Chapter Text
He's wearing these Prada sunglasses, these ones with black metal frames and dark lenses, which are speckless, by the way, enough that the tag still ought to be hanging off the side, and burning his tongue on a famichiki. If you don’t know, it’s this snack masquerading as a meal and it’s tasty as hell, it comes wrapped in that paper, like all good grease food does. It's a real convenience store treasure, that and the cheap cigarette he's holding. This is some real juxtaposition, you know? His pricey sunglasses. His pricey fucking suit — it's a Georgio Armani, this pinstripe one from the Manhattan collection, in this deep eggplant purple, the stripes are so thin and delicate that you really have to stare to notice them, the pale lines of color. The lining is striped too, burgundy on top of this muted fabric. It really compliments the exterior. It's a nice suit. It's the kind you wear to your own wedding and nothing else.
Tonight is kind of a big deal. Or maybe it isn't. He bought this outfit four months ago and this is the first time he's put it on. Right now, he feels like a title character in a teen drama, the kind where the girl dresses to impress the boy she likes, but he doesn't notice until, like, the end of the season. Right now, he's listening to Madonna’s Material Girl on repeat and it only fuels the illusion.
Some boys romance
Some boys slow dance
That's alright with me
If they can't raise my interest then I
Have to let them be
(It’s a good fucking song, alright?)
He's doing it. It's happening. Mondo is wearing the suit and god, he thinks, I hope he thinks I'm pretty.
He's been watching the house for the past three hours. It's late and most of the curtains are drawn now. Houses are fun. It's not like those high rise apartments, where his options are few and he has to walk through the front door. It's all about wits, then. Trickery. Sweet talk. He once seduced a man into letting him inside, he batted his eyelashes and the whole bit. The way female assassins are sexualized in those Hollywood movies, offering their bodies before they can snap a neck. Yeah, it was like that, except gay. He also asphyxiated the guy with a pair of leggings, probably his wives, those sheer black ones every woman owns. Honestly, it just made the whole thing a lot gayer, but Mondo, he felt as though he was paying tribute to all the gals of the criminal underworld. The more Mondo thinks about it, the more he feels like a feminist icon.
Anyway, he doesn't need a gimmick to get inside of this place. When the time comes, he'll just knock.
His target is a politician and politicians are a dime a dozen. If Mondo really got down to the math of it, he could buy a house, like one of those nice ones in Minami-Aoyama, with the garage and the garden, from all the paper a dead politician is worth. Everyone's got a vendetta with a man in a suit. Be it a political rival or a lover scorned. Women that married too young and just want the goddamn life insurance money, so they can dab their tears each eye at a time at the funeral, then congratulate themselves on their debut performance as The Widow. It's really just an investment, kinda like starting a business. Drop a few grand, then boom, you triple your money. Everyone wants someone dead. Most are just a few stacks short of making it happen.
During the briefing, Takemichi had reminded him that the job could be passed along to someone else. You don't gotta do it, boss. It's cute that Takemichi still calls him boss, like they're in a fucking mobster flick and it's the 80's. It's cute, because Takemichi is loyal and arguably his best goddamn friend, but Mondo, yeah, he would probably gut him if he had to. Every time he looks at someone he thinks he might love, he thinks, god, don't make me have to.
It was sobering, to hear his name again, to see his picture, and damn, the last few years have done him well. He really lost the baby face, he's all angles now, this sharp cut of man. Hubba-hubba. Mondo wouldn't mind a piece of that. Really, he feels fucking entitled to it. He's wanted a lot of men — he'll be the first to admit he's kind of a slut — but those feelings of lust were temporary or easily met. The way he wants this man he could write 154 sonnets about, at least the first 126, then it's just about a woman (although some could argue). Shakespeare was bisexual, okay? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Yeah, that was about a man, Sonnet 18, among the most popular poems in history. It's all that fucking pining. Heterosexuals love that shit. They romanticize it. Although, they rarely understand the fucking shame of it. The shame of a man, writing love poems about another man and having them published without permission. Shakespeare has been dead for a long time, but those sonnets, they resonate.
What happened, and it happened years ago, Mondo should be over all of that by now. It's a shame, really, but it isn't a fucking tragedy.
Anyway, he's gonna kill Kiyotaka Ishimaru.
He screws the silencer over his gun and knocks.
The door swings open and Mondo pushes through the entrance, shoulder first. He doesn't get a good look at Kiyotaka, just a startled flash of eyes before he folds like a pretzel. The man goes limp in his arms, winded from the punch and Mondo takes this opportunity to kick the door shut.
"Are you alone?" Mondo asks, leveling the gun to his head. He has him in a headlock.
"Yes!" Kiyotaka wheezes. Mondo didn't have to go hitting him that hard.
"Are you expecting anyone?"
"No," he exhales.
There is a pause. The sound of Kiyotaka catching his breath begins to fade. Their bodies are touching, chest to back, and Mondo can't help but notice how warm he is. He wants to feel that bare skin beneath his fingertips, he wants to know if it feels the way he remembers it. Kiyotaka doesn't seem to know it's him. Mondo thought his voice would shatter any anonymity, but really, the shock of being bum rushed is enough to scramble anyone's brains. Kiyotaka is no exception.
"Got nothin' to say?"
He doesn't usually ask that, the whole 'got any last words?' He usually pops the guy as soon as possible, because the thing with death is that it's inevitable, and sometimes you just don't see it coming. A gun to your temple usually is a real motivator, though, and people always see that, they zone in on it, really. The sympathetic nervous system is a hell of a thing. It's the thing that determines whether you dart for the door or wrestle for the gun, you know, that whole survival thing. He's had to pistol whip a fair share of bastards, he has the scars to prove it. Some jobs don't go smoothly. It's a battle of reflexes, who can land the better punch, who can find a weapon. He asks this, he realizes, because he wants to hear Kiyotaka speak. Not just a gurgle of blood, but a full on sentence. He wants his voice.
"I-I don't want there to be a mess," he manages through the chattering of his teeth. Although, considering the situation, Kiyotaka is holding it together quite well. "I-I rent. It would be unfair to my landlord."
What an odd thing to say. Somehow, Mondo expected a response like that, something weird and unselfish. That's really been the fatal flaw of Kiyotaka Ishimaru, this illusion that everyone else might extend the same kindness he offers them. Treat others the way you want to be treated. That kindergarten shit.
"Not gonna bribe?" Politicians usually bribe.
"No."
Of course not.
"That blanket. There." He nods his head toward a throw on the couch, folded all nice and neat. "Take that and lay your ass on it."
Kiyotaka considers this for a moment.
"It's thin. I don't think it'll be enough."
He's right. You don't really consider how much blood is in a person until it comes time to mop it off the floor. Mondo, he once had a guy piss on him and honestly, he would take that over a fountain of blood. So many ruined suits. He should be able to write that off his taxes. His eyes dart around the room, looking for another alternative, looking to accommodate Kiyotaka's wish for a clean death.
It could have been so easy. Why complicate it? Mondo, he could have laid him out like a tortured Roman boy on a slab of marble, on that shitty fucking throw blanket. Mondo, he could have stood over him, straddled his waist and felt his erection, because yeah, everyone wants to be spared that detail, but it fucking happens. It's a reflex. The sympathetic nervous system, the goddamn fight or flight, just a response to fear and uncertainty. Bodies are disgusting and it's a shame to have one, but god, if Kiyotaka doesn't look good. It's so easy to imagine him dead.
"Where's your bathroom?" Kiyotaka points it out. "Walk me there. Slow."
It's a step-pause-step. Mondo leads Kiyotaka by the shoulder with a Herculean grip. He can't trust him to not run away, even with the gun. They pass through the dining room. There's this ornate little bowl on the table, overflowing with mandarin oranges. Back in highschool, Kiyotaka would eat one of those with his lunch everyday. Mondo had sort of an aversion to that inner layer, the white part that looks like veins over flesh. Kiyotaka would take the time to peel all that off, though. Not for himself, but for Mondo. He'd sit there, spending a good ten minutes peeling the fruit to culinary perfection. Kiyotaka said that, sometimes, he really wanted to be a farmer. He said that, sometimes, he dreamed of himself growing the food, and Mondo building the house.
"Move it. Now!" Mondo orders, shoving him through the door. "On your knees."
He can't see a goddamn thing in here. He pats along the wall, trying to identify a light switch. Something about his mannerisms, about the way his body moves, must be recognizable to Kiyotaka, because he gets the courage to turn his head, as much as he's able, and look. His eyebrows pull together, he says:
"Mondo?"
He wore his best suit for this.
He feels like every white girl in every movie ever made, that twirls her hair and hopes the boy likes her. The PICK ME girl. Except he's a six foot tall man and he's holding a gun and he cannot find the goddamn light switch.
He drops him. Kind of shoves him down, actually. Right there at his feet and Taka scrambles off the floor and his eyes get so large. Mondo just folds his sunglasses and slides them into his breast pocket.
“Hey, Taka," he says.
Pick me.
He finds the light.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Kiyotaka breathes, now bathed in fluorescence. He looks stunned. “Why?”
“Believe me when I say this, man. This ain’t nothing personal," Mondo shrugs with a distant demeanor. For the most part, that is not a lie. He is not here to kill Kiyotaka out of his volition, but he didn't say no, either. “You’re a good guy, but I guess you just pissed off the wrong people.”
Somehow, Kiyotaka doesn't seem surprised. The corner of his mouth pulls into this sort of grimace and he asks, “Who?”
“I don’t know my clients personally. I get my work through a middle man and I don’t ask too many questions. Honestly, I don’t really give a fuck as long as they’re paying me.”
“How much?”
This is usually the part where his target says they'll double, no, triple the amount his source is dishing. It never works. Kiyotaka isn't going to try it, he's just asking.
“This is a pretty standard hit. I ain’t about to make a fortune," Mondo chuckles. “Look, I don’t want this to be hard. Just get on your knees, Taka."
Kiyotaka looks disturbed. Like Mondo is disturbing him. Like with every passing moment, he realizes more and more how batshit insane this all is. Like this has to be one big, bad misunderstanding.
“Why can’t I stand?” Kiyotaka demands, challenging him.
“Just do what I say," Mondo scoffs, sort of taken aback by the sudden attitude.
“Mondo, I—” Taka swallows. “There has to be another way.”
“Ain’t no way around it. Just be a fuckin’ man about it, yeah? I still got an ounce of respect for you, I don’t wanna see you sniveling like a bitch.”
He yanks him by the collar and drags him toward the shower, which is huge, by the way. It's beautiful, too. It has this pane glass door and marble backsplash and Kiyotaka must make good money to rent a place like this. Mondo pushes him inside and Kiyotaka nearly slips on his socks. There's an idea. Mondo could easily make this look like a suicide, like Taka was just taking a shower then busted his head open. Mondo has done that before and the cops usually buy it. He dismisses the thought. He pulls back the safety of his gun and it rattles Kiyotaka.
“Can I call my father?” He anxiously blurts. He wants to say goodbye.
“Can’t let you do that. Sorry.”
“I understand," he gulps, then motions to his tie. “Can I take this off first?”
Mondo can allow that.
Kiyotaka begins to pull his neck free of the fabric. Mondo leans back, gun aimed, but it loses some of that intention. He has one hand on the trigger, the other on the surface just behind him, clutching the corner of the sink. He gets this twinge in his groin and it makes him want to touch himself. There's a reason for it, of course. A memory. Him and Kiyotaka making out in a bathroom. That had been the first time they kissed, and Mondo, he just couldn't take it anymore, that tension building between them, building for months. Kiyotaka had zero grace about him, but Mondo thought it was hot, that lack of experience.
“You were such a bad kisser,” Mondo snorts. Yeah, he just said that aloud. Taka freezes.
His eyes dart from the floor to Mondo, back and forth like that, like he's trying to make sense of this moment. Kiyotaka values logic too much to understand that Mondo just says shit to say it.
"I'm—" Taka starts, but he doesn't get to finish, "I'm so sorry about—"
Mondo reaches for the end of the tie, then whips it off in one clean motion. Taka jolts.
“Yeah?” Mondo smooths his thumb over the silky fabric. He drops it. "I'm sorry about that, too, babe."
Now he's just bullying him.
Something about being bitter for unreturned feelings. Something about acting out for attention. Something about betrayal. Something about Mondo wanting to fuck Kiyotaka into the floor, lick his jaw, his ribs, his armpits, everything. Why the fuck is he getting hard? Why the fuck didn't he shoot him at the door?
“Daddy?”
Mondo snaps his head toward the voice, pulling Kiyotaka with lightning speed, jabbing his gun into the small of his back.
There is a little girl, she is wearing a peach pink nightgown, and she is hovering by the door. There was no mention of a goddamn kid in his file, not during the briefing, either. He sure as hell didn't see her through the window. The house was supposed to be empty. He takes a moment to glare at Kiyotaka, at his lying fucking face.
“Hey, sweetheart!” Kiyotaka exclaims, nervously. “What are you doing awake?”
The girl hardly looks at her father, her eyes are on Mondo, staring at him. She has the same eyes as Taka, that brown-ish red color that looks devilish with just the right lightning. The glare of the setting sun, mostly. That orange hue just really accentuates everything, makes them sparkle. Her hair falls just past her shoulder and her bangs are disheveled, as though she'd been tossing in bed. Mondo can see the slightest glimpse of her widows peak, same as her dad's.
“Who’s that?” She won't stop staring.
There's that weird, fake voice parents use with their little kids. The high pitched one. You know the one. Kiyotaka doesn't do that. Instead, his voice gets warm, it gets deep, actually. It's so comforting. Mondo wishes his own father would have spoken to him like that.
“This is my friend. This is an old friend of Daddy’s."
Not bad, Taka. Mondo would prefer something with a romantic flare, maybe lover, but that's a bit scandalous to admit to a child, isn't it? Mondo wants to hear him say it just once. Unfortunately, old friend will have to do.
“Are you taking a bath?” She's so innocent. She's really asking that.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Just go back to sleep."
She pouts. Mondo half expects her to throw a fit, because that's what kids do, right? They kick and they scream at every inconvenience. Kiyotaka must be raising her right, though. She lingers in the doorway, but she doesn't complain.
“Hi,” she finally says to Mondo. She does this little wave.
“Hi,” he grins. In his peripheral view there is Kiyotaka, dropping the charade for just a moment to frown. Mondo, it kinda pisses him off, so he burrows the gun harder into Kiyotaka's back, practically trying to fuck him with it. "Say goodnight to your dad, alright?"
He can tell Kiyotaka wants to hold her, maybe collapse to the floor and cry at her feet. Mondo is the wedge between them and fuck, that's powerful, to be the thing separating a man from his child.
“Goodnight, Daddy!”
“Goodnight, baby," his voice breaks at the end, but his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Then, like that, she's gone.
"Daddy," Mondo clicks his tongue. He turns his head in unison with Taka, looking down at him with this expression of exaggerated sympathy, mocking him. "You said there was no one here."
There is real terror in those eyes. Everything before now has just been foreplay.
"She's only three." Kiyotaka frantically shakes his head, like he is right, and Mondo is wrong. Yeah, okay. He imagines Kiyotaka on top of a woman, just jackhammering into her. He got his dick wet and now he has a kid. A daughter.
Here's the joke. Ready? He wanted a son. He wanted a child that could carry his name. He told Mondo that, back when they were still rubbing dicks and ejaculating onto each other. All that wasted sperm, glistening on their skin. It's tragic to want a man, and then not have the womb to give that man what he wants. Actually, no, it's not tragic, but it's a shame, a fucking shame. Mondo would have been an absolute bitch for him. Mondo would have given him a dozen sons.
"On your knees!" He's angry now.
Taka raises his hands, defensively. His head is bowed. "Please."
"Here we go. Now he begs," Mondo tsks. He has half the mind to whip him with the gun. "I won't hurt your daughter. I promise, alright? That's a man's promise. Look at me."
“I’m sorry,” his voice shatters. With the end of his gun, Mondo tips up his trembling chin. Here it comes: The Waterworks.
"I get it, you were tryna to protect her. I don’t kill kids, alright? Now calm down."
He gently smacks the side of Kiyotaka's face, a dry whap, whap with his gloved hand. It's almost friendly. It's almost crossing a line, this whole fucking thing, the thinnest line Mondo has ever walked. Why can't he just be a monster and smack him for real? Kiyotaka blinks back with these glassy eyes and god, is he beautiful. Those purple crescents, deep from long work days, from sleepless nights, from the duties of fatherhood. That bloodshot look he's got from crying, that tinge of red on white. Mondo, he feels fucked up for romanticizing it, this desperation of a human being. Though, at the same time, he doesn't feel very bad at all. This is intimate. The intimacy of death and sex are one and the same. The creation and the end. The pleasure and the blood.
"If it makes ya feel any better, she won't remember anything about tonight," Mondo says. This is an attempt at consoling his fellow human. He rates high on the sociopathy scale, so this is difficult to achieve. "And you. You’ll be a distant fuckin’ memory and she’ll idolize the hell outta ya. Dead people got that goin’ for ‘em, y'know?"
He thinks about Daiya. It kind of all just starts and ends with him, doesn't it? Mondo isn't ready to talk about that yet.
His shoe squeaks as he takes a step closer, closing the distance, backing Kiyotaka into the corner.
"What are you doing?"
"What d'ya think?"
Kiyotaka isn't nervous that Mondo stepped closer. Kiyotaka is nervous because Mondo just put away the gun.
A gun means business. A knife is personal. Mondo isn't sure which is more appropriate given the circumstances. Maybe his bare hands ought to do. There is no dignity in a corpse, in the rotting, the plasma, the piss. Killing him without leaving a hole in his head, without blowing his brains to bits, is really the kindness gesture Mondo can offer.
He slides the tactile knife from its sheath and Kiyotaka changes gears, as well. He grabs Mondo's wrist with both hands, the one that's holding the weapon, of course, and finally, here it is, he's fighting back.
"No." It's more of a sound than a word. More of an exhale than a cry. Kiyotaka manages to do it in a way that is not pathetic, not in the way Mondo has heard a million times. He could kiss him for it, for adding some variety to his routine. He just might.
"Easy," Mondo says, in that soothing voice he likes to use. He points the tip of his blade, aiming for the thigh. Kiyotaka strains to subdue him. "I'm stronger. You know I am. Let go, Taka."
"This isn't you!" He's crying. "I know this isn't you, I know you don't want this, I know, I see it! I promise, I see you, I've always seen you, I—"
He makes this ugly face, a grimace, as the knife punctures his femoral artery. Mondo wants to remember it forever, this awful, ugly face he's making. It reminds him of the face Taka makes when he orgasms. The emotion of it, the rawness. That performative sex, the kind where the other person is more concerned about appearance, about looking good, that kind? Yeah, he hates that. He can't stand it. Taka isn't like that, because Taka doesn't know how to be fake, even to his own benefit. He's really so perfect, even now, even when he's dying. Mondo twists the handle.
"You're going into shock," he says, matter-of-factly. "And now it doesn't hurt. You're not in any pain."
Kiyotaka inhales deeply, holds it, then lets out a blood curdling wail. A sound of defeat, of anguish. This is the moment he realizes he is truly going to die. Mondo presses a hand over his mouth to muffle him. Too loud. If the kid comes back, it'll be a shit show. Kiyotaka starts nodding off, his head lolling to the side, only to snap back, then loll further. Mondo holds his face, cradles him, and Kiyotaka sinks into the embrace. With damage like this to a major artery, the results come fast.
"Please,” his voice is a whisper. The color is draining from his face. It's all weeping out of his left leg, in a red that is so dark, it is almost black. It is almost not a color at all.
"Shhh," Mondo coos, helping him collapse, finally, to his goddamn knees. Kiyotaka moans, only because he is unable to cry now. His body is getting to that stage of bare necessities. Where his limbs go cold and that warm blood rushes to his heart in a ditch effort for survival. "It's already over. Don’t fight it.”
“Mondo," he whimpers.
“I know."
He is incredibly weak. Another minute and he'll be gone. Mondo looks into his eyes, that brownish-red color that is losing light, fast. This is the end, the end as it is, the end as it always will be. He has witnessed it many times. Never quite like this, though. He has never been so invested in the finale. Kiyotaka has this vulnerable expression on his face, he looks tired, so ready, despite struggling just moments ago. Mondo wants him to go easy, none of that in-and-out-of-consciousness, just a comfortable dive into darkness. Kiyotaka gives him that old look, that look from the past, the one that means I love you. Mondo has a hard time believing it, but it's there, it's intentional. Kiyotaka blinks and his blinking gets slower, longer, until it stops altogether. His gaze is vacant now. His eyes say nothing. Mondo checks his pulse for the faintest murmur of life.
Nothing.
Mondo sighs.
“Shoulda been a fuckin’ farmer. Shoulda grown mandarins in fuckin’ Shikoku instead of fuckin’ around in Tokyo. Now yer dead. And yer a father, how 'bout that? Y’know, if it wasn’t me, then it would be another fucker like me. This was the best fuckin’ outcome, man. Anyone else woulda shot ya before sayin’ hello.”
Best outcome? As if. Mondo, he fucking played with him. He's playing with him still, raking his fingers through Kiyotaka's scalp, the thick mess of hair, just like playing with a doll.
“We coulda been somethin'," Mondo laments all to himself. He takes the time to massage Kiyotaka's eyelids, rotating his thumbs until he can close them. “Rest easy, babe."
The bathroom was supposed to be less of a mess. What a joke. He made such a mess, anyway.
He hops onto the sink, on that bit of countertop and pats around for his cigarettes. He flips open the pack, pulls one out with his mouth, then lights it. This is sloppy, smoking on the job. Usually he smokes after, like the way he smokes after sex, if the sex was any good. The smoke coils and burns his eyes. His eyes water. He pretends they are real tears, like he is actually crying, because he wants to, some part of him.
There's blood on his suit.
He looks at Kiyotaka until he isn't looking at Kiyotaka anymore. What he's looking at now is a corpse. A coroner will be here in the morning to observe his cloudy eyes and blue lips. He thinks about kissing him. The way you kiss a dead pet, you do it for selfish reasons.
He grabs for his burner phone and snaps a few photos. This will be on every local news channel in the morning, which usually suffices in confirming his hits, but the client requested pics, so he takes pics. His client is probably some Tokyo hotshot, maybe even someone Taka was chummy with. Mondo doesn't understand the nuisances of politics, he just knows the world is burning and Kiyotaka wasn't going to be the one to figure it out. Or maybe he was. Why else would someone want him dead? Mondo has personal beef, but the man is no threat, otherwise. The most threatening thing about him is that he is annoyingly persistent.
Was annoyingly persistent. Past tense. The man is dead now. He is sitting in about an inch of his own fluids.
Mondo extinguishes his cigarette with a few taps against his palm, then pockets it. He looks at Kiyotaka once more, at his dead, handsome face, and damn, what a sad story. It's a shame, really, but it's not a tragedy.
Poor Kiyotaka. Poor dead Kiyotaka. It must be so easy to sympathize with him right now, lying lifelessly in his beautifully decorated master bathroom. There's the fucking thing, though. No one knows what Kiyotaka has done yet. No one knows about the fucked up thing Kiyotaka Ishimaru did. This unforgivable fucking thing that Kiyotaka did to Mondo, did to the both of them. Kiyotaka isn't the only one that's been victimized, okay? He isn't as innocent as everyone thinks.
Mondo isn't ready to talk about that yet.
He needs to leave. The longer he stays, the harder it will be to drag his feet through the door. Maybe he should have listened to Takemichi, maybe someone else should have taken this job. Mondo could have just heard about on the news or the radio like everyone else. He would have boiled up inside, though, knowing he could have done it. Knowing he had the option. He imagines some no name hitman beating Taka over the head and yeah, that just wouldn't have sat right with him. It simply had to happen like this.
The hallway is dark, darker than he recalls. The entire house feels different now. His shoe bumps something and there is a sleepy groan that accompanies it. Kiyotaka's daughter is on the floor, curled up with a tiny plush blanket. She must have been waiting for him. Poor thing would have waited forever.
"C'mere, kid."
He lifts her gently. She hardly weighs anything. The couch is just about the furthest place from the bathroom, so that's where he lays her. Just the slightest peep of that bloodbath will be more than enough to traumatize her. Then it'll be years of therapy. The whole bit. A lifetime of people telling her what a good, strong girl she is, until she grows up and the support circle wears thin. Mondo really doesn't want that for her, he wants to lessen the severity, this pain of abandonment. He bares no ill will to this child. When he leaves here, he'll anonymously ring in and make a noise complaint, so some officer can stumble upon the body, instead.
"What's that?"
The girl is awake all of a sudden and she's pointing to the drying blood on his clothes. Mondo reaches for the coat rack and pulls on this trench coat with loops sewn along the waist, but no belt to loop. He shrugs it on and holds it closed with one hand.
"Hey, what's your name?" His tone is friendly, but his eyes are dark. She notices, kids notice things like that. He leans against the back of the couch. She is standing on the cushion, on her tiptoes, trying to meet him at eye level. Mondo puts on his best smile. "Hm?"
She twiddles her thumbs, not really looking at him, looking everywhere but. At the floor, at her feet. She's wearing mismatched socks, the colors are clashing and Mondo wonders if she did that herself. Kiyotaka probably would have corrected that. Unless, maybe, he found it cute and encouraged that kind of thing. Expression, creativity. He feels fucked up for thinking that, for thinking about what Taka might have thought. The man has been dead for ten minutes and Mondo, he's really contemplating his daughter's socks.
"Asuka," she says.
"Asuka? Wow, that's a pretty name!"
Gross. He's doing it now. The high pitched voice. It might not be so bad, because she actually smiles.
"Thank you," she giggles.
"Hey, Asuka, where's your mommy? She's not asleep in one of these rooms, is she?" The file was botched. He's still pissed about that. Asuka shakes her head a few times. "You sure?"
"I haven't seen my mommy."
"Ever?" He quirks his eyebrow. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
He already knows the answer to that. She confirms it with another shake of her head.
"Does Daddy have any friends?" She points to him. Yeah, that's right, he's a friend. "So, it's just you and Daddy, huh?"
"Yes," she answers in this voice that's smaller than herself.
"Y'know, I went to school with your dad. We got into a fight and we were really mad at each other. Does he ever get mad at you?"
"Sometimes, um, he gets cranky when I wake him up, but only sometimes."
Mondo chuckles. "Oh, yeah? He's tired a lot, huh?"
"When's Daddy coming out?" She's pointing to the bathroom.
There is a beat.
"Your Daddy left."
Asuka's eyebrows pull together, in that same way that Taka does it. Did. Past tense. The more expressions she makes, the more she starts looking like him.
"Nu-uh!" She whines, suddenly less shy. "I didn't see him."
"You don't remember falling asleep?" Well, it's not a complete lie, to suggest he left while she was conked out. Asuka does this cute thing, it's kind of theatrical, she purses her lips and looks off to the side, then swings her head back, front and center.
"Oh, yeah!" She chirps.
His heart flutters. This is what Kiyotaka has left behind. This is the whole reason people have kids, right? A symbol of love, a wish, a remnant. Asuka is a bastard child, no question about it, motherless, too. That does not diminish her worth, though. She is worth everything. He glances at the crayon drawings magnetized to the fridge and wonders how the hell he missed that. She is not Kiyotaka, but she is the surviving piece of him. Mondo sort of laughs. As if killing him wasn't enough. Mondo wants her, too.
"Daddy's gone now, so I'm gonna take care of you for a little bit. Is that alright, Asuka?"
He offers his hand. The one that isn't covered in her father's blood. She pauses.
And then she takes it, of course.