Bloodied Dahlias | Miya Osamu

[XI] The Lion's Den Part I

For what might have been the fourth time this evening, Osamu once again found himself wondering if it was possible to burn up in flames from inside the stiff tuxedo he had on. Or if he would, perhaps, be the anomaly who set a precedent for such an event. Because spontaneous human combustion was really the only explanation he had for this scorchingly insufferable heat.

His each breath came accompanied by a pang of discomfort that went hand-in-hand with a dizzying thirst for air. Short — much shorter than usual, he reminded himself, his eyes casting a furtive glance down at the twin columns of buttons lining the front of his dark wool jacket. Another inhale in lent to the expansion of his ribcage, the fabric around his chest seemingly coiling tighter around his torso, constricting the movement to the restricted bounds that the garment permitted.

Was it possible that the jacket was shrinking with every breath he took, or had he finally lost his mind?

Formal events and ostentatious displays of wealth had never quite mixed well with Osamu. Like oil separating from water, he had never been one for parading around luxuries and achievements alike, and had never been particularly fond of surface-level exchanges of 'nice to meet you's and empty promises of coffee chats with people he would never lay eyes on ever again after the night came to an end. Whether as Miya Osamu the sniper of Inarizaki, or as Miya Osamu, the head of the Miya clan, he had always made it a point to avoid the overly dressy festivities in whatever way possible. Sickness, double-booked schedules, stakeouts, and even errands sent by his mother: Inarizaki's sniper unit had bestowed upon him the title of "Master of Escape" from always having had some reason to miss out on the banquets. And when those didn't work out and his attendance became a non-negotiable, Miya Osamu's biggest saving grace would then come in the form of his twin brother, whose natural-born talent for eloquence and deception could easily charm away the subtleties in their differences to those demanding for his presence. The dark circles under his eyes, the brassiness in his brother's bleach-damaged hair, the sudden preference for gin and vodka over rum and whiskey. No, none of it existed — all attention would land squarely on the handsome face of the young Miya clan head and the enchanting words that came out past parted lips.

He pushed away all thoughts of the blistering heat of the room, ignoring the sweat slicking down the side of his temples and the noxious god-awful smell of revelry permeating across the dance hall.

God, he really did not want to be here.

Because while Miya Osamu could have easily asked his twin brother to attend in his stead, Miyano Osamu was not a twin, and that left Osamu with little choice but to endure this time.

He picked up his drink — a stronger whiskey than what he usually opted for because god forbid he need to spend any more of this night miserably sober — and raised the rim up against his lips. Perhaps it's not so bad. Silver linin' and all. He let the amber liquid flow down through parted teeth, the sharp notes of the aged alcohol in harmony with the woody smokiness that trailed along tumbling off of his tongue and down into his throat.

Makes for some great time for some reconnaissance work if ya think about it.

As the burning of the alcohol settled in the back of his throat, his gaze skimmed across the room. The mental tally he had been keeping in his head of all the illicit activities going on in the room counted up sequentially as his eyes raked through each and every poker table half-hidden by the hazy plumes of smoke of whatever concoction the chemists had brewed up for this season. Stacks of poker chips towered over the green velveteen of the table as forgotten cigarettes floated in the contents of abandoned glasses of alcohol by the ledge — the balance only ever disturbed when an exchange of fists took over the cards flitting past eager hands.