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niijuu-san 


twenty-three 




Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


 

 

    Nervous. Sweaty palms. Heart racing. Slight light headedness. 

    “Matsuda Ichiro chūi. Approach.” Taking a step forward, he kept his expression emotionless, body still and rigid. Adorned in a new uniform, he took step by step, his boots freshly polished. Dark navy blue overcoat. Sparkling gold brass buttons traveled in a single file line down the sharp single-breasted collar. Short golden braids decorated his shoulders and on the sleeves lived an ornate golden trim and jarring red. A red and white belt circled his hips, hanging with full lush red tassels. A smaller belt up above his waist, lined with a navy and red trim. In his hands, he held the ornate handle of an officer’s katana, the blade straight against his chest. 

    “Stop.” At once, he ceased movement. 

    “Greet His Majesty.” With a sure voice, he replied. 

    “Tenno Heika Banzai!” Doors opened and the Emperor stepped in. The sight of him made his heart skip a beat and he dug his nails into his palms, eyes forward.  His military advisors followed in behind him, heads bowed. At once, he let his body fall into saikeirei. The room was quiet as the doors behind him were shut. 

    “You may lift your head.” His voice spoke, a firm yet calm authority in it. 

    “I am not worthy, Your Majesty.” 

    “So he is like his father.” That made beads of sweat gather at the back of his neck. At once, he lifted his head, keeping his eyes at his chest. 

    “My… my father, your Majesty?”  

    “Matsuda Yukio. Advisor to Emperor Taisho. Your father.” 

    “Yes, Your Majesty.”

    “He was far too humble. Like yourself.” Tongue-tied, he listened in earnest as he spoke again. 

    “Your Major speaks high praises of you. Having now seen you, I understand why. You have the eyes of a warrior.” 

    “I am deeply honored to receive your compliments…” 

    “Your aura is staggering. It roars with the souls of our great samurai. A war cry, it seeks above all else to fight. To live.” He bowed his head even lower. 

    “You’ve survived Bairoko. Io To. Captivity in the hands of the Russians.” The man had slowly circled him but now he came to a stop. 

    “Do you feel like a failure?” His question stabbed his heart. Trying to form words, he bit into his lip, the pain serving to focus him. 

    “It is with much embarrassment that I return to you empty-handed. I bring you no offering deserving of you… not even my life.” The short laugh from the man brought his eyes upward. 

    “Many of your brothers laid down their lives to me. While their lives were each valuable and the sacrifice was great, your offering is worth more to me existing in the shell you call a body.” A solid heavy hand laid upon his back. 

    “Lift your gaze.” Throat tight with emotion, he slowly lifted, eyes on his chest. 

    “You have sacrificed a limb in Our name and you are the model example of what Japan esteems to be. You carry her spirit and soul in your bosom. We are pleased by this.”              

   “It is with great humility that I accept your compliment, Your Majesty.” 

    “Rectitude. Courage. Benevolence. Politeness. Honesty and Sincerity. Honor. Loyalty. Character and Self-Control. The eight codes of bushido. I find every one of them in you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

    “Were it not in the agreement set forth between our nation and the United States, we would award you position of our Imperial Cabinet. However, that is not possible. ” Quiet, he listened to him speak once more. 

    “We find that you will like what will be granted to you instead. The Grand Cordon of the Order of the Paulownia Flowers, a 70 million yen yearly Imperial stipend, and an esteemed invitation to American President Truman’s birthday party.” He felt his eyes water and he bowed his head one last time. 

    “I with all humility accept the gifts of your grace and kindness, Your Majesty.” Lips firm, he gave a nod. 

    “Prepare for flight in two weeks’ time.”

    “Yes, Your Majesty.” 

    “Dismissed.” Standing at attention, he saluted him before turning on his heel. Taking step by step, his footfalls echoed on the marble floor as he came to the door, they soon closing behind him. 

 

*** 

 

    It hadn’t taken him long but already he had started. With fervor, he typed, letting the words flow freely. Don’t forget me. Pausing, he fished through his notes. As long as he drew breath, he’d never forget him. He’d make sure that by the end, no one else would too. While he had time before his next assignment, he’d take the time to work on it some more. Slowly but surely, he’d get this done. And with its completion, he hoped that he was transformed. 

 

*** 

 

May 8th, 1947 

 

Warne Ballroom 

 

 

    Violins strummed sweetly and servers in crisp white tailcoats enticed guests with hors d’oeuvres seated on sterling silver platters. Esteemed rich white politicians dressed in white togas laughed, lifting flutes of champagne to their mouths. Women in Roman-Greco dresses made of silk rushed against the floors. She felt her heart race and wet her lips, trying to prevent herself from picking at the skin on her hand. It had been such a long time… such a long time since she’d performed in front of people. 

    Truth be told, she was still in complete shock. She’d received a letter from The White House of The United States upon arriving home one day. This letter her momma couldn’t prevent herself from opening and she volunteered it up, asking her to read the tiny typewritten words. 

 

*** 

 

   Miss Beatrice Jones, 

    It is our honor to extend to you the opportunity to attend The 33rd President of the United States, Harry S. Truman’s 63rd birth-day party. It has come to our attention of your various talents, having traveling abroad. 

    Per many recommendations, we humbly invite you to the Cosmos Club’s Warne Ballroom on the evening of May 8th Nineteen Hundred and Forty Seven at 8 P.M. Please be aware that there is a strict dress-code. The theme of the party is classical Greco-Roman mythology. 

 

    Sincerely, 

    The White House 

 

***

 

    Her mother had nearly fainted and she had to help her go sit in the living room. She was in the same state of disbelief. Her? Some little Negro girl from Huntsville, Alabama? They had to be making a mistake. So she thought. She told her mother she wasn’t going and she almost about slapped her back ten years. 

    “You goin’ Beatrice Grace. What you mean you not goin? You can’t refuse the big white man in the big white house.” 

    “Momma they made a mistake…I ain’t sang in front of people in so long…”

    “Start practicin’ cause you goin’.” With a renewed sense of energy, the woman hopped up and rushed to the phone. 

    “I gotta tell yo Aunt Della. Girl, she gon have her a fit. And we gotta find you a dress.” 

 

***

 

    And here she was, palms sweaty and her neck feeling hot. Prominent eyes had already slipped down her body, ignoring her face. Taking a breath, she cleared her throat and straightened up. She knew what they saw. They saw easy prey. Lust lived in their eyes, open in plain sight. Smiling at the waiter, she took a deeper breath and began to make her way towards the small prepared stage. Tonight, she’d reclaim herself. Tonight, she’d give them a show unlike anything they’d ever seen. 

 

*** 

    “You say you’re from where?” 

    “Kurashiki, sir.” 

    “Pah, where the hell’s that? Sounds like one of those Jap towns.” He took down the shot of whiskey nice and easy. 

    “It is, sir.” Growing red in the face, the man baulked. 

    “So, that would make you a Jap then…”

    “I am here to represent the Emperor, so yes, that makes me Japanese. No hyphen.” His green eyes grew wide and he smirked as he lifted a fancy cigar to his mouth, lighting a match. 

    “Something wrong, Major?” 

    “Ah, no…ah… you’re here representing Hirohito huh?” The disrespect towards him caused his eyebrow to twitch and he blew out thick fragrant smoke. 

    “The Emperor, yes.” 

    “So we see you have a fancy medal on your uniform. What’s it mean?” His wife dived in, attempting damage control. 

    “It’s the Order of the Paulownia Flowers. It’s the second to the highest honors given. I’m humbled to have received it.”

    “And how did you receive it, may I ask?” Some puffed up son of a bitch asked, mouth all snarled up. 

    “David!” His wife. 

    “I wanna hear him say it. He earned it by shooting and killing our troops.” Steely blue-grey eyes narrowed at him. Taking the cigar in between his index and middle finger, he pulled it away, releasing some more smoke. 

    “With all due respect, the soldiers here received honors and medals for the exact same thing; shooting and killing the soldiers in my country. We are no longer enemies. Your country is attempting peace and so is mine. Let us pay respect to those who died on both sides and call it a truce. Hm?” Nearly everyone at the table had grown as white as the sheet collecting the droplets from the water in his glass. 

    “Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome our featured performer of the evening. She’s entertained the likes of Clark Gable, Bill Crosby and Elizabeth Taylor and tonight she’s here to give us a treat! Please welcome Beatrice Jones!” Turning his head sharply, he grew still. Deja vu smacked him in the stomach as he watched her croon in a soft seductive voice. 

    “The poets say that all who love are blind. But I'm in love and I know what time it is.” A mellow piano played in the back, no other instrument but it and her voice. The ethereal singing caused a hush to drift across the room and soon, everyone turned to face her.

    “The good book says go seek and ye shall find.  Well, I have sought and my what a climb it is.”  Cigar now forgotten, he felt his throat close up and sucked in a breath through his nostrils. Beatrice… It…it was her. Taking in the soft little sway of her hips, he finally snuffed out the cigar and accepted another whiskey. Already under her hypnosis, he couldn’t hide the way his gaze slipped down her body as she moved. 

    “…Never treats me sweet and gentle. The way he should. I got it bad and that ain't good…I got it bad, so bad. Though folks with good intentions. Tell me to save my tears. I'm glad I'm mad about him. I can't live without him…” Her impassioned voice stirred the crowd and all were silent. Pain. She sang from a place of longing… a place of truth. 

    “The Negress can sing, that’s for sure.”

    “Yeah, I’d treat her sweet and gentle.” Slowly sliding eyes over to the two assholes snickering, he tossed back the shot. The heat from the whiskey was pleasant and warm and he relaxed into his chair. He supposed he couldn’t be too upset. She was a vision of beauty and grace…the sight of her satisfied him. She stood in the center of the room, dressed in a stunning melon ensemble, elegant, lush and sheer layers of flowy chiffon and silk brushed the ground. 

    The form fitting dress underneath the layers clung to her delicate figure. Small shoulders were encased in short puffed sleeves, an angel trim gave her a divine glow. An off the shoulder neckline displayed a healthy amount of cleavage, just enough to make the mind wonder. Petite waist. Curvaceous hips continued swaying and short shapely legs. Slender arms extended, expressing her emotion. 

    “Lord above me. Make him love me. The way he should…” The piano drifted sweetly and soon, she finished, eyes closed and head back the slightest bit, revealing more of her neck. Deafening applause filled the hall and she smiled prettily. 

    “It’s a privilege to entertain you all tonight. If you don’t mind, I’d like to sing one more tune for you.” 

    “Encore!” Someone protested, sending a laugh across the air. 

    “Well, don’t mind if I do. This one’s a little up tempo number. It reminds me of being back home in Alabama, out when Momma said I shouldn’t have been. The sound of real hoppin’ jazz playin’… let me take you there for a minute,” Whistles and catcalling was soon drowned out by the sound of a rich energetic horn, piano and light drumming. She listened for a minute, lost in the music. The more they played, she sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, fingers now slipping suggestively down the microphone stand.

    “Mm… that sounds good to me Jimmy… keep on sug…” She cajoled, making some of the men’s mouths drop. The women started to look uncomfortable, displeasure in their tight firm lips. Even so, the musicians seemed under her spell and the instruments intensified. 

    “All my life. I’ve been waiting for you. My wonderful one. I’ve begun. Living all my life. All my love. Has been waiting for you. My life is sublime. Now that I’m giving all my love…”  The President was lock-jawed but his eyes slid down her oscillating body just the same as every other man. A big fuck you to his wife, who sat there with a plastic smile. Smirking, he turned his eyes back onto her, giving her his undivided attention. 

    “You seem so lovely, so far above me. I’m almost afraid to look. But I adore you, I pledge before you. A heart that's an open book…All my life. Hold me close to your heart. But all else above. Hold my love. Darling, just hold my love…” With the sharp hiss from the horn, the song had ended and applause roared through all the ballroom. Curtseying, she bowed her head. 

    “Thank you…” 

 

*** 

 

    It had started to grow chilly but it was far too stuffy inside. She didn’t want to go back.. not yet. Out here, it was quiet. She’d had enough male attention for the evening. Their eyes craved for what she carried in her hips and her song, licking lips with hunger intensified by all the booze. She had forgotten how fun it was… playing with them. The power she wielded had almost been destroyed… power she’d reclaimed tonight. It felt good… like a piece of her had returned from some dark deep abyss.

     She’d danced with the President himself and when his hands held her far too tight past what was appropriate, she withdrew into a peaceful stillness. The summer air once warm was now cool and it raised goosebumps on her arms. The sun was starting to set, lilac, pastel orange and red. A weighty coat was placed across her trembling shoulders, distracting her attention.

She was about to say something but something stopped her. Refreshing woodsy spice, and slight citrus drifted up from the coat. Tinged with the sweetness of cedar from a cigar. Breath trembling, she slowly turned her head and felt her knees grow weak. Clothed in the shades of the setting sun, dark navy, gold and red he stood behind her, body just as powerful and confident as she remembered. 

    “I…Ichiro…” Fingers lifted and caressed her cheek, sweet and gentle. 

    “Beatrice,” A cry of joy pierced the air and she raced into his arms, releasing the tears in her eyes. Her wails of anguish turned into exclaims of joy. She told her heart’s story in the matter of minutes and it made him hug her tighter. She allowed her knees to finally give and he allowed the tears to well up in his eyes, hoisting her up into his arms with a firm lift. 

    “It’s you…. Oh God it’s you….” she wept, clutching his uniform in between clawed gripping fingers. Lifting a hand from her waist, he wiped her tears. 

    “I thought you were dead…I thought they’d killed you…” 

    “I’m a tough son of a bitch to kill.” Laughing through her tears, her tear filled eyes opened and settled on his. Leaning into his palm, she took a shaky breath. 

    “You’re here…” Lowering her now back to the ground, he pulled her forehead against his. 

    “I’m here.” He confirmed with a quiet voice. 






Chapter End Notes:

 

A/N: SCREECHES DRAMATICALLY. ICHI AND BEA SITTIN IN A TREE. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. BRUH. THEY REUNITED AND IT FEELS SO GOOOOOODDDDDDDD. HEHE. Ichiro is such a freaking bad a**. So fearless. Kinda hot, not gonna lie. He problematic but my boy is trying out here lol

I've got pictures and some terms down below for y'all hehe. See you next chapter hehe. 

DL

chūi-  First Liutenant 

saikeirei- means the most respectful bow. Saikeirei is the most formal bow and is performed with a serious tone. This bow can be used to show respect to someone of very high status such as the emperor, or to show a strong sense of apology or guilt. (copied from https://gogonihon.com/en/blog/japanese-bow/) 

Io To- the Japanese term for Iwo Jima 

Grand Cordon of the Order of the Paulownia Flowers- copied from (https://www8.cao.go.jp/shokun/en/grand-cordon-of-the-order-of-the-paulownia-flowers.html) In 1888, Grand Cordon of the Order of the Paulownia Flowers was established as the highest award in the Orders of the Rising Sun.

It is the second to highest honor given above Supreme Order of the Chrysanthemum which is only awarded or given to the Imperial/Royal family of Japan (and foreign royalty) 

Okay so now with the codes of bushido outlined, it's easy now to see why Ichiro indentifies himself with the spirit or essence of the wolf. In Shintoism, all life has a spirit. Wolves are predators, stealthy and fearsome creatures. To me, it makes sense hehe. Samurai. Warrior. Wolf. Alpha-male. Predator.  He my lil wolf-boo. ( SECOND because Kieran is the first baby he always at the top lol. I'm done for real now lol)

 

Ichiro's Formal uniform or as we call them in the States "Full dress uniform" Can you imagine him in this uniform looking like this? *swoons* BRUH. SEND HELP.

Bea's dress and hair style:

 







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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.