Dreamless Love Story

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White noise in black room dust
These hands long for one last touch
Hourglass all out of trust –
I don't scratch so I won't itch
I don't reach so I won't miss

"Jet Black" – Jawbreaker

A/N: Finished one song and I had to start another! I'm sticking with Jawbreaker's final record - Dear You, released in 1995, before I was even in high school - as it seems to be the theme. A note on this, as it is a strange and obscure choice: at first, I thought it was completely inappropriate too - pop-angsty early 90s West Coast hardcore in 21st century Japan? - but somehow, it's working for me. The key is that it's not about the music, it's about Blake S.'s apathetic, mundane, masculine poetics, which I think will come across in this song even more than the first. (In terms of music, I've been listening to a lot of Minus the Bear and Nada Surf while writing this, if any of you kids are interested! )

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Never did. Never will.

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"Point!"

"No it wasn't, aho!"

Light, running footsteps and the soft thwack of bamboo striking bamboo carry along the concrete embankment. Squinting in the sunlit glare, Kurogane inclines his head lazily toward the sound.

"You're wrong!"

"Oh yeah?"

Three boys, eleven or twelve years old, are chasing each other down the edge of the river, swinging shinais in their dark, skinny arms.

"Owowowow!"

"Got you that time, aho."

"That hurt, you idiot!"

The older man smirks, leaning against his motorcycle and pushing down a can of vending machine coffee. His legs ache from the long ride west and the many hours spent pounding Kansai pavement. It's been two days, and still… no leads, no luck. Not much at all. But at least nobody's come looking, yet. Gulping down the coffee dregs, he crushes the can in his large fist – a habit.

The tallest kid's ears perk up at the crunch and pop of aluminium a few feet away. He spins on his heel to stare over at the menacing figure in black leather.

"Hey uncle!" yells the boy casually. "Did you see that jerk cheat just now?"

"I did not!" A shorter boy pushes the other's head from behind with an open hand. The first kid coughs, and swiftly spins round again to poke his friend in the stomach with the butt of his shinai.

"Ooof – I'll get you for that one!" One hand rubbing his stomach, the smaller boy drawls over at Kurogane, "Did you see that, uncle?"

Grimacing, Kurogane crosses his arms.

"Hey hey uncle!" shouts the third kid, leaping up onto the guardrail across from the big man and his dusty motorcycle. "Watch us spar and tell us who's the best, okay?"

Tossing the crumpled can into a nearby trash receptacle, Kurogane grunts. "You're all terrible."

"Oh yeah?" The first kid snorts and throws his head back, standing comically with hands on hips. "Oh, yeah?" he spits again, with childish bravado. "Whadda you even know about it, old man?"

Kurogane laughs, juvenile arrogance flashing in his own eyes. Another bad habit. Clearing his throat, he steps gingerly toward the snarling kid. Then, with a sharp lunge, he has snatched the boy's shinai and is spinning easily, using the bamboo tip to flip the weapons out of the other boys' hands with a minimum of movement – one, two, they clatter to the concrete. The older man sweeps his mock-sword in a broad arc, tapping each kid gently – but not too gently – on the head, wrist, head – before rising from his crouched stance.

"Ow, geez!"

With a derisive, satisfied shrug, and a sniff, Kurogane drops the bamboo sword to the cement and starts walking back to his bike.

"Owowow…" hisses one kid, looking down and shaking his bruised wrist. But the first kid is speechless and staring, jaw hanging wide open.

"How did you do that?" His dark eyes are as wide as his gaping mouth. "Are you a kendo master?"

Kurogane smirks arrogantly but says nothing, picking up his helmet.

"Teach us!" The boy runs up to him, tugging on his thick, black sleeve. "Please!"

The tall man looks down into the boy's pleading eyes, both surprised and annoyed, and snarls. "No."

"What dojo are you with?" pipes in the second kid, rubbing the swelling lump on the top of his head.

"None. Now get out of here." He growls, lip curling, as he shakes the clinging kid from his arm forcibly.

The three boys gasp in unison. "So you're a ronin?"

"Our sensei says that's not good."

"Yeah, sensei says that no great swordsman is without a school."

Kurogane pauses, tilting his head to one side. "Oh really."

"'Cause… a true expert should share his skill with those weaker than him…" Kurogane whips round toward the sound of another man's voice – warm and informal, with a strong, jerking Osaka accent. "That's how sword arts become creative, not simply destructive…" A young man in a baseball cap approaches along the embankment, slouching casually, hands stuffed in jean pockets. He looks up and over into Kurogane's stern face, grins, and winks. "Doncha think, bro?"

"Sora-chan!" "It's Sora-niichan!" The kids yell, bouncing and jumping over to the man in the cap.

"What are you troublemakers doin' out on the street? Your class was over an hour ago! Go home and terrorize your mothers." The young man chuckles in harsh Kansai syllables, messing one boy's hair playfully.

"Aw, but…"

"Run along, run along!" He sniffs in pretended annoyance. The kids grumble, picking up their kendo bags.

"See ya…" "Bye, Sora-chan."

"Bye uncle!"

The boys giggle and break into a stumbling sprint down the cement path.

Kurogane growls after them, chafing – "I'm not your damn uncle!"

The other man chuckles again, moving close enough now that Kurogane can see his eyes clearly – they are smiling, lively and dark. He eyes the younger man cautiously; early twenties, he guesses, with a tanned, scarred-up young face - he looks like he's been in a few fights…

"I'm Arisugawa Sorata," comes a wide grin from under the brim of the baseball cap, "pleased to meet you."

Kurogane raises one heavy eyebrow and squints. "Sora…chan?"

Rolling with this gruff jibe from the snarling man in black, the younger man lets out a laugh, "What can I say, I'm a kid at heart!" He scratches his head and shrugs, beaming.

Kurogane snorts, slightly bemused at his cheerful, casual demeanour. This is Osaka, huh?

"So you're those kids' sensei?" grunts the older man, setting his helmet down on the bike seat.

"Me, nah! I'm a cop."

Kurogane's eye twitches reflexively. How casually he blurts it out…

"Off duty, off duty!" comes another laugh, and a sheepish shrug. "But…" The younger man narrows his eyes. "I am involved with Kishimoto dojo…"

Kishimoto… dojo? A quick hissing intake of breath. "...Kishimoto?" Kurogane repeats in a low voice, red eyes narrowing.

"Hmm…" smirks the young man. "So you recognize that name, do you?" He crosses his arms. "Well, you do look like that sort of guy…"

"What sort of guy do I look like?" The bigger man snarls, squaring his shoulders as his temper flares up.

"Easy now, bro!" Sorata cringes, still grinning hugely. "You don't look like you're from around here, that's for sure." He turns toward the water, looking out over the afternoon skyline. Squinting, a little, at the sun's glare off the river. "You're in the West now." With a shrugging gesture, he shoves his hands back into his deep pockets. Smiles out at the skyline. "And I'm not the kinda guy who asks a lot of questions. You learn that quick in my line of work, out here. We do things a little different that you might be used to." He turns back to face Kurogane, with a devilish smirk. "But your ears perked up when I mentioned Kishimoto…"

"So what if they did…" The larger man drawls cautiously, intrigued by this strange, tough-looking and eerily cheerful man claiming to be a police officer, and even more so by the mention of the Kishimoto family name. Kishimoto-gumi… could it be? A powerful Kansai regional affiliate of the seventh Yamaguchi-gumi... Ethnic Japanese yakuza. With big connections. Exactly what he's looking for… His eyelid twitches again, above the greenish, faded bruising on his cheek. Have to be careful here.

The Osaka man's smile hasn't cracked once. But now, raising a hand to his chin, he begins to stare pensively, inquisitively into Kurogane's face. Right, close up, into his face. "Hmmm…"

Kurogane grinds his teeth, his forehead wrinkling.

"But before that, there's something else… in your face, that I recognize…" His tanned brow furrows underneath the baseball cap.

"You what?" croaks Kurogane, aware of a flinch and twitch in his fingers. Talking the talk… Could this goofy kid really be an officer?

"You look like…"

Kurogane's muscles tense.

"…a guy in love!" Sorata shouts with a grin, causing the bigger man to stagger backward into his motorcycle.

"WHAT?" Kurogane cries, veins bulging in his forehead.

"Aw, don't be embarrassed, bro!" The younger man winks, punching Kurogane playfully on his leather-clad shoulder. "I can see it, because I got a girl myself, y'know. Man, she's really something. A real lady. Most beautiful woman you've ever seen…" Sorata rattles on excitedly, a dreamy expression on his cheerful features. Kurogane squints at the younger man, frowning. "By the way…" he shoots Kurogane a pointed glance, a lop-sided smirk curling on his lips. "She teaches kendo over at the Kishimoto dojo…"

Kurogane leans closer, eyes narrow and intent.

Turning away, hands behind his head, Sorata continues. "That's why, me and Kishimoto, we're kind of like… family." He pauses. "I think you know what I mean."

The older man's sharp features are stern and poker-faced. But his eyes read both confusion and interest – he is unsure how to respond.

Sorata smiles, adjusting his ballcap. "Anyhow," he chirps, "since I trust your lovesick face, how about I take you there?"

Kurogane frowns, restraining his growing annoyance. "How can I trust you?" He snarls in a low voice. Sirens howl faintly, from far away.

"How can you not trust this face?" Sorata grins broadly, and jerks his thumb in the air. "C'mon, let's go."

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The crowded bustle of a hallway, laughter echoing. Book bags, make-up, cell-phone flirtation. High school. Hell. Tomoyo sets her jaw and walks, an unfamiliar strength gathering in her small shoulders.

"Hey!" Comes a malicious hissing, a pointed, too-loud comment. "I heard Daidouji was seen hanging around with criminals…" Pretended shock and horror. Twittering, young female voices. Vindictive laughter.

"The boys at our school are too good for her." Snarling, coldness is radiating from a small group of girls, clustered around a classroom entrance.

"She only likes dangerous men, they say…"

"She likes their dirty money at least!"

"As if she doesn't have enough of her own already!" Mocking, harsh voices. Tomoyo lowers her eyes, clutching her books closer to her chest.

"What a loose person…" The gossip rings out, washing the hallway in a solid chill.

"Maybe breaking the law excites her…" More twittering.

"Isn't that right, Tomoyo-chan?" An icy, friendly voice. The girl with short hair on the edge of the group has turned and is focusing her gaze directly on Tomoyo. Five more sets of mascara eyes follow suite. Like a small animal, startled by headlights, the pale, dark-haired girl in gothic ribbons freezes but stands her ground. Around her is a sense of calm.

The short-haired girl smiles brutally. "Right? Your lover is probably a horrible, tattooed yakuza, isn't he?"

Violet eyes peeking out from under her dark bangs, Tomoyo hesitates, then smiles. "Yes... yes he is." With those sweet and politely modulated notes, she tosses her black flag of hair behind her and strolls into the classroom.

Speechless, lip-glossed hanging jaws in her wake.

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Stepping first into the cool shade of the dojo, Kurogane inhales the familiar smell of tatami – and then sharply, the familiar chill of steel across his throat. Shit. Frozen in place, his eyes dart around. An Osaka chuckle from behind him.

"Isn't she great?"

The pale-skinned, dark-haired woman in dojo garb presses her katana closer against his neck. "He's unfriendly." She speaks softly, to the man in the baseball cap, her flashing, almond shaped eyes not leaving Kurogane's face.

"Easy babe, he's alright!" Sorata is grinning, and shrugging, a little awkwardly, in Kurogane's direction. The woman frowns, her lips forming a small pout. Kurogane can sense the agility and skill in her frame. She has him pressed against an outer wall – there is no way to evade her defensively. Sorata grins sheepishly off to one side, apparently helpless. He would have to…

Kurogane grunts, visualizing a blow to her exposed side, a lighting grasp of her wrist, flinging her body doll-like across the room. The edge of the icy blade digs deeper against his heaving throat as if in response to these thoughts. Cocking her head slightly to one side, this strange, violent woman smiles at him.

"What do you want?" Her voice is calm and even.

"Are you people…" Kurogane halts, glancing quickly at the smiling Osaka man. "Are you Kishimoto-gumi?"

The sword slides dangerously, under his chin, marking the flesh.

He gulps, angrily. Again contemplating taking this bitch down. Again thinking better of it. Thinking of that man… Fei Wang. "I want…" He snorts, "… your help."

Blade still pressed to his throat, the woman looks for a long time at his face. Hungrily, or impassively? Taking in the sharp, angry features, hardened dark skin with mottled bruising around the cheek, red eyes guarded but accurate. She does not speak, she does not move, holding fast. She's like a stone. He can't read her, at all…

"C'mon now, babe…" Sorata coos, cringingly. There is more silence. More breathing, more tatami smell.

Stone.

"Arashi-kun." A husky, female voice rings out from across the room. Sorata turns. The girl with the sword does not flinch.

A stunning, half-Japanese woman in a silk robe emerges from behind the shoji screen on the other side of the large room. Her long, bare legs come into full view; her arms crossed casually at her waist. "Put your sword away."

The woman with the blade wrinkles her small nose but does not move.

"Honestly..." sighs the older woman in the robe, throwing up her hands. She approaches, gently, tall frame gliding across the tatami. Close enough to look into his eyes. Placing one hand on the black-haired woman's shoulder, she coos softly. "A lost child comes to ask this family for help."

"But..." The younger woman tilts her head, eyes still unreadable.

Kurogane is aware of his own breathing. Brown eyes steely, the woman in the robe flips her short crop of thick, curled auburn hair. "We will hear his request." Turns, and exits the room.

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"You're surprised." The woman named Kasumi smiles, husky-voiced, as she fills his cup.

"A little." Kurogane grunts, kneeling on the tatami floor.

"There is a precedent for female leadership in the Yamaguchi-gumi. It is not unheard of." Sorata kneels away to one side, his jacket and ballcap gone. The woman with long black hair stands by the doorframe, still in dojo clothing. "I am the 'eighth'." Kasumi sips from her own cup, one hand delicately holding the silk sleeve of her robe. "The 'seventh' passed away not long ago. I was his..." she pauses, smiling, "companion." She purses her rouged lips. "I will head this family until the regional leaders can convene to select a successor." Tossing her bob of hair. "It may be a few years until that happens."

He snorts. Inclining his head slightly toward the door.

"And her?" Kasumi laughs lightly. "Arashi-kun may be young, and unpredictable - but she is among my most loyal men." The dark-haired young woman averts her eyes, facing the opposing wall with a set jaw. "She has grown up in Kishimoto - taken in as a street child by the 'seventh', ten years ago in Kobe." The older woman sets her cup down on the low table. "We accept the young and lost, the disaffected and the disenfranchised. We provide a home... and a family..." Delicately, she begins to slip the silk down from her shoulders. As the fabric slides down, it reveals an intricately inked red and gold koi fish, swimming like flame under her skin, covering her chest, shoulders and back.

Kurogane frowns.

"Don't be afraid to show your colours here." She lets the robe slide to the tatami around her folded legs, subtly adjusting her lace camisole. "You're among my people now."

Kurogane flicks his red eyes over to the kneeling man in t-shirt and jeans.

Kasumi laughs her husky laugh. "Sorata-san may be law enforcement... but he is family first."

The Osaka man nods, bowing low. Slowly, still kneeling, he peels off his t-shirt over his head. Exposing a strong torso, covered in black and midnight blue ink.

Almost simultaneously, the young woman by the door soundlessly unfastens her rough cloth dojo jacket, and lets it slip down from her shoulders, revealing the exact same markings as the young police officer.

Kurogane looks back at Sorata, who shrugs his shirtless shoulders. "I fell pretty hard for this one, I guess." He smirks at Kurogane. "Told you we do things a little different out West."

The man in black turns his attention once more to the brown-eyed woman across the small table. He clears his throat roughly. "So this dojo is..."

"Our connection to the youth of this community." She replies, tilting her head.

He grimaces.

"You were expecting it to be a front for criminal activity, no?" Kasumi laughs. "Well... I'd be lying if I said we didn't do that as well." She tosses her firey hair once more. "But we have always held on to an important belief in the responsibility that comes with our strength. We are a powerful organization." Pouring more sake into a cup. "It is our duty to give something back to those less powerful... taking in lost, young ones..." She glances over at Arashi. "Teaching them to defend themselves..."

Sorata sniffs. "The Kishimoto-gumi's positive influence in this community outweighs most of their more... unsavoury dealings." He speaks carefully, his strong accent lightening. "Which is why the Kansai police force tends to look the other way."

"We follow a code." A soft voice speaks suddenly, from beside the door.

Kasumi smiles. "Unlike the place you come from..." she says darkly, narrowing her thick-lashed eyes. Kurogane scowls tentatively in response. The older woman begins to speak slowly, with a calculated intensity. "These mainland Chinese syndicates are gaining more and more ground in our islands." Kurogane kneels stiffly, his face cold. Reading her expressions. She continues, huskily. "The greater Yamaguchi-gumi does not appreciate their activity within its traditional territories." Noting the chilly edge in her dark voice. "And as you can tell," she smiles, "we believe very much in tradition."

All three strangers have their eyes on him. The woman by the doorframe nods, her almond eyes still impossible to read. Sorata looks on with thin lips pressed together, a rare serious expression set on his face underneath short, messy dark hair. The 'eighth' Kishimoto-gumi, this woman Karen Kasumi, is still smiling serenely, taking a sip from her sake cup, dangerous brown eyes never leaving his. Kurogane knows what comes next.

Unbidden, her pale, round-eyed face flashes through his thoughts - the taste of her last kiss on his dry lips. That girl, crying. That girl, turning from him, blood on his hands. That girl, storming away - I don't want anything to do with someone like you... And he'd promised, that he would come back. He'd left writing, on the wall. He would return, that much was certain. But, would she take him back? A full-blooded yakuza...

Next comes initiation. Affiliation. Allegiance. Like a traditional marriage ceremony, the yakuza weds for life. Family is blood, and blood cannot be revoked. Getting involved with another syndicate, digging himself deeper into this culture, this life. He closes his bloodshot eyes and inhales. Taking out the Fei Wang group is a feat much too large for one man. He cannot do it alone. Thinking back to the faces of his father, and his mother. Thinking back to their blood - his blood - spilt, on the living room floor. Maybe he has been a full-blooded yakuza, all along.

All these thoughts, swirling chaotic in his head.

I just think... that you can make it yours. I believe that you can own it... He blinks. Tomoyo...

"So..." the flame-tattooed woman speaks, resolutely, returning the cup to the table with both hands. And even before she asks, Kurogane knows his answer. "Will you drink from my cup?"

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A/N: Hey, it is a Tsubasa fanfic, right? sweet, sweet crossover action. And what would a trip to Osaka be without the only CLAMP male character I adore more than Kurogane, "genuine Kansai boy" Sorata Arisugawa! - fangirl squee - Really inspired by a quote from a Clamp no Kiseki interview about the origins of the X/1999 characters: "We had a cute little "Romeo and Juliet" story that was never published, but the heroine there was Arashi. I mean, she was completely different, part of the Yakuza, she had a totally different temperament. Quiet, but really spontaneous. And the boy was sort of a Sorata prototype too, actually. He was a cop."

Can you believe that? Ohgawa is so cool. I would have killed to have read that story.

I freaked out when I read that a long time ago, and had to write them into this, sumimasen! Minor deviation from the Kurogane/Tomoyo goodness. But never fear, there shall be more of our real protagonists, next chap.

As for the Yakuza (Japanese organized crime, if you haven't figured that out yet) stuff, hope it wasn't too boring. The ritual at the end of drinking sake from the same cup is a Yakuza tradition of expressing allegiance as well as mirroring a traditional Japanese wedding ceremony. And it's also true that Yakuza groups do sometimes take in orphaned teenagers, and have had female leadership for short periods of time!

Thanks for sticking with me, you guys are the best!