Bloodied Dahlias | Miya Osamu

[IV] Pillow Talk

Cautious steel-grey eyes surveyed the faces sitting down at the long table as high-ranking members of Tsubasa filled up the seats one at a time, sitting down in beat with the punctuating swing of the double bass' walking bass line. Osamu let out an exhale as he gave the drink in his hand a quick swirl, the red liquid sloshing around the sides though never quite passing the rim, before turning back over to look at you, permitting himself to relax and ease into the groove of the jazz that filled the room.

Sitting directly to the left of the head himself, it would seem as though the eldest daughter of Tsubasa's leader would have less than a single care in the world, for in theory, her presence at the table was more symbolic than anything else. A show of young and naive elegance; a vision of the unattainable. She was meant solely to build rapport — to provide something worth fighting for. In the expectations of outside organizations, it would seem as though the role of the head's eldest daughter in executive meetings would be to simply smile and welcome the executives to the table; to enjoy the diverse selection of drinks available at the bar. She wasn't meant to engage directly in internal affairs, much less direct it.

But outside organizations were outside organizations, and you were not merely just (l/n)'s eldest child — you were (l/n) (f/n), and you had lived your life according to the beat of your own drum, your eyes blind to the supposed traditions of the world of organized crime, and your ears deaf to the prejudiced expectations of the ignorant. Your drink — whiskey, always neat — sat to your right untouched, while your elbows laid planted on the granite tabletop, your fingertips pressed hard against each other with your index fingers rested against your nose bridge. With no trace of the childish smile that had graced your lips earlier when Osamu had passed you the bag of McDonald's, your brows remained furrowed in deep concentration as your eyes bore straight ahead at the edge of the table, your mind deep in thought.

Osamu's lips curved into a worried smile as his hand reached over to your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze of reassurance. You glanced over at him, and Osamu simply closed his eyes and whispered, "Breathe, (f/n)."

You lowered your hands down onto your lap and nodded, following his instructions as your chest raised up in an inhale, and then fell back down in your exhale. It was a simple reminder of an automatic action coordinated by the ancient depths of your brain — in fact, it was realistically a pointless reminder if anything. But the true strength of his words lay not in the literal meaning of the message, but rather in the very act of the whisper itself. It was to serve as a reminder that he would be right there next to you, and that you would have his undying support regardless of the outcome.

It was a reminder that all you had to do was breathe.

Osamu rested his hand back onto the table at the sight of the corners of your lips turning upwards, and folded his arms in front of him, his forearms tucked into his chest.

"Thanks," you whispered, offering him a smile of your own in return as your breathing returned to a languid and steady rhythm. Osamu stayed still momentarily, having found himself momentarily mesmerized by the return of your confidence, and then shook his head.

"There's nothing to thank me for," he laughed, his hand reaching back for the glass of wine sitting to his side. He took a sip, letting the aged taste of the vineyards hit his tastebuds as he snuck another glance at your side profile.

After all, you were none other than (l/n) (f/n). No courteous words of gratitude would ever be a necessity. You were the very person who called the meeting that was to start once all the seats were filled, and you were the very person who all the executives at the table recognized as the brains behind the entire operation — the voice of reason and rational thought, the commander of the chess pieces, the tactician herself.