “Won’t you let go of him now, Lin-chan?”
Lin turned around, glaring daggers at Banba.
“Haaah?” There it was again, that throbbing vein on Lin Xianming’s forehead. “Lin-chan? What do you mean, -chan? I’m a man, you fucker, a man!”
“A-Ano…”
Both Lin and Banba turned to look at the brown-haired paparazzi, who, to their surprise, had just uttered a bit of devastated-sounding Japanese.
“Oh, my,”, Banba mused, reaching out a hand to loosen Lin’s grip from the man’s lapels. “To think he’s a fellow countryman. You can’t just go around attacking fellow countrymen, Lin-chan.”
“Fuck off, I’m American, I told you already.”
The brown-haired man fell to the floor, his knees shaking like jelly. Although Banba did feel a little bit of sympathy towards the man, he couldn’t help but feel as if it had been his own fault – you reap what you sow, after all.
“Here you go,” Banba said, handing him the demolished phone, “It’s no good anymore, though.”
“T-Thank you,” the man stammered, first in Japanese, then in English. He scrambled off into the distance and Banba, noticing that Lin was trying to go after him, grabbed the model’s arm.
“Let go of me, motherfucker!” The last word, Lin screamed in English. He used most of his physical power to try and free himself of Banba’s grip.
As much as he didn’t like to admit it, Banba found it adorable. Lin reminded him of a small, forceful chihuahua that had gotten stuck in a garden fence.
“Yeah, yeah.” He let go of Lin’s hand so suddenly that he stumbled forward a few steps, barely regaining his balance.
“I’ll remember this,” Lin said through gritted teeth, “I’ll kill you. I’ll make sure you’ll end up dead.”
Banba didn’t know why, but a chill ran down his spine as soon as Lin had uttered these words. Dumbfounded, he stood there watching the model leave.
When Lin had returned to the table, Enokida held up his phone. A photo of Lin hauling the paparazzi’s phone into the pool.
“Your fans’ll love this,” Enokida smiled. – “I’ll kill you,” was all that Lin replied.
*
“Thanks so much for your hard work, champ.” Perez got off the chair in the suite’s dining room, going in for a handshake.
Banba returned the greeting, tilting his head to the side, a drop of confusion in his eyes. “Does anyone care about the interview? The one, tonight?”
Perez blinked, as if trying to compute Banba’s words. “Oh, you mean the press conference,” he echoed, “Of course they care! You’re gonna be our team’s biggest hope this season. Couldn’t find anyone with scores that come close to yours in this world, even if you searched.”
Even if half of the words didn’t make sense in Banba’s head, he decided to take it as a compliment and thanked his new manager.
“Just try to be on time, yeah? Journalists hate defiant jocks that can’t even keep a promise.”
Banba sent Perez off with a smile. Just as he closed the suite’s door, he let out a deep breath, falling face-first onto the freshly made bedsheets.
What had he gotten himself into? He’d always enjoyed the thought of playing in an overseas team. And his optimistic part liked to believe that things would turn out easier from here on out, but right now he couldn’t believe it.
It all seemed like so much unnecessary trouble. The fame, the spotlight, the effort one had to make to appeal to people. Wasn’t it enough to throw a good ball and score a win? Wasn’t it enough to simply have fun doing what you were doing?
Banba turned onto his back, eyes focusing on the sparkling lights of the bright white ceiling. A fan was silently buzzing above him, catching Banba’s attention for a second.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it – the blue eyes of his newest acquaintance entered his mind as a sudden thought.
Lin Xianming. The model in women’s clothes had captivated Banba. He was hot-headed and they hadn’t exchanged one kind conversation, but somehow, Lin wouldn’t just part from Banba’s thoughts.
Something did make him want to strike up a genuine conversation with the model, to receive a little more information about the other.
As he reached for his phone, already beginning to calculate the time difference between the US and Japan, there was a sound that made him pause.
A bump. Then the sound of something clattering to the floor. Then, a moan. A very audible moan, at that.
Banba sat up, looking around the room. He knew he ought to be alone in the suite, but perhaps there’d been a hotel staff tripping over their own feet. But wouldn’t they have announced them?
“Hello?” Banba called, questioningly.
There was no reply. Instead, there was another bump, followed by yet another moan.
It was then that Banba realized the sound must be coming from the suite next door. After all, there were only these two loft rooms on this floor and, if Banba remembered correctly, Lin Xianming was the one who lived in the room next door.
He couldn’t bear to think about what the other might be doing, because if he did, inappropriate pictures would flash up in Banba’s mind and he didn’t feel like he had the right to view the other man in that light.
So, at first, Banba simply tried to drown out the sounds. He grabbed the nearest pillow and covered his head with it, hoping that it would help keep the outside world from coming in. The short answer was: it didn’t.
He could still hear the bumping and the moaning from the next room over. And what was worse was that now, he could also decipher the sounds of a creaking bed frame.
This was no good. Banba was going to have to put an end to this.
It was just a matter of respecting your neighbor and telling him when he was being a little too loud. This was nicety. Pure and simple nicety.
As much as Banba tried to convince himself of this, he couldn’t help but feel awkward when he stood outside Lin Xianming’s room, lifting a hand to knock.
At first, there was nothing. For a split second, it was utterly and terrifyingly quiet and Banba considered aborting the mission for a second. Perhaps Lin had realized his mistake and he would simply keep quiet now.
If that was the case, then Banba was done here. There was no reason for him to be rooted to the spot in front of Lin Xianming’s hotel room.
However, Banba’s reflexes weren’t quick enough because the next instant, the door to the room opened and the blonde model poked his head through the gap.
When he recognized Banba, his eyes narrowed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Banba took Lin’s appearance in for a second. His hair was in a slight disarray, loose ends sticking out of his ponytail. His make-up also appeared to have seen better days. But he was still dressed in his pool outfit from an hour before and otherwise, he didn’t look particularly disheveled.
But then where had the suspicious sounds just now come from?
“Do you have a girl over?” Banba asked, his mouth quicker than his thoughts.
Lin’s eyes widened. “What? What the hell? Why would you ask that?”
“I heard strange sounds.” Banba shrugged. “So, I assumed…”
If he didn’t know any better, Banba would say that Lin Xianming had just blushed. “Y-Yeah, don’t just go around assuming things! I’m fine, so…”
With a little more force than necessary, Lin tried to slam the door shut. This time, Banba was quick enough to put his foot between the door and the frame.
“Will you let me in for a quick second?” Banba asked, trying to flash his brightest smile. Judging by Lin’s expression, his charm had little to no effect.
For whatever reason, Lin did let him in, regardless. “Don’t try anything funny,” Lin warned him, before marching off ahead.
Banba followed him into the room, closing the door behind him. A quick look around him told Banba that the suite was an exact replica of his own, from the cream-colored, polished tiles, to the heavy, brown drapes on the French windows.
“Remember the shitty dude you defended earlier?” Lin probed. But it was in English and so Banba couldn’t be too sure he’d heard him correctly.
“Hm?”
Lin blinked at him. “What are you even doing in the States when you can’t speak any English?” he asked, this time in Japanese.
Banba put his hand on his hips, a defiant expression on his face. “Now, you’re rude.” He couldn’t keep the angry act up for too long. “I’m only here to play baseball,” he admitted, lifting a hand to ruffle his brown locks.
A moment passed in which it seemed like he was processing Banba’s statement, then, “Wait, you’re Zenji Banba? The Japanese baseball talent?”
Banba didn’t really know where Lin had heard that or where he’d caught the word “talent” but… “It’s Banba Zenji.”
“Huh?”
“The Western order just sounds, weird.” Come to think of it. “Is Lin your first name?” Banba asked, trailing Lin into the spacious living room.
“No, it’s not. Xianming is my first name, but most Americans find it too hard to pronounce, so basically everybody calls me Lin. My fans call me Lin-ming, though.”
‘Most Americans find it hard to pronounce, so…’? Banba couldn’t wrap his head around Lin’s statement. It sounded like the blonde had been fine with giving up a part of his identity, simply for the benefit of total strangers.
“Well, I don’t feel like changing my name,” Banba joked.
Lin shrugged. “Sooner or later, the fame’ll have you do it.”
Banba doubted it, or rather, he didn’t want to believe Lin’s words, so he let the conversation slide. Anyway, there was a bulge of white on the living room’s floor. A lump that looked suspiciously like a body wrapped in a linen sheet.
“Is that…?” But before Banba could finish his question, Lin crouched low, tearing the linen sheet from the body.
“Oh, my.” Banba recognized the face of the man, his teary eyes blown wide, a fearful look in them.
Approaching Lin, Banba reached out a hand to tear the duct tape from the man’s mouth. “Aren’t you the paparazzi from the pool?”
“I-I swear, I wasn’t doing anything illegal! I was just – work-working! This is all a big misunderstanding, please let me go!!”
Lin groaned, getting up to produce a pair of nail scissors from his handbag. Using the scissors, he cut the zip ties he’d used to tie up the man’s hands.
“Don’t go around spewing shit. You broke into my hotel room. While I was taking a shower.”
Banba cocked his head, gaze wandering between Lin and the man. “Now, that’s shameless.”
“But I didn’t know you were taking a shower!” the man protested. He sat up rapidly, rubbing his aching wrists.
Banba caught Lin smiling upon seeing the bruises that had formed on the man’s wrists. What a sadist.
“Yeah, ‘cuz that changes anything,” Lin said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “You’re Japanese, but your English is decent enough, so I bet you’ve been in America for a while.”
“I-I’ve lived here for the past six months already.”
Lin didn’t look impressed. In fact, his face revealed no emotion whatsoever. He simply reached out his hand, fingers dancing. “Business card. Now.”
The man fumbled around, panic spreading across his expression. He reached for the jacket that lay a bit farther off, which he’d supposedly dropped when Lin had wrestled him to the ground.
From the chest pocket, the man produced a plain, white business card, the writing in English and elegant, silver letters.
“Red Rum High Society. Kazuki Saitou.”
“Saitou-kun, huh?” Banba echoed, taking the business card from Lin.
Lin raked a hand through his long hair. “And why did you come all the way here? They have celebrities in Japan, you know.”
“That’s…a long story,” Saitou mumbled but didn’t proceed to say much more.
And if Banba wasn’t misjudging the situation completely, then Lin didn’t seem too interested in his stalker’s life story. Sighing, Banba decided to be the one to break up the awkward conversation before it escalated any further.
“Well, then, Saitou-kun. If you’ll have me escort you?” He got up off the floor and walked over to the suite’s entrance door, watching Saitou pick himself and his dropped jacket up.
At the door, Saitou made a hasty bow, handing Banba another one of his business cards.
“Please, I…I’m a big fan, Banba-san.”
Banba took the business card and, against his better judgment, simply put it into his pocket. “A baseball fan, huh? I appreciate the compliment, but you really shouldn’t force your way into people’s hotel rooms, Saitou-kun.”
Face beet-red, Saitou deeply bowed. “I’m dreadfully sorry!” he declared with, what Banba considered to be way too much, vigor.
Once he’d left the suite, Banba shut the door firmly, letting out hearty sigh. “Now, that was a handful. But you don’t need to treat people that roughly if they’re just doing their job,” he said upon returning into the living room.
There he found Lin standing on top of a chair, stretching to take something off the topmost shelf.
“What are you doing, Lin-chan?”
“That bastard planted a camera in here,” Lin groaned. “Here, catch!” He tore the stuck-on camera from the shelf’s wood and threw it in the general direction of where Banba was standing.
Banba, without much effort, caught the camera and inspected it. “Secret video surveillance, huh?”
“Those paparazzi only keep getting more shameless.” As he said that, Lin re-tied the belt of his bathing robe, drawing Banba’s attention to the fact that the blonde model was almost naked in front of him.
Banba averted his gaze, a slight flush spreading on his cheeks. “You should put on clothes when you wrestle people, Lin-chan.”
“How about you leave now?” Lin asked, grabbing the hair dryer off the vanity. “I didn’t ask for your help, to begin with.”
Banba shrugged, deciding to leave it at that. After all, Lin wasn’t lying. He had not asked for Banba’s help, that much was true. But nevertheless, Banba was happy to see him all healthy and well.
“Well, then. Stay safe, Lin-chan.” Saying this, Banba placed his hand on top of Lin’s head, ruffling his blonde hair.
*
That evening, Lin opened the door to Jiro holding up a bunch of bagged clothes, shoes and Misaki behind him carrying a box of accessories.
Lin let them in without a thought, placing a chair in front of his full-length mirror.
“Lin-chan, I tried to find what you asked me for, but it was almost impossible,” Jiro apologized right off the bat. He placed the clothes bags on the bed carefully and proceeded to open the black box of equipment that rested next to Lin’s dresser. From it, he produced a hairdressing cape which he gently placed around Lin’s neck, securing it tightly.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s fine,” Lin said, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. “Your fashion sense is well enough.”
‘Well enough’ was high praise in Lin’s vocabulary. Jiro was aware of that.
“Thank you,” he smiled, taking a pair of scissors into his hands. “I’ll cut the tips, just a bit. And then, how about an up-do? Your neck is so lean and cute, we should definitely show it off.”
Lin shrugged. “It’s not like I’ll let that pervert touch me, so, do what you will.”
Misaki sat on the ad-joining kitchen’s table, her feet dangling off the tabletop while she munched on a pop tart. “Why are you even going there? You could just sneak into his hotel room and stab him.”
Jiro waved his hand in a disapproving manner. “Misa-chan, that’s outrageous. Lin-chan has to make sure his reputation stays good.”
“I don’t give a fuck about my reputation. I just wanna kill that asshole and that’s it.” He let out a low hiss of pain as Jiro gathered his hair in a bundle, bringing it up to the top of his head and securing it with an arrangement of see-through hairbands.
“This shit hurts, asshole,” Lin whined, the hand that reached for his basket of nail polish stopping mid-motion. “Can’t you be more careful?”
Jiro sighed, reaching for the brush he’d put on the vanity and gently collecting a few of Lin’s stray hairs, before he secured them in place with a hair pin. “I’m trying my best, dearest princess. Now, do you prefer the red dress or the purple one?”
Done with Lin’s hair, Jiro went to retrieve the clothes bags from the bed, opening the zipper of the first one. The dress he pulled from inside it resembled a cheongsam, in the broadest sense, however, its cut was a bit looser and resembled a Western evening gown. It flashed a bright, vivid tone of red.
“Looks good,” Lin said. He shed the hairdressing gown over the back of the chair and came over to bring a hesitant finger to touch the dress. “It’s velvet?”
Jiro flashed a cheerful smile at Lin’s obvious astonishment. “Yes, it is. Look, it feels perfect. Besides, this is just my selfishness showing, but I really wanted to see you in velvet once.”
Lin shrugged the white bath gown off his shoulders, while Jiro unzipped the dress. He crouched low before Lin, so that he could easily step into the dress.
“This is weird,” Lin said, placing a hesitant hand on Jiro’s shoulder to steady himself. “You’re way too nice to me. Most people kick my ass or treat me like a brat.”
“You are a brat,” countered Misaki from where she plundered a gift basket’s contents, starting with a bucket of cotton candy. “The only thing that saves you most of the time are your looks.”
Not bothering to give a verbal reply, Lin lazily raised his middle-finger. To Jiro, he said, “Is there a knife slit?”
Lin was referring to the knife he kept strapped to his upper thigh whenever he approached an assassination target. If the dress had no slit in its skirt, then the logistics of retrieving the knife from its holster were just unnecessarily complicated.
“Naturally, I thought of you when purchasing this dress, Lin-chan. What do you take me for? An amateur?”
Despite his connections to the underworld, Jiro had a noteworthy career as a make-up artist and hair stylist. And Lin considered his fashion sense to be superior to many fashion designers he’d worked with over the past.
“Fuck, this is amazing.” Lin let out a low sound of appreciation as Jiro closed the dress.
As a little punishment, Jiro wrapped a strand of Lin’s hair around his finger, slightly pulling it. “No swearing in front of Misa-chan.”
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Misaki replied, “That ship has sailed.”
Lin twirled in front of his mirror, letting out a happy laugh. He himself might not have paid much attention to it, but Jiro’s heart bloomed at the sound of it. It was rare to hear Lin show honest emotions, let alone happiness.
In front of his vanity, Lin grabbed a small pink box from within a drawer. As he opened it, a gentle melody started flowing. It was a music box with a tiny mirror inside. Next to it, there was the picture of a little girl.
Jiro could see the light in Lin’s eyes dimming, before it twisted into something more painful, something more nostalgic.
Lin’s lips formed a few words. Words that Jiro couldn’t decipher.
He produced a pair of earrings from the box, flowers that looked like they were shedding their petals. Lin chose a gold bracelet to go along with it.
“Alright, then. Thanks, Jiro,” he said, pulling a pair of white high heels from his closet. “Can you call Maru and tell him I’ll meet him outside? Oh, and apologize to the old man for me!”
*
Banba waited, leaning against the golden wall of the hotel’s lobby. Perez was already twenty minutes late and he couldn’t really bring himself to mind it. He hadn’t been looking forward to this interview to begin with. If Perez simply forgot to come and get him, at least Banba would have an excuse to not show up.
“I don’t care if your child is feeling ill, we made a deal!” From somewhere behind him, the angry voice of a man resounded.
Banba turned around. An elder man, his hair a thorough shade of grey, but his body still in fairly athletic condition. He was clad in a suit, a pair of sunglasses and a purple bandana keeping his hair from falling into his eyes.
“I don’t need your help in an hour, I need it now!” he screamed into the phone, low voice rumbling through the lobby.
Normally, Banba wasn’t the type to listen in on strangers’ conversations. And he was just about to turn away when the man let out a phrase of exasperation, in Japanese.
“Gimme a break.”
In Hakata dialect, of all things.
So, when the man came over to rest himself against the same wall Banba was supported by, he couldn’t help but let out a sympathetic, “Some days are rough, huh?”
“No kidding.” The man replied, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
It seemed he was processing Banba’s words for a moment, before he paused mid-motion, turning to look at Banba with wide eyes. “That’s the first time I’ve heard some proper Hakata-ben in…what must have been ages.”
Banba nodded. “I was surprised, too. Have you been in America long?”
“Well, I’d say I travel the world by chance. I’m being paid to take care of a little brat, essentially.”
At that, Banba’s eyes widened. “Sounds like a troublesome work life.”
“Mhm,” the man sighed, “He’s not as bad once you get to know him.”
Banba turned the phone conversation he’d just witnessed over in his mind, “Was the call him?”
The man’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “If he was, I’d have him grounded.” He pulled a card case from his jacket’s pocket and pulled a business card from within it.
A sleek and elegant design in white; name, address and contact details printed in a fine silver font.
“There you go.”
Banba accepted the card, minding the Japanese custom perhaps a bit more than was necessary when you were handed a business card in the US.
“Genzou Gouda, huh,” Banba muttered.
The man – Genzou shrugged. “Or Gouda Genzou, choose your fighter.” He said the last bit in English, stuffing the card case back into his pocket. “What brought you here, then?”
Banba found it admirable. Being able to switch back-and-forth, from Japanese into English and back again was something he had yet to learn.
Banba let out a hesitant laugh. “I’m a baseball player.”
Genzou blinked. A second passed, then a wave of recognition settled in his eyes. “Ah, you’re Banba Zenji? Son, you’re doing great deeds for our country.”
When he felt a steady hand on his shoulder, a breathy laugh mingled with the previous one. “Haha, if you say so.”
Just as they’d finished this meaningless chatter, a general commotion started to spread among the guests assembled in the hotel’s lobby. There were whispers and hushed breaths that sounded like rumors uttered behind the shield of a hand lifted to conceal one’s lips. In the next instant, the crowd parted, as if to let someone pass through.
And somebody did. Obviously enjoying all the attention they were receiving, the person strutted along the red carpet that lay right down the middle of the lobby.
“Speak of the devil,” Genzou said next to Banba. He didn’t sound particularly displeased. Instead, there was some sort of amusement in his voice.
“Lin, you’re late.”
Lin. That’s a name Banba had come across quite often, recently.
He followed Genzou’s gaze and, yes, indeed, this was the very same Lin that Banba had come across repeatedly, ever since he’d arrived in the US.
Lin was wearing an elegant red dress, obviously an evening gown, white high heels on his feet. Banba could not fathom how any man – or woman, for that matter – was able to walk in shoes that had sticks glued to their soles.
“Chill, it’s not like I didn’t apologize beforehand,” Lin replied in English, the same poise and venom from earlier hadn’t left his voice.
Genzou lifted his hand to flick his forehead, using his thumb and forefinger.
“Ouch.”
- “You didn’t say shit, you had Jiro call me saying you’d be late. He didn’t even say why.”
Lin shrugged. “Does it matter?” His gaze flickered to Banba, his expression not necessarily amused. “Seems like you had a good talk with the Japanese MVP here.”
Banba sent him a smile. “Thank you.”
Instead of giving a proper reply, Lin simply clicked his tongue in a disapproving manner. Waving his hand as if he meant to swat away Banba with it, he turned back to Genzou. “Enokida said he’s got everything set up. And Maru’s waiting outside. So, let’s go.”
Without so much as a word of Goodbye, Lin left the two men behind. There was something akin to pride in the way he marched towards the entrance.
“Sorry for that,” Genzou said, squeezing Banba’s shoulder by a way of greeting.
Left without a chance to answer, Banba watched the unlikely duo leave.
And just when one hand had left his shoulder, the next was placed on it rather quickly. Another hand on his left shoulder followed and then he could hear a loud, overly cheerful voice behind him announcing, “Sorry, I’m late. Anyways, let’s get you all good-looking now, eh?”
*
There’d been a proper reason Lin had had Jiro call his manager and tell him he’d be late. After all, Lin had connections and he was damned if he wasn’t going to use them to their fullest potential. And so, he had a vial safely stored away in his white purse, for further use.
“How come you knew Banba already?” Genzou turned around from where he sat on the passenger seat, coming to face Lin.
But Lin only inclined his head. “Know whom?” True, that name sounded familiar, but Lin couldn’t really put his finger on it.
“Wait, you’ve met the baseball star and you don’t tell me?” This time, it was Martínez who exchanged glances with Lin in the rear-view mirror.
It once more became painfully clear to Lin that he was surrounded by baseball maniacs. While he personally couldn’t care less for muscular men in ugly, sweaty tees, his entire team was almost hyper-fixated on baseball. Because of this, Lin had been forced to endure more than one watch party in somebody’s living room, squeezed onto a loveseat that was intended for two people with four.
Lin didn’t mind practicing throwing and catching balls with Misaki in the park. But he did mind missing his favorite sitcoms due to the airtime of baseball matches. In short, baseball – and any other kind of sports, for that matter – was a nuisance to him, at best.
“I can’t even remember I’ve met him?” Lin replied, rather irritated, “So how the hell am I supposed to tell you that I met him?”
Genzou shook his head in amusement. “The bird’s nest hair we met in the lobby. That’s Banba Zenji, originally a player from the Fukuoka Hawks.”
At that, Lin perked up. “Oh, that shithead. He was in my room earlier.”
Just then, Genzou’s and Martínez’ eyes both widened to the size of tennis balls. And Lin, too, realized what that had sounded like.
“Not like that, you perverts. I just had him help me with an annoying paparazzi.”
Martínez let out a heavy sigh. “You know that’s my job. It’s what you pay me to do.”
“Just,” Lin turned to stare out the window, a pout on his lips, “Be happy I give you paid leave, or whatever.”
Then he thought about Genzou’s statement from earlier, adding, “Fukuoka, huh? That’s where you’re from.”
Genzou nodded. The smile that spread on his face was somewhat tainted with nostalgia, but it looked genuine.
“Good old days. I used to do quite a lot of baseball myself, back in the day. But to become an MBL player? As a Japanese, nonetheless. I have immense respect for that lad.” He pulled his phone from his jacket’s pocket, apparently scrolling through a news site. “Lin, once you’re done with the Fashion Week, let’s go back to Japan. You can take a break, maybe travel to Taiwan for a bit.”
While most of Lin’s official records said that he was born and had spent the first few years of his life in Taiwan, both him and his entire team knew it was a lie. Lin was from a small village in rural China, a place so devoid of people that it basically consisted of a few huts with stoves and gravel floors.
Lin didn’t have many memories of his life in China, and the few he did have were completely compromised of his younger sister and his mother. The two people he had given his own life to protect – and would gladly do so again.
Still, he’d made a point of not visiting China in the past years. Not for work, not for travel. Ever since receiving word of the death of his family, he couldn’t bring it over himself to think of returning to China ever again.
However, he had been to Taiwan several times and had cherished the opportunities there and abroad that he could use Chinese for.
“Yeah, you know what,” he replied casually, “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”
Just as he said that an airplane passed over their heads, leaving contrails behind. Perhaps it really didn’t sound half-bad.
The car swirled. And the repetitive sound of the car’s horn brought about a strange mood change.
“¡Coño!” Martínez swore, hands tightly gripping the stirring wheel. “God, I hate driving in New York. Get in a cab next time, I’m begging you.”
Genzou risked a quick look at their driver, then caught Lin’s line of sight in the rear-view mirror. “What did he say?”
Genzou was referring to Martínez swearing. Somehow, he’d become increasingly more interested on picking up languages along the way, going so far as to ask Lin dubious Chinese vocabulary over dinner.
Lin caught sight of Brooklyn’s outstanding architecture long before their GPS announced that they’d soon reach their destination.
The party’s location was a large events’ venue, right in the heart of Brooklyn. The front of the venue was heavily crowded, with people trying to get out of and into cars, private driver’s opening car doors for people that even Lin only knew from the tabloid press or TV.
“I’ll get going,” Lin said, leaning forward to open the car’s door of his own account.
“You’ve got everything?” Genzou asked. It wasn’t necessarily concern that laced his voice. Or rather, it sounded like someone who was worried about a business transaction going wrong.
Lin shot his white purse a glance, then offered his manager a firm nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll call you later.”
Before he kicked the door closed, he heard Martínez utter a laughing, “Man, next time he could say so much as a Thank You.”
*
At these events, Lin found there rarely was any actual introduction. Usually, things were already started and heated up whenever he arrived. Getting to mingle with the tipsy crowd helped to keep a low profile – and it was a major benefit to those who planned a murder.
“If it isn’t little Lin.” A high-pitched voice sang behind him.
Lin screwed up his face. He knew the voice and he knew that its owner would force him into an hour-long conversation if he didn’t deal with this smartly.
“Ah, Natasha,” he greeted the woman in front of him.
Natasha Popowa was a Russian-born model that usually worked in Europe. Lin rarely met her on fashion shows outside of Europe, which was to say, he saw her rarely to begin with, these days.
The first time the two had met had been a more low-profile fashion event in Rome, three years ago. Natasha’s manager had introduced the two, saying that they were two birds of a feather.
However, Lin had to differ. They really weren’t. In fact, him and Natasha were so different form each other that they barely got along at first. They kept bickering and fighting over little things, always competing over their language skills.
They were getting along rather well these days. Having a common enemy really did wonders for human relationships.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Natasha replied, encasing Lin in a tight hug, “When I asked my manager, she said you weren’t attending.”
Lin shrugged. “I wasn’t planning to, to be honest. But you know how Gen is, he’ll never leave out an opportunity for me to wipe somebody’s ass.”
Gen was referring to Genzou, Lin’s manager.
Natasha let out a brilliant laugh. It was such an out-standing sound that it even drowned out the party’s bass-heavy music for a second.
“Okay, but.” Natasha turned serious. Her facial expression gave Lin a bad feeling. “Have you read the newest shit about Feilang? Seems he’s in the same biz now, even though he swore he’d stick to his niche. What a loser.”
Speak of the devil.
A shudder ran down Lin’s spine. The name Feilang left a bitter aftertaste behind. They shared a past, a common experience. So, in a sense, the two were comrades. Partners. But Lin hadn’t seen him in years, and he’d avoided him like the plague.
Whenever there were articles or TV reports about the actor, Lin dodged them on purpose. That worked well enough normally. But apparently his plan wasn’t going to go that smoothly forever.
“I’ll…look it up whenever,” Lin said, trying to avoid the conversation at hand.
He craned his neck to look past Natasha, eyeing the room for his target. However, Hengston Rogers was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he hadn’t arrived yet.
“Look.” The sudden tone in Natasha’s voice made Lin lift his gaze. She sounded concerned, almost sad, even. “I’m not getting between the two of you. What happens between exes, stays between exes. But like, take care of yourself. That shit’ll be hard on your mental health these days.”
Lin felt tempted to point out that him and Feilang weren’t exes. He felt like it would be wasted time, seeing as Natasha had been clinging to this belief for years now. Instead, he thanked her absent-mindedly for her advice, before excusing himself.
He made his way across the venue, moving through the bustling crowd. Whenever people tried to get his attention – which happened more often than Lin would like – he waved them off and gave a curt word of apology.
“If it isn’t the lovely Lin Xianming.”
There. That’s the voice of his target.
Forcing himself to put on a smile that didn’t look like he was about to murder someone, Lin turned around.
Hengston Rogers, dressed in a dark green, velvet suit, stood in front of him. His mid-length, brown hair was loosely gelled back, and, in Lin’s opinion, it made it seem as if Rogers didn’t own a bathroom. Nevertheless, even though Lin knew what kind of bastard Rogers was, he couldn’t help acknowledging the fact that, yes, the man was handsome.
As handsome as a pedophile could be, that is.
Besides, Lin’s first name sounded awkward coming from the man. Was it really that difficult to pronounce Chinese names? Couldn’t people at least try?
“Mr. Rogers, what a pleasure!” Lin said in that fake sing-song voice he usually only used on annoying fashion designers whose wrath he couldn’t afford inflicting upon himself.
“Indeed, it is.” Rogers smiled. While it might have been a genuine gesture, all it did was evoke a wave of disgust within Lin. “I didn’t think you’d be attending the party tonight?”
Lin groaned internally. Word sure travels fast in the VIP world, huh.
“Change of heart,” he replied casually.
A weird flame of anger started burning in his gut as he caught Rogers checking him out. The eyes of the actor roamed over Lin’s body as if he was a prize to be won – and not a living, breathing person.
So that Rogers wouldn’t notice, Lin clenched his fist at his side tightly.
“You look absolutely stunning,” Rogers admired, reaching out a hand as if to touch Lin’s face.
Just in time, Lin managed to turn so that he could call over a waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne glasses and little hors d’oeuvres.
“Let’s have a toast, shall we?” he proposed, taking two glasses from the tray.
There, step one of the plan was complete. Now all he needed to do was avert Rogers’ attention long enough so that he could pour the vial’s see-through liquid into the champagne.
“Have you considered attending this year’s Fashion Week?” Lin asked, at a loss for a better conversation starter.
He handed one of the glasses to Rogers, praying the man might let down his guard for just a second.
“The Fashion Week, hm?” Rogers pondered. “I mean, if I get to see something as pretty as you walk the catwalk, I might just go. I wasn’t planning on going initially, though.”
Lin wanted to gag. God, this guy sounded like the main character straight out of a cheap telenovela.
“Haha,” he let out a nervous (read: disgusted) laugh. “I suppose you’d be happy to know that I walk for Armani this year.”
Lin forced himself to a wink. It probably looked more awkward than sexy. “There’ll be quite a bit of exposed skin, I’m telling you.”
Rogers threw his head back in a heartful laugh.
This. This is it.
Not bothering to check whether other people were watching them, Lin quickly retrieved the small vial from his purse and tipped its contents into the other’s glass. Even though he usually despised killing somebody with poison, it was the quickest way to conceal one’s own traces.
“So,” Rogers started after his sudden outburst, “I thought this for a while now, but your English is surprisingly good. You almost don’t notice you’re Chinese.”
…Hold up. D-Did he just say that? Lin felt his blood starting to boil.
Surprisingly? Almost? What was that jerk going on about, Lin thought. He knew his English was flawless, his accent sounded like he’d been born and raised on the West Coast.
He really felt like screaming at Rogers. Or piercing him with a knife. Actually, the latter would probably soothe his nerves a lot quicker.
“Thanks,” he said instead, forcing himself to remain calm.
They spent another ten minutes exchanging small talk, but, no matter how long he waited, Rogers simply wouldn’t drink the champagne.
“Is something wrong?” Lin asked finally, pointing to the glass in Rogers’ hand. This was mostly to avert having to answer Rogers’ haunting question (“Is there a little something hiding beneath your skirt? I’ve been curious for a while now.”).
“Oh, I’ve just been through withdrawal. I’m not so keen on spurring on my alcoholism.”
Lin clenched his hand around the glass, nearly breaking it. That damn mushroom head, he sure damn knew this and just didn’t tell Lin.
“I see,” Lin said. His kind tone was beginning to fade into something obviously annoyed.
God damn it, so what’s next? Sighing, Lin downed his own champagne in one chuck, placing it on the closest table.
Only one card left to play, then.
Lin stepped purposefully close to Rogers, placing his left hand on his right shoulder. To close the distance between them, he leaned in close, so that he could whisper directly into Rogers’ ear, “If you’re so interested in finding out what’s beneath my skirt, then why don’t you just try your luck?”
Lin felt disgust clawing its way up his spine. Man, this was the hand he usually never dealt. He hated having to sell himself out like this.
In return, he’d make sure he’d stab Rogers multiple times. The guy deserved it, anyway.
“That’s an offer I’ll take you up on,” Rogers replied in an equally low voice, his hand coming up to wrap around Lin’s waist, before squeezing his butt.
Trying his best at a seductive gaze, Lin clutched Rogers’ tie and pulled him along, towards the back of the venue. Making their way past curious glances and chuckled comments, Lin pushed open the door that led outside.
A fresh breeze blew, and Lin noticed just how stuffy the inside of the building had been. He really wanted to get this over with quickly.
Rogers approached Lin from behind. He wrapped his arms around Lin’s waist, pulling his backside flush against Rogers’ chest.
Lin felt unease blossom in his stomach. This was bad. This was bad. Don’t let him try anything funny, don’t let him…
Just then he could feel Rogers’ breath on his bare neck, terrible goosebumps climbing up his arms. Lin slipped his hand beneath his skirt, removing the knife from its holster.
“You know, girls like you should be appreciated more. All this smooth, marble skin.” Rogers’ voice sounded into his ear, only inciting Lin’s sense of discomfort.
Girls? Girls? He really said that, huh. He really intended to get beneath Lin’s skirt, thinking that he’s a girl.
Lin raised his arm, driving his elbow into Rogers’ stomach. Storming forward, Lin followed his flight instinct, telling him to move, move, move.
Cold sweat was pooling at Lin’s nape. He just wanted to get away. Screw this, screw everything. He wasn’t going to stay around long enough to kill Rogers and risk getting himself touched by this pervert.
Just as he turned around to check the distance he’d put between himself and Rogers, he could hear a pained scream.
“What-…”
Lin didn’t trust his own eyes. There was someone. And there was blood.
Judging by the silhouette he saw in the distance; the person was a man. He wasn’t as broad and wide as Rogers. The man wore a dark suit and had dark hair, gelled upwards into an arranged mess.
Lin couldn’t see the man’s face. Not because it was too dark to do so, but because he was hiding half of it behind a mask.
“What are you…”
Rogers lay at the man’s feet. His eyes were opened, his chest torn apart. A pile of blood had formed beneath his body.
Rogers was dead. And Lin hadn’t killed him.
“Shit,” it escaped Lin. He didn’t know what the guy’s motive was. For all Lin knew, he himself might end up murdered within the next five seconds.
Struggling to his feet, Lin raised the knife he’d taken a hold of just now. He raised it just until the knife’s tip pointed at the man’s chest.
Lin wasn’t scared of fighting other people. If he were, he’d long since lost his life in this world of killing and bloodshed. Heck, he’d probably not have survived his childhood, either. But the adrenaline from escaping Rogers’ grasp, from feeling that man’s arms around him, was still pumping through his veins.
Lin’s hands shook terribly, and he had trouble keeping the knife deftly pointed at his opponent’s chest.
“Who the fuck are you,” Lin spit through gritted teeth, slowly sliding across the pavement to put distance between him and the man with the, admittedly, rather strange mask. And were those swords he was wielding?
“What business did you have with Rogers? Are you an assassin?”
But instead of giving a proper answer, the man simply re-sheathed his blood-stained swords. When he took his time to look down upon Lin, there was something strange in the way he pursed his lips.
“なんね。強かね”
Lin knew this voice. Even worse than that, he knew this tinge of provincialism, this Japanese that was so strange it wasn’t printed in a single textbook.
It sounded similar to the way his manager talked, the few rare times their conversations took place in Japanese and not the US-American English they both had gotten used to over the years.
The man in the suit crouched low in front of him. Once they were face-to-face, he reached out a hand and gently placed it on the top of Lin’s head. He ruffled the blonde’s hair, before his fingers trailed down the side of Lin’s face, carefully undoing his left earring and encasing it in his fist.
“I’ll return this,” he said, this time in an awkward-sounding, albeit adorable English.
Before Lin could connect the strings of information that kept floating around in his mind, the man with the strange mask got up and left, leaving Lin to the coolness of the night and the splattered blood drying on the pavement.
After it was done and over with, Lin didn’t particularly feel like returning to the party. To begin with, he’d only gone there to kill Rogers and even though he felt sorry for making Natasha wait for ages, he couldn’t bear having to go to that venue if his task was long since completed.
Lin walked through the park, approaching the main road, while pulling his phone from his purse and dialing Martínez’ number.
“Yo, if it’s not our beautiful son. How’s it going?” Martínez greeted him cheerily.
“He’s dead,” Lin said, curtly, “Come pick me up. Backside of the building, the main road beside the park.” Just like that, he ended the call.
He sat down on the nearest park bench, letting the day’s events pass him by. Before he knew it, his hand shot up to touch the earlobe that was now bare, the earring having been taken by the man. That man, whose voice Lin knew and whose stupid provincial dialect sounded strikingly familiar.
Something in Lin’s mind kept rattling, as if some gears had set into motion. But no matter how much he thought it over, turned it over in his mind, he just couldn’t bring himself to believe what he was already fearing was true.
That assassin had had the same voice as that Japanese baseball player that had stormed into Lin’s hotel room.
That couldn’t be true. That nest-headed baseball idiot couldn’t possibly…
Lin startled when he heard a car’s honking near him. Raising his gaze, he came face-to-face with Martínez, sitting on the driver’s seat, bare arm perched on the windowsill.
“Oye, ¿qué pasa? Pareces que hubieras visto una fantasma,” Martínez called out to him as Lin approached the car.
Shoulders sagged, storing his phone in the purse, Lin scooted onto the car’s backseat.
“Yeah, kinda,” he replied, too tired to worry about languages, “All I wanna do is go crash in my hotel room.”
“No drinking, no drugs,” Martínez jumped in. “Otherwise, Jiro and I’ll have your head.”
Lin waved his hand in a dismissive manner, already closing his eyes for a nap. “Oh and,” he mumbled, “Make sure to tell the mushroom I hate him. He sucks big time.”
He was grateful when Martínez didn’t comment on his fit of anger. Instead, the bodyguard reached over to turn the radio’s volume up. Apparently, they’d just started broadcasting a public press conference.
“He’s said to be a real talent,” Martínez said, even before Lin knew whom he was talking about.
“…Japanese MLB Player Zenji Banba seems to still not have arrive at the conference’s hall. Manager Alex Perez says it can only be a matter of minutes now.”
Lin leaned his head against the cool window plane. Oh, for God’s sake.
Chapter 2: everything i wanted.
Notes:
*insert the It's been 84 years meme*
Um. How are you all doing? I'm back from the dead I guess. Idk why but after Vol 11 and Vol 12 came out (I know it's been forever) I ended up extremely invested in Hakaton for like, the millionth time in my life. Anyway. The spin-off series was also released and I don't really wanna spoiler anything but if anyone happens to read it pls hmu on Twitter I have THOUGHTS.
Also, Banlin rules and I really miss the crew. Can't believe the last volume is pretty much around the corner hahaha *laughing through the tears*Anyway here u go. I feel like I forgot where I was gonna go with this fic but whatever. Have fun. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The thing Lin remembered the most when he awoke in a cold sweat were hands. Hands all over his body. Hands touching him where he wanted them least, between his legs and pulling his hair. There was lipstick, smeared on the white bed sheets – but it wasn‘t his. The hands were severed and sprouted from darkness. Some of them whispered, as if they had voices, whispered Lin’s name, as if begging for attention. The voices were loud and disgusting, their whispers for some reason were louder than any gunshot Lin had ever heard.
When he wasn’t sure whether he’d make it through much longer, when he was about to lose his mind to the manicured fingernail tracing his genitalia, there was another voice. It was quieter and it didn’t break through the ruckus immediately. But when it did, it was soft and gentle and urged Lin to rouse from his sleep.
When Lin opened his eyes and stared up at a blank white ceiling, devoid of any emotion, the voice was still in his ears.
“なんね。強かね”
Lin groaned. He banged his head against the soft mattress underneath him – repeatedly – trying to get rid of the mental image that was slowly but surely infecting his brain.
“It can’t be him. It just…can’t.”
Lin reached for his phone, which he had carelessly thrown onto the floor the night before. The battery was almost empty, but he was too lazy to search for the charger. He wasn’t so sure he would find it, anyway. He pulled up Twitter and scrolled through his timeline, trying to find anything; any clue that would ease his mind. But what he found was the exact opposite.
People had tagged him left and right, talking about how he had unexpectedly shown up at last night’s event. Other people were talking about the horrendous death of Hengston Rogers – some of them suggesting in careful voices that, maybe, just maybe, he deserved it.
“Hah, yeah, he sure did,” Lin muttered and that’s when he saw it. There was a tweet about the MLB press conference from just the night before.
The bird’s nest hair and dirty sweater Banba Zenji appeared to have captured the entire nation’s heart in no time. Everyone was retweeting clips of the press conference, gushing in the comments and the quote retweets about how adorable the 28-year-old player was.
But as Lin flicked through the videos and screenshots, he got the feeling that what people called adorable was a string of awkwardness that was the product of a language hurdle too high to jump across.
Lin was just about to watch another video when his phone began to vibrate and the name Enokida flashed across the display.
“Ugh.” Lin wasn’t too keen on talking to the mushroom head, but he figured he didn’t have a proper excuse not to answer the call. “Your voice is not the first thing I wanna hear in the morning,” Lin said in lieu of a proper greeting.
“A good morning to you, too,” Enokida replied, seemingly unbothered, “Where’re ya at? You’ll be late for breakfast.”
“I could never be too late for breakfast, I just pay them double so they’ll wait for me,” Lin shot back, but already moved to get out of bed.
“Woah, capitalism right there. I’m shocked.”
“Yeah, yeah. So? Did you call me to check whether my stomach is empty, or did you actually have any business?”
Enokida faked a hurt gasp. “Lin-kun, can friends not care about their friends?”
“Yeah, no, fuck that, you always have ulterior motives.”
Before Enokida could reply to that, it sounded like somebody had taken the phone from him and a moment later Lin’s bodyguard Martínez was at the other end of the line.
“Lin, you won’t believe it. The old man befriended the Japanese baseballer and now he’s at our table. Get your ass down here.”
“I hate baseball,” Lin interjected before Martínez could continue his little fangirling session. “I literally couldn’t care less. Suck his dick or something, I’m getting another round of sleep.”
Just as Lin was about to hang up, somebody was shouting in the background. It was Jiro. He sounded absolutely furious when he told Lin to come down for breakfast and that he would pay Martínez to put Lin through tickle torture if he wasn’t downstairs in five minutes.
Lin groaned but left it at that bit of protest. He hung up after a quick Goodbye and pulled a yellow summer dress from inside his wardrobe.
He put it on and pulled the door open with a little more force than necessary. The people in the hallway watched him storm towards the elevator and press the button repeatedly. Everyone was getting on his nerves. Everything was getting on his nerves.
Downstairs, when he entered the dining hall, the hotel staff greeted him and took his orders, but Lin couldn’t be bothered. He spotted Jiro and the others at a table outside on the terrace and approached them with fierce, long steps.
“Yo, fuckers!”
Nobody looked up, all of them were way too used to Lin’s outbursts to be bothered. But a less familiar face looked up and waved a hand that was accompanied by a stupid grin.
“Lin-chaaaan!”
It was the baseball player. Baba--- Baba-something.
“Ugh, the fuck’s he doing here?” Lin groaned, flopping onto an empty chair next to his manager Genzou.
“Lin-chan, you’re mean. I was so excited to see you again!” the man with the bird’s nest hair whined. His weird Japanese dialect still got on his nerves.
“I’m a man! A man!” Lin shot back, stabbing his fork into the pancakes on Martínez’ plate.
“Oi! Get your own,” Martínez roared, but it lacked venom.
The baseball player leaned over until he was all up in Lin’s personal space. “Hey, Lin-chan. I still have to return this to you.”
“Hah?” Lin was extremely not interested. He was barely even listening to the other man until he outstretched his hand and held out something for Lin to take.
Lin couldn’t believe his eyes. What the baseball player was holding in his hand was nothing other than his earring.
The golden earring he had worn the evening before which looked like flowers shedding their petals.
Lin got off his chair so abruptly that it fell over backward.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Lin screamed, reaching across the table to grab the other by his shirt’s collar.
Their faces aligned, the baseball player lifted his hands in defense and flashed a bright smile.
“I promised I’d return it, didn’t I?” he joked, and the moment that annoying provincialism reached his ears Lin reached for the nearest sharp, pointy-looking thing on the table. He grabbed the butterknife off Jiro’s plate and poked the other man’s nose with it.
“Lin, could you not kill people before I had my first coffee?” Martínez pleaded and Genzou, who looked very uninterested, snatched the knife from Lin with a flick of his wrist.
“That’s no way to treat your savior, Lin-chan.”
God that guy was over here calling him nicknames and all and Lin could barely remember his name. He just knew that the guy was annoying him.
“Fine.” After agreeing reluctantly, Lin flopped back onto his chair. He proved a point by kicking the tabletop with his foot, then leaned back in his chair and began to chew on a grilled wiener.
“I’m sorry,” Jiro apologized from across the table. It was directed at the Japanese baseball player, who, if Lin didn’t know any better, looked a little disheartened. “Lin-chan here is actually quite nice once you get to know him better.”
“I’m trying to,” the man whined, “Get to know him better, that is.”
Lin glared daggers at him. “Yeah, screw that:”
The guy leaned in once more and…was he making heart eyes at Lin? Ridiculous.
“Who are you, anyway?” Lin asked, more out of morbid curiosity than genuine interest,
“What?! Didn’t we talk a lot yesterday, how come you’ve forgotten my name already?”
“I’m bad with names,” Lin said. That was a lie. A really bad one, too.
He could usually remember names and faces within seconds. He didn’t really know what it was about this man that made it so hard to remember.
“Unbelievable,” the man sighed, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “I’m Banba Zenji. As you should have remembered already, Lin-Lin.”
Lin’s grip around the golden cutlery tightened. “Lin-Lin?” he asked through gritted teeth. “What the fuck?”
“I think it’s cute!” Jiro chimed in and Genzou placed a soothing hand on Lin’s thigh.
“Look, I know I’m pretty and awesome and famous and all that shit,” Lin said, eyes glued to the Japanese baseball player, “But I’m booked, not interested, whatever. You want a photo and an autograph? Will you kindly piss off, then?”
Banba blinked in surprise. “I didn’t even say anything.”
Lin’s friends around him were whispering, shushing, saying stuff like “Hey, Lin, hear him out” or “Lin, stop being a brat”. But Lin was having none of that. He didn’t care about this. Whatever this was. He had jobs to finish and shit to deal with.
“You know what? Thanks for saving my life yesterday, or whatever. That what you wanna hear? Great.” Lin got up off his chair so abruptly that it fell over backward. “I’ll go grab coffee at a Starbucks. I’m taking the day off.”
“You’re supposed to run a catwalk this evening!” Genzou shouted after him, knowing fully well that it was impossible to reason with Lin whenever he was in this mindset.
"Sarucchi, we'll run late!" Naoya whined, phone jammed between his shoulder and cheek while he held the door to their hotel room open with his foot.
Saruwatari lay face first on his king-sized bed, the fingers of his left hand lazily rolling a shuriken across the silken sheets. Naoya felt his temples begin to throb with the signs of an impending headache.
They were going to have to pay for these sheets. Not that they couldn't afford it, but he'd rather not spend unnecessary money.
"If it‘s not a killing job I don't want it," Saruwatari muttered into his pillow, words coming out so muffled Naoya could barely understand them.
"Sarucchi, look, I explained this to you already, didn't I? We have to look for this target first. And you know there's only one person who can help us."
"Yeah, good luck. Call me once you found him."
"Sarucchi, for fuck's sa— Not you, Sayuri-san."
Naoya had just phoned his co-worker Sayuri in hopes of gaining any more intel on their next target.
"I hadn't intended to scream at you, sorry. Sarucchi is just being…Well. How are you doing?"
"Fine?" Sayuri chuckled, her voice kind. "I already heard who you're looking for, but I'm afraid I can't help you right now. My hands are tied. Quite literally."
Naoya could hear faint noises coming from the other side of the line. He decided not to indulge any of the pictures the sounds painted in his head.
"Well. That is…unfortunate. Um. Will you be all right?"
"Oh it‘s just the usual," Sayuri casually replied, "This is all part of the plan."
Naoya huffed. "Of course it is."
It couldn't be helped. If Sayuri was in no position to help them, he'd just have to rely on other sources.
He quickly thanked Sayuri, then hung up and turned to face Saruwatari once more. He was sitting up on his bed by now, which was an improvement. But he didn't look any more motivated than he had just a few minutes ago.
"Sayuri-san can't help us, she said. Our next best guess is Feilang but God knows where he's lunging around."
"You could ask that blonde guy."
Naoya cocked his head in puzzlement. "Ask who?"
Saruwatari casually threw a shuriken in the general direction of the wardrobe. It got stuck in the carpet.
Naoya sighed. Another thing to add to the list of debts.
"You know. That model-assassin-something. The other Chinese guy."
"Ah."
Granted, Saruwatari's explanation was the opposite of precise, but Naoya still understood who he was referring to.
Lin Xianming was quite popular. Not just in the world of haute couture, but also in the underworld. He was a famous hit man, known for rather swift killings that were always properly covered up. Naoya and Saruwatari had met Lin and his team several times now, the kickstarter had been a Hollywood event to which both Saruwatari and Lin had been invited - and had attended planning to kill the same target, nonetheless.
Naoya quickly opened up Instagram and looked up the male model's profile. Just as he had expected, there were no posts or anything that gave so much as a hint to the model's whereabouts.
"You don't happen to know where he's working currently?" Naoya asked, not because he genuinely believed Saruwatari would, but more to make light conversation.
To his surprise, Saruwatari gave an affirmative grunt. "Yeah. New York. Right here."
Naoya blinked in surprise. "Here? Like here-here?" he asked, pointing at the floor below him.
Saruwatari shook his head and pointed a finger upwards, to the ceiling. "Topfloor."
Naoya sputtered. "How did you know?!"
"I saw him at the pool yesterday." Saruwatari shrugged.
Naoya rushed over and if he pressed a kiss to Saruwatari's cheek in what felt like a sudden surge of triumph, then he didn't regret it.
"Lin-chan, wait! Lin-Lin, hold up! Lin!"
Lin made a show of not waiting. He didn't care what the guy had to say to him. God, he wished he had forgotten his name again but he hadn't. For some damned reason, he had remembered the man's name this time.
"Fuck off, you horse-face!"
To Lin's surprise, he could actually hear the other stop in his tracks.
"Horse-face?" it sounded confused rather than insulted.
"Banba. Like. Your name." Lin couldn't believe he was actually explaining this. Like. He had turned around to explain his insult. "It's spelled with horse, no?"
Banba blinked in confusion. "Oh, right, you can read Japanese."
"We're speaking Japanese right now!" Lin bellowed. A little too loudly, perhaps, considering most people in the lobby turned to look at them.
"I know, I know!" Banba put his hands up in defense. "But reading and speaking are different."
"Different how?"
"Anyhow," Banba said, suspiciously ignoring the question, "You didn't even thank me for returning your earring."
Lin looked around him, then leaned in to ask in a hushed voice, "Why were you there anyway? And what's with that stupid mask?"
"It's stylish, okay," Banba said to which Lin replied with a click of his tongue, "I actually just filled in for another co-worker. Your manager had trouble finding someone, so I volunteered."
Lin‘s brain didn't compute. "My ma— You mean Genzou? Why would he hire someone to kill Rogers, that was my target?!"
Banba shrugged; hands stuffed into his pants pockets. (Were those sweatpants? And was that a coffee stain?)
"He said something about insurance. Maybe he was worried about you."
"Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am? I never mess up!"
Banba's voice was kind when he said, "Yesterday was a close call, though."
Lin was about to retort something when he saw a familiar flash of red in his periphery. It caught him off-guard just long enough to lose track of the conversation.
It didn't seem to matter much, anyhow, because before he realized somebody was screaming his name, loudly. And in a strange accent, too. It was English but laced with such a heavy accent that it was obvious that they weren't a native.
When Lin turned to look at who was screaming his name so annoyingly a groan escaped him.
"Fucking hell."
"Who's that?" Banba asked when he had spotted the two figures approaching them.
"Lin-san. It's been a while."
Lin massaged his temples, fighting a headache. "Mhm. Naoya. Saru. What's up?"
Banba looked first at Lin then at the other two then back again. "Saru?"
Naoya, who had just noticed Banba, adjusted his glasses. "Excuse us, are we interrupting something?"
"He's one of us," Lin shrugged, then made an awkward cutting motion with his hand to clarify that One of us meant 'hitman' and not 'celebrity'.
"Oh. That makes things easier.” Naoya pulled his wallet from his coat’s jacket. From inside he retrieves a printed picture and holds it up to Lin.
Lin eyed the picture. It showed a man, perhaps a little older than forty, with tousled black hair and round glasses covering half of his already tiny face. In the picture, he’s wearing a suit; an illusion of sophistication, although his tie is missing, and the first two buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned.
Lin felt bile rise at the back of his throat. He knew this man, and his body going into fight-or-flight mode proved that it remembered him, too.
He tried to cover it up, a hand confidently resting on his hip. Lin couldn't show weakness. He couldn't be weak and break down over something as trivial as this.
He balled his hands into fists and lifted his head, eyes hard.
"What do you wanna know? That's Wáng Yìchén. I don't know where he is or where he's been these past six, seven years. For all I know he settled down in Shànghǎi with a wife."
Lie. Lin knew that Wang Yichen was still living in the States. Lin knew that he was still working as a director.
"What a shame," Naoya said, and Lin prayed the other didn't see right through his bluff. "We weren't exactly relying on you, anyway."
"Why're you here then?" Lin said, switching to English out of pure convenience.
Naoya didn't have it. "Where is Feilang?" he asked, switching back to Japanese.
"Ya betta tell us or we havin' yo head," Sarucchi chimed in, voice dripping with this dialect that Lin hated just as much as ever.
"Yeah, sure. Scary," he drawled, "Listen. I don't know where Fēiláng is, okay? We're not even friends or anything."
He knew where Feilang was. That is. He could find it out as easy as nothing.
"Hah? You shittin' us? Look if ya lie to us we can jus'—"
Naoya put a hand to Saruwatari's chest, pushing him back.
Lin always remained relatively unbothered by Saruwatari's hot-headed advances. They didn't fight, exactly. Rather it was a matter of Saruwatari always getting ahead of himself and seeking trouble wherever he went.
Lin knew that it wasn't intended most of the time. But having had Saruwatari get on his nerves for the bigger half of a year now, he could understand why the whole of Hollywood had conspired against the stunt double.
Saruwatari was most famous for doing stunts in high budget Hollywood productions which sold well internationally. He was obnoxious and loud, and always tried to get his way with things, thus having earned a bad reputation with producers and directors.
Lin found Saruwatari even more annoying since he knew that the stunt double worked as a hitman. By now they had clashed not just once but quite a few times, accidentally aiming for the same target or just sabotaging the other's work.
"Um, sorry to interrupt."
Lin jerked. He had to admit that he had almost forgotten about Banba.
"Why are ya looking for this fellow - what‘s-his-name - anyway?"
"Ah! Hakata-ben!"
Saruwatari pointed an accusatory finger at Banba.
Come to think of it, Lin hadn't paid much attention to it but Saruwatari's and Banba‘s dialects sounded suspiciously similar.
"Do you guys know each other?" Lin turned to ask Banba.
"Dunno," Banba replied honestly and Saruwatari spat, "I'd remember him."
"I am not so sure about that," Naoya said underneath his breath, then turned to hand Banba a business card, "My name is Nitta Naoya and this is my protegé, of sorts, Saruwatari Shunsuke.“
"Ah, my name's Banba Zenji." While Banba began to search his pocket for what Lin presumed was his own business card, he said, "If ya need help looking for this guy, I'll gladly offer it."
Lin fought a condescending laugh. "Hah, right. What you gonna do? Throw a ball at him?"
Banba shot him an exasperated look. It was obvious he wasn't having any of Lin's attitude.
"A detective?" Naoya asked in surprise after having eyed Banba‘s business card.
"Yup. At least part-time, that is."
"What‘s the other part-time? Throwing balls across a Baseball field?" Lin taunted.
Banba shot him another exasperated look. "That's part of it, anyway," he said then, before turning back to Naoya and Saruwatari.
"We can help ya look for that guy. It‘d be nice to know what exactly ya want from him, though."
"Information," Naoya said, voice creepily low. Simultaneously, Saruwatari blurted, "He‘s ma target."
Lin stumbled a step forward, hands flying to Saruwatari's lapels.
"Say that once more!"
Saruwatari's eyes shone with the hint of a challenge. "That Fan-whatever" — "Wáng Yìchén" - "Yeah, that guy. Anyway. He's ma target. A job's a job."
"Who's order is this? Who asked you to do this?" Lin bellowed.
Lin felt Banba step up behind him, hands hovering just out of reach of Lin‘s shoulders.
"Lin-chan, I'm sure they mean no harm."
"Boss' orders," Naoya sidestepped the question. He readjusted his glasses and glanced up at Banba.
"So, Mister Detective. Say you find Feilang for us and we pay you. How's that sound?"
Banba shrugged. "Sounds fine to me."
Lin whirled around, already prepared to scream at Banba. But he found that he couldn't. There was no logical reason to be angry.
In fact, he'd wanted to have his way with Wang for the longest time now. If anything, Naoya and Saruwatari were playing right into his cards.
"Alright," Lin sighed, deflating, "I'll look for Fēilǎng. And I'll look for Wáng. But there is one condition."
Saruwatari took a step forward, but he didn't get far as he was held back by Naoya.
"The fuck you mean, conditions? We're payin' ya! So we're the ones to make the rules here."
"I'll be the one to kill Wáng," Lin said, ignoring Saruwatari's loud complaints.
"Hah?" - "All right."
Naoya took a step forward and held his right hand out for Lin to take. Lin did, albeit hesitatingly.
"We'll contact ya once we find something," Banba said.
Naoya nodded. "As will we. Good luck."
Lin didn't wait for them to turn around before he stomped off and walked down the hallway, heels clicking loudly against the polished marble floor.
"So you‘re telling me you've no idea where Feilang could be? And you want me to find him?"
Enokida had made himself comfortable on Lin’s bed. His laptop rested on his legs while he had an opened bag of chocolate cookies stuffed into his hoodie's pocket.
"Yeah? Like, what? Like it's hard?" Lin was pacing the room, rushing from the bathroom back to his closet and out onto the balcony.
Enokida watched him, silently pondering. It had been quite a while since he had last seen his friend this restless. Lin wasn't exactly good at concealing his emotions, to begin with. But he was even worse at pretending that everything was fine.
“And what will you do when I find him?” Enokida asked. When not if because they both knew it was only a matter of time until he knew where to find Feilang. “You just gonna go talk to him? Maybe bring some tea?”
“What ‘cause I’m Chinese?” Lin snapped, his right hand tightly gripping a hair brush.
Enokida lifted his hands in defense. “I’m Asian, too, chill. You know I was just making a stupid joke.”
“Imma kill him,” Lin said. He had opened his wardrobe and was pulling clothes from inside it, throwing them onto the bed next to Enokida.
“Yeah, sure. Kill one of Hollywood’s most renowned rising stars, that sounds like a bulletproof plan,” Enokida retorted, setting to work and typing away on his computer, “Besides, you two go way back, don’t you? I doubt you’d be able to kill him like it is nothing.”
Having heard this, Lin paused and closed his wardrobe’s door in a robotic motion.
"I'll do it if I have to," Lin eventually said, but his voice was barely audible. And Enokida knew that it was just another one of Lin's façades.
But he wasn't going to comment on it.
"Well. Anyway. Famous porn star Feilang, is it? You happen to know his last name?"
Lin shook his head. If Enokida didn't know any better, he'd say he looked defeated.
"He wouldn't tell me. I guess it's 'cuz he hates his family so much he doesn't wanna remember them."
Enokida nodded. "Mhm, get that."
It's not like he hadn‘t done that himself. Quite some years ago now, when he had cut ties with his family and had taken on a fake name - a fake personality.
He got back to work with the little information he had. He'd managed to get results from much less information. This wasn't a first for him and certainly not the last time.
But every so often he found himself looking up at Lin and wondering; wondering what his life would have been like if he hadn’t met Lin and his team that day in Tokyo.
Well, it probably wouldn’t be too different from the life he was living now. Minus all the luxury and traveling, perhaps. But being an informant paid well, so, in the long run, everything might have been just like it was now.
“Except this is much more fun,” Enokida mumbled underneath his breath.
Lin looked at him with an arched brow. “What is?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Enokida replied.
Come to think of it, the first time Lin and he met, he’d also been looking for someone on Lin’s orders. It had paid much too well, not just in terms of money, but in terms of meeting so many new friends that now he struggled coming up with ideas for birthday presents. (More often than not Enokida just looked up his friends’ search history or bought something off of their Amazon wishlist. For Lin he usually got expensive makeup or Louboutin heels.)
“Ah. Found him,” Enokida said. He turned his laptop around so it faced Lin and showed him what he’d found.
“What? Where?” Lin rushed over and flopped onto the mattress next to him.
“He’s got a condo in the suburbs. Huh. Thought he’d have a villa here but apparently his permanent address is in Venice Beach.”
“Can you send me the address?” Lin asked. He had already begun to change clothes, stepping into a long red skirt and putting on a jeans’ jacket over his white turtle neck.
Enokida pointedly ignored the flash of skin that was exposed when Lin put his long hair into a bun.
“What? The one in Venice Beach?”
“New York, obviously,” Lin snapped. It was obvious he wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
Enokida nodded and grabbed Lin’s phone off the nightstand. “Yeah, sure,” he said, unlocking it. Twitter was still opened up, Lin’s timeline flooded with news of a certain baseball player.
Banba Zenji was all over the national news, the tabloids having forgotten how to report anything that wasn’t directly related to the ‘charming’ foreigner.
Enokida grimaced as he closed the app and opened Lin’s notes app, typing in the address.
“You know, Banba-san,” he said then, as he handed the phone back to Lin.
“Yeah?”
“I think he’s nice,” Enokida said, shrugging.
Lin didn’t have it. Very obviously annoyed, he snatched the phone from Enokida and put it into the small bag that hung from his shoulder. “Okay? So go suck his dick or something, I don’t care. You sound just like Maru, Jesus.”
“I wasn’t talking about me,” Enokida replied, “I think he likes you. Just a hunch, though.”
“I don’t have time to deal with kids,” Lin snapped.
Enokida didn’t have the heart to argue with him; to tell him that Lin was the youngest one in their friend group. Lin didn’t exactly like being reminded of his own age. And Enokida understood it all too well. He had always hated being younger than the people around him and had hated the idea that everyone around him had more life experience to go off of. He was older now and he knew that some ten years didn’t exactly give you any advantage.
Sometimes he’d look at Martínez and Jiro and realize that they had just as little of an idea of how to be a proper adult as he did. But Lin was young and convinced that being four years younger than Enokida made him in any way inferior.
Well. He supposed these things changed with time.
"So? You off to kill your sworn enemy?"
Lin nodded. He opened the top drawer of his vanity and pulled a knife from the inside. Enokida watched as Lin fastened the knife to the holster on his upper thigh.
"Don't tell Jiro where I'm going. And don't tell Maru either."
Enokida sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Sure."
They both knew what that meant. It meant 'Your secret is safe with me until somebody pays a higher price. Or until your life is in danger'.
And so, Lin begrudgingly accepted Enokida's reply.
"See you." - "Mhm. See you. Break a leg."
Just as Enokida had said that, Lin opened the room's door - only to reveal a familiar person standing in front of it.
Notes:
Tbh while I worked on this chapter I realized that 28 is probably considered very old in MLB terms (I am German and know next to nothing about baseball, bear with me). So um. We will...just ignore that. Okay? Okay.
PS: I decided to use tones for Chinese words when Lin says them, cuz I figured he would use the proper pronunciation. It's his mother tongue, after all. I won't use the tones in the narration or when other characters talk, though. Since most of Lin's team would speak Japanese anyway.
medka on Chapter 1 Wed 17 Feb 2021 02:20PM UTC
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roronoa on Chapter 1 Sat 14 Aug 2021 08:38PM UTC
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Alier (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 31 Aug 2021 02:11AM UTC
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Alier (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 03 Sep 2021 03:08AM UTC
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Kirhan° (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 20 Dec 2022 02:17AM UTC
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Adw (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 30 Jul 2023 06:43AM UTC
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Alier (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sat 24 Jun 2023 07:08AM UTC
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Alier (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sat 24 Jun 2023 07:27AM UTC
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annie0280 on Chapter 2 Wed 24 Apr 2024 02:40AM UTC
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