in how many dreams

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    “No need to be so formal, Patriarch. It should be me pouring you a drink.”

Although his family had become notorious, he still knew that his best way to convince others was with respect⸺sometimes fear. However, fear was not the smart move in this situation, Arakawa was also a killer.

Nishiki leaned forward and took the bottle, pouring a drink for the other, yet he simply slid the glass closer to Arakawa. A gesturing hand pointed at the glass, as he hoped the other would take it.

A scoff left his lips, a subtle shake of his head. “Support is all I can ask of you, isn’t it?” He rested his back on the chair, his legs crossed. “Or are you going to offer manpower and money?” His eyebrow raised.

His hand reached for the pack of cigarettes on the inside pocket of his blazer as he intently listened to the other. Fingers softly tapped the bottom of the box after opening, the butt of a cigarette coming upward as he offered it to Arakawa.

    “What I gain or lose is not the important matter here.”

Scorn was noticeable as he spoke. His eyes were cold.

    “There are many families under the Clan that do not get the respect they deserve, don’t you think, Patriarch? You have more years than me under the Tojo, but look at the cards they have handed you.”

Nishikiyama clasped his hands together. His words came out slowly, calmly. The resentment towards disrespect was like a knot on his throat. Although he was calm, vitriol coated his carefully chosen words.

    “The Chairman only cares for the seniority of those with money and power. Where does that leave you? You have been loyal for many years, Patriarch. Has the Tojo Clan been loyal to you?” His head tilted as he broke eye contact. He now looked around the office. A loud sigh echoed. “Sera is bound to die any day, anyway. Do you think Kazama or Patriarch Shimano are going to care about you and your underlings?”

"Nonsense, Nishikiyama-san, you are well-deserving of respect." And the more he heard that man's words, the more he employed a perfect, vacant smile, the more Arakawa knew he was dealing with a professional. Nishikiyama could be reckless when it came to battling, but he was a savvy businessman. That image was just as important as strength in the underworld.

The glass that is slid over to him is promptly accepted. Arakawa takes it in silence, rocks the glass gently against his fingers. Nishikiyama's words are both a poisoned apple and its honeyed remedy. He highlights the Arakawa Family predicament, slithers the possibility of a solution, pours venom. It didn't use to be this way, did it? The bright eyes the man before him once had are nowhere to be found. He wonders if anyone misses them – he hadn't been as exposed to them as the rest, yet he found himself pained to meet this stranger.

His eyes drift to the glass for a second when he shakes his head. "We are far too small for those..." Manpower could work, maybe, but he wasn't ready to throw his men into the fire like this... Not yet. Those were his kids, he wanted them safe. The offer of a cigarette doesn't go unnoticed. He accepts that, too, pulling the cigarette before taking out his lighter. The least he could do was offer the man some light after the gracious offer. He waits to light Nishikiyama's before his own.

Arakawa pretends to agree, nodding with disdain. He knows his particular case, it was a miracle he was even allowed to stay after what he did to the Hikawa Family. Of course they'd keep his resources scarce... It was his price to pay. But his subordinates were not at fault, he did need all he could get and, somehow, Nishikiyama was willing to give him that.

The Tojo Clan's loyalty... His eyes close hard when he hears that. Nishikiyama's venom spreads easily through his veins, even as he tries to fight it. He is loyal, yes, but the Clan was only loyal when convenient. Once a new Chairman was placed, his Family was in jeopardy. And if Nishikiyama could keep his word, maybe...

Ah, maybe he himself is just as desperate.

"You speak truth, Nishikiyama-san. My Family is nothing but a pebble to the ones on top." And who gives their time of day to pebbles if not to throw or kick them away? His eyes open, drinking up the offered liquid just a little bit. Between a deal with the devil or no deal at all, he knew what he was bound to take.

ready ? he won't ever be ready. at least, that's what it feels like; stamp of unease branding misgivings into his forehead. it's been awhile since he's had an episode like this — foolish enough to truly believe that these feelings have grown easier to manage with time. requiring no additional effort beyond that of stuffing them down, pressing hands over ears and clamping eyes shut. pretending he may shut himself away from them, and they therefore will not be able to reach him. dae-ho is little more than a man foolish enough to believe that the coping mechanisms he's studied day in and day out are not his own to lay claim to: the gnawing sensation in his chest that chews its way through the bone prison of his ribcage is so familiar that it verges on a comfort. he needs to get over it, he thinks. he's firsthand witnessed dozens of residents retell much more grim life stories than his own, and hastily, he writes off the scars and the memories with the volatile knowledge that his father did the best he could.

( it's bullshit. he knows it's bullshit, but the bliss of empathy is sweeter to swallow than anything reality declares. )

the memories are intrusive. he cannot recall which dress was his oldest sister's favorite before she fled the nest, but he knows perpetual terror and how it feels to hold your breath until your lungs scream for respite while hidden behind the sanctuary of a half-open door ( he's too drunk to check where the shadows bleed with the wall ) like the back of his hand. dae-ho's body is tense, coiled tightly even as he perches at the sofa's plush cushioning, sinews and thew no longer capable of recalling a state of ease. arakawa's words register, but fail to resonate: cognizance is foggy, and he stares down to his hands. he flexes his fingers apart, brings them closer to his face. he is eleven years old, and he has accepted the reality that no one is coming to save him. the little combatant that never was has yet to lower his weaponry and shed the armor / neither suit him, but he cannot bear to part with them.

He'd chuckle if he didn't understand – he had also fallen victim to the notion that feelings had expiration dates.

It shouldn't feel like this anymore sounds so familiar, he has to double-check to confirm it wasn't him saying that. He is sixty two years old, and still a kid fearing the mother that ultimately abandoned him; a mercy, if he thinks about it rationally. He is still the bewildered kid finding the body of who was once his loving father, gone.

Which kind of fate had fallen upon this boy and why was it haunting him to this day? Victims of similar circumstances can oftentimes notice the subtleties – Arakawa notices, he knows. Which is why, when he watches the boy, his smile is pained, but welcoming.

It's disappointing to think that, of all things, abuse is one of the things that doesn't seem to have an expiration date.

"Why shouldn't it? For better or worse, it shaped you. That mold will always remain." When he says that, he feels an ache on his right cheek – the remnants of the last scar his mother gave him. He was also molded by her. The anger of his mother, the gentleness of his father. "Should you not be allowed to feel? Do you not want to feel it, or are you scared you might be punished for feeling?"