Chapter Text
The campaigning period was done, and one certain politician had lost the race. It had been a close call, but in the end, Obama won again. To let off some steam and relax from all the campaigning work, our politician was on his way to an island he'd been told was a sort of "resort-esque city".
Honestly, thought? He wouldn't go so far as to call it that.
Mitt Romney had been in Midorijima for about two weeks now, and in that time period he had concluded that the locals of the island city were definately weirder than Americans. They were all obsessed with these things called Rhyme and Rib, and consequently there were gangs with weird symbols on every street corner. Hell, he even got jumped one time. There goes the bulk of his remaining wealth he'd been carrying on him for some odd reason.
The locals also dressed much weirder than Americans. In America, you can expect to see people in tanktops and booty shorts - the men and women. But on Midorijima, everyone was much more expressive and colorful, like that one nice young man who helps run that pawn shop down the road from Mitt's hotel. That marshmallow jacket definately hid his slim figure, which was odd. You'd think someone with such a nice body would like to show the world.
One more reason Midorijima was different than America.
Regardless, it was enjoyable. The drastic change in atmosphere had definately come as a surprise to the republican, but it was pleasing after the first day or two. He did notice, however, he was starting to become more and more exhausted from the heat. Perhaps, he thought, it was time he check the local listings to find a good barber shop (or whatever they called them on this island.)
Sipping his tea in his hotel room and leaning back on the chair accompanied with the desk given to him by the hotel, presumably for a laptop or workspace of sorts, his soft eyes scanned over his tablet as he read the local hair cuttery ads. This was proving to be a much more daunting task than he had wished for, however, what with every listing either located across the city or in that confusing area of the island called Platinum Jail that they wouldn't even let a high class politician like himself into. And the places that were local had such low ratings he didn't believe the people running the place could even cut paper correctly.
Just as the grey-haired American was just about to give up hope and try again tomorrow, and just as he was standing to go to the mini island counter to pour himself another cup of tea, he happened to glance out the window.
Lo and behold, a young man was standing in the street, cutting a young woman's hair.
Perfect. Hopefully this man wasn't only skilled in cutting and styling women's hair. Hopefully he wasn't one of the people who had gotten a half star rating.
With an oddly excited skip in his usually stone cold step, and a slight shine in his eye, Mitt Romney slid his shoes on and grab the Yen equivelant of a twenty from his wallet before exiting his hotel room.
The crowd around the young man was larger than he had seen from his limited view high above the ground, he concluded as he neared the corner the hair cutting was taking place on. Mostly women, but some men, including himself, had crowded around the apparently skilled barber as he cut small chunks from a blonde's head. A few nearby women in tanktops squealed as the man said something he couldn't quite make out. Something about the girls, though, he concluded.
Romney felt his throat tighten as the man glanced up at him, a smile plastered on his face. Mitt felt as if the barber's gaze pierced through his soul in an almost endearing way. No... No what was he thinking. He was a man, as was Mitt himself. That truly couldn't be what was happening. He was a dashing young man, yes, but---
Before his train of thought could wander off on its own disturbed trail, however, the man's voice cut his internal fretting short.
"Ah, it seems we have a new client," he began, his silky voice flowing through the politician's ears, making his heart speed up just a tad. No, Mitt, he thought. Keep your cool. You're just nervous. "What are you here for, Sir? Enjoying the show? Or would you like to come forward and have a trim as well?"
Romney cleared his throat, if only to give him a second more to gather his thoughts. "I was wondering," he began, a voice crack breaking the professional air around him, causing him to pale a he continued to speak, "If you could maybe just... sort of take a bit off the top?"
"Sure thing!" the man replied, his grin widening just a tad at what Mitt suspected to be his now nervous appearance and air about him. "That's probably the easiest request I've gotten in a while," he concluded, sending a teasing glance at a woman to his side, who smirked and slapped the man's arm, muttering an "oh you", though it couldn't be heard in the crowd's mass sqeal of what romney made out to be something along the lines of "Koujaku you jerk", though it wasn't at all in a horrified tone.
Oh.
So his name was Koujaku, was it?
"So, are you going to come over?" the man - now known to be Koujaku - asked, motioning to the chair the previous client had gotten up from in the time between the barber's joke and the crowd's hysterics. With a somewhat hesitant step, Romney nodded, slowly stepping through the crowd of people that seemed to part like the Red Sea as he walked toward the chair.
As he walked, and as the crowd parted, he slowly saw more and more of the man. He had blueish-black hair, a few scars on his otherwise perfect face, and a traditional Japanese kimono. That was all he could catch, however, as he took the few steps to the chair directly infront of the man.
He turned around and sat, the chair creaking beneath his weight, which was admittedly more than most if not all of the people surrounding both him and the black haired man. He heard him shifting through his supplies, and before Mitt got the chance to talk, he was already asking questions.
"So, how much off the top do you think you want?" he began, and Mitt swore he could hear the silent test-snip of a pair of scissors behind him.
"Before I um, answer that, I'd like to know how much this is going to cost?" he responded, hesitation in his voice. This, somehow, caused the crowd to erupt into laughter. Even Koujaku himself gave a few quiet chuckles.
"Its free, ya dipshit!" called a slightly slurred voice from the back of the crowd.
I guess that's one way this island was actually similar to America, his train of thought from the previous days continued. Was it a world-wide phenomenon to drink before five o'clock?
Koujaku tutted, pointing at the somewhat tipsy girl. "Now, be nice. We've made it clear this is his first time using my services."
Mitt cleared his throat, craning his neck to glance up at the man, hoping the blush of embarrasment on his cheeks wasn't noticable in the blaring sun. "In that case, as much as you deem necessary. You are the... professional?" he half-stated, half inquried. This time, Koujaku himself gave a hearty laugh.
"I wouldn't quite call myself a professional," he began to say as his hands - and pair of scissors in tow - began to fy around his head in a steady, almost beautiful pattern. He didn't focus on anything else the man said as he got his hair cut, though. All he could think about was one thing, and that thing was something that struck fear into his core.
Romney was attracted to the hair dresser. It was love at first sight.
But it was so wrong. So wrong... yet he didn't turn away.
He let his worries subside to a somewhat peaceful silence, however, and drowned his recurring worries with the sounds of hair being cut.
He'd deal with those worries later.