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He was disturbed from the perfect calm of his thoughts by the sharp clack of heels on stone. His personal assistant, Giselle, stood near him, and she was holding a tablet. That was never good news.
His mind snapped back, adrenaline fizzing through his veins. He’d been in retirement for years now and living in opulence since he was twelve and he’d never quite shaken the instincts he’d picked up first on the street and then at the Mishima compound.
Giselle’s mouth was tight, unsmiling and her posture was stiff and uncomfortable. Very bad news.
“What is it?” he said impatiently, sitting up on his lounger with little regard for how he looked. He knocked over his drink as he placed his feet on the ground, uncharacteristically clumsy, and cursed.
Giselle got straight to the point.
“Heihachi Mishima has appeared in public, with Kazuya’s son.”
At first he thought he’d misheard, and looked at her sharply, but then she handed him the tablet with the live press conference already streaming, and his eyes confirmed what she’d said.
The old monster, still alive after all these years, was holding court with a forest of microphones under his nose. Lee gripped the tablet, furious at how the old man could still draw this sort of reaction from him, even now.
Heihachi looked just as vivacious and wicked as ever, even with the black hair faded to grey and a spider’s web of wrinkles across his grinning face. He wore a ludicrous tigerskin jacket that had Lee raising his eyebrows; the old bastard hadn’t been shy of voicing his disapproval of their more flamboyant outfits in their youth. He supposed Heihachi had become less austere with age; perhaps ridding himself of his two sons had led him to lavish money on possessions rather than endless manipulation and trickery.
The youth beside him, however, was sedate in a simple black outfit, which Lee could tell at a glance had been made especially for him. No Mishima would ever disgrace the family by appearing in public by wearing clothing that Heihachi didn’t approve of. Lee remembered the roaring when he and Kazuya would return home with bags of Yohji Yamamoto and Comme des Garcons and Kenzo; they’d come to blows over it more than once. Heihachi insisted their clothes should be made for them; he wouldn't tolerate even the finest Japanese designers that any rich person could buy. Not that that ever stopped them.
Lee remembered Kazuya laughing, as he dressed to go out. His taste as a young man had never been as outré as Lee's, but it was still too much for Heihachi. They lived by their defiances, large and small, but Heihachi had never discovered the largest one of all.
Lee thought of Kazuya's calloused hands, strong and unforgiving.
Kazuya.
He looked just like Kazuya. He was maybe fifteen or sixteen but no older, self-conscious but already his full adult height, and he was a little skinny but Lee could tell he’d fill out into the Mishima bulk soon enough. The way he looked down and raised his eyes back up was exactly like Kazuya, and Lee watched the tablet’s screen mist over as he exhaled.
He had Kazuya’s hair, that thick wiry Mishima hair that Kazuya had dealt with in sullen silence, bullying it into submission with thousands of yen’s worth of products. Lee knew what that hair looked like wet, clotted with blood, knew Jin’s would look just the same.
He felt his gut twist. There was no doubt about it. Heihachi was talking now and Lee scrabbled to raise the volume on the stream.
“This is my grandson, Jin Kazama.”
Kazama?
Lee had never forgotten Jun Kazama, all spark and purpose and power, and he remembered how much that had intrigued Kazuya. It bothered him, but Kazuya's distraction helped him too - it was better that than listening to him raving and pacing in the mirrored room atop the Zaibatsu's headquarters. He remembered the accompanying rumours too, but there had been no time to investigate them when Heihachi returned. There had only been time to flee the Mishima Compound, after being disowned. He had had a bag, a half hour, a car waiting – and in the rush to escape, he’d stopped thinking about Jun Kazama. She had completely fallen off his radar by the time he’d re-established himself in the Bahamas; he’d never assumed that there would have been anything to follow up. It was just more mess from a nightmare that he wanted to forget as soon as possible. All that remained of Kazuya was ashes – or so he’d thought.
The reporters scrambled forward, shouting. Heihachi held up his hand to silence them. He was still a commanding presence, after all these years. Lee’s fingers tapped impatiently on the tablet’s smooth surface as he waited for the din to die down.
The camera cut fully to Jin, his face taking up the whole screen, and Lee reeled from the shock of seeing him up close like that. He remembered Kazuya at fifteen so clearly. They’d been devoted enemies even then, tormenting each other ceaselessly in the dojo and in school and at home. Lee spent as much time out as he could, yet he could never quite suppress his longing for Kazuya to show him anything but hate. Lee sat with his shallow, beautiful friends, automatically favouring them with a bright smile or a clever remark even as his mind whirred and clicked over the events of the day.
None of them understood what it was to be raised in the Mishima Compound, to be ground down by a tyrant, to be trained like a dog and worked til you bled. They saw what Lee allowed them to see and never suspected anything more. How could they understand?
Nobody understood except Kazuya.
Lee looked at Jin and tried to focus; the cameras had pulled back again to include Heihachi whose voice he’d tuned out as he was talking about some Zaibatsu charity. Lee couldn’t help it; he recalled Kazuya at fifteen and himself at fourteen. They’d been going through hell at home. Heihachi had been particularly cruel that year. He wondered if Heihachi treated Jin like that now. Somehow, he doubted it.
“You are men now,” he would taunt, measuring their height, forcing them to step on scales, nodding in grim satisfaction as their trainer pinched hard at their bodies to measure the fat percentage. Lee remembered thinking that Heihachi treated them like the fishmongers in the Hong Kong fish markets treated their merchandise.
Heihachi controlled them ruthlessly. He monitored where they went, what they did, what they ate. Lee was accustomed to sneaking around, avoiding suspicion, and it was a skill that had plenty of use in Heihachi’s house. He’d make them spar with each other til their hair was heavy with sweat and their toes were bruised, and any protest fell on deaf ears.
They’d loathed him. Even as they poked at and chafed against each other, it was their hatred for Heihachi that had united them both. Their relationship had been intense, violent and utterly addictive. Lee hated himself for participating in it, and he hated how he’d never experienced anything that came close since.
Lee remembered an argument from several years later, over breakfast one morning. That morning. They’d been photographed together at an event, and Heihachi was angry at how they’d looked in the photos.
Heihachi had been front and centre, large mouth split in a grin. Slightly behind him, Lee gazed coolly at the camera, cigarette dangling from his mouth (he’d sneaked it in the moment Heihachi’s back was turned). Kazuya was stiff and cold; his eyes blazed with fury. The whole thing was a mess. It was printed in gloriously full colour on the front of the Yomiuri Shimbun. How many people saw it?
They’d been forbidden to attend university that day, even though Kazuya had been so close to his exams and it was all Heihachi spoke to him about. Instead Heihachi kept them in the dojo, working them sadistically past the point of exhaustion as he shouted about how worthless they were. Kazuya didn’t even flinch, even when Heihachi smacked him right across the face, and that gave Lee strength to carry on, to stay conscious.
Eventually he’d grown tired of them, and had left. They fell to the floor with dull thuds, no longer able to maintain the pretence. Lee opened his eyes and looked across the dojo floor to where Kazuya lay, battered and silent. He’d thrown his forearm over his face, and Lee couldn’t see his expression.
“Kazuya.”
“What?”
“Are you ok?”
Kazuya grunted. He lifted his arm and rolled onto his side to face Lee. Lee’s eyes widened as he took in the cruel gash across Kazuya’s brow; the blood was already clotting, but his forehead was smeared red where he’d wiped the blood away. His dark eyes took in Lee, but his face remained unreadable.
Lee looked back at him, and something seemed to pass between them. Understanding.
Heihachi had played them against each other from the moment Lee had come into their lives. They’d never been allowed to build a normal relationship; rivalry was all they knew. And despite that, nobody could make them as miserable as Heihachi could. Lee had often wondered how someone could even get to be that cruel, that twisted. He’d given up on fully hating Kazuya; instead he turned his hate inwards for so desperately craving their approval.
Kazuya grunted again, and heaved himself off the floor. The strain it had on him was obvious. Every muscle had been worked to the point of exhaustion.
Before he could stop himself, Lee trailed a finger against Kazuya’s brow, gleaming with sweat. Kazuya’s eyes flashed dangerously, a memory that Lee would later reflect on with some bitterness. Lee rubbed at some of the smerared blood, blending it with the sweat, and unthinkingly drew his finger into his mouth. Kazuya’s mouth twisted. Lee watched him. Kazuya’s blood tasted coppery and mingled with the salt of the sweat on Lee’s tongue. He noticed Kazuya’s dark eyes drop to the finger in his mouth. It was no surprise what happened next.
In the present, Lee eyed Jin again, finally seeing him as he was and not as a memory. Jin looked calm, bored even. His dark eyes were solemn, but there was none of the rage or bitterness Lee had seen in Kazuya’s eyes so many times. There was no tension in his shoulders, no sense of hate or fear. He was as though someone had taken Kazuya and drained all the anger, hurt and rage out. Soft, open, no fear.
And that meant he wasn’t Kazuya, and yet…Lee’s eyes darted back to Heihachi.
Heihachi looked older, true, but Lee knew age hadn’t made him any softer. The colourful sponsorships of conservation non-profits and the big sparkling parties took the attention, but Lee always read the trades and saw the cutthroat dealing unconcealed in black and white. Sometimes he’d been able to discern where Heihachi’s mind was going, and had been able to manoeuvre in there himself, to steal a slice of the action.
It was really the least that Heihachi could do for him.
And yet…when Heihachi’s gloved hand clamped onto Jin’s shoulder, Jin didn’t glare, as Kazuya would have, or look uncomfortable, as Lee himself would. Instead he turned towards his grandfather, and the faintest smile drifted across his pale face. The flashes flickered and lit them both like lightning.
Lee hated him. He couldn’t help it. He hated them both, but despising Heihachi was nothing new. The old monster was looking at Jin almost affectionately, and Lee’s hands clenched so tightly on the screen that circles of rainbow distortion formed around his fingertips. The question came to mind. Years of therapy had forced it out of his waking mind but now it came back with a vengeance. He felt the sick twist in his stomach; bile bitter on his tongue.
He hit mute, set the tablet face down and brushed a hand through his hair. A muggy breeze stirred the palm fronds by the pool, and Lee watched the lazy motions, forcing himself not to take up the tablet again. His pulse ebbed and he felt about for his drink, belatedly cursing as he remembered knocking it earlier.
Could a man like Heihachi Mishima really change so much? Lee had never seen any indications that the old man wished for, or even thought it necessary to change, and yet the evidence had been streaming all-too-clear in front of him.
Jin looked safe, content even.
Heihachi knew he lived, and he knew that Lee was active in the same industry – but he had never once sought to make contact. Lee didn’t want him to; he was committed to never reconciling with Heihachi for as long as he lived, but he wanted the choice. He wanted Heihachi to see all he had built, without his help, and to deny him access to to any part of his life. It was a childish revenge fantasy, he knew, and some part of him knew he’d always secretly yearn for Heihachi’s approval. Just as he’d been conditioned.
He found himself staring between his legs at his bare feet. The toes were black with bruises, the nails blunt and short. The feet of a fighter, and by far the most enduring mark Heihachi had left on him. He supposed he should thank the old man for that, but all he could think was of Heihachi’s sneering face as he refused to teach Lee the Mishima fighting style.
“Only those with our blood can learn this style, and you’re only a mutt. Be grateful you have the privilege to learn with us.”
Lee grabbed the tablet again. They were still talking. Jin was to be adopted into the Mishima household – and as a welcome gift, Heihachi was planning a third tournament. Lee almost dropped the tablet. It had been so long – he had thought the Iron Fist Tournaments were dead and buried. Yet here Heihachi was bragging about the strength of his bloodline as Jin watched with embarrassment – and perhaps a flash of pride. But Lee knew that a tournament was never just a tournament.
It had something to do with Jin Kazama’s emergence, he was sure of it. Something the boy had that Heihachi wanted from him – perhaps something as simple as his death.
Did it matter? Lee was secure, and Heihachi clearly knew he existed, yet he’d never given any indication that he cared to pursue the matter further. And yet, and yet, and yet…
When a flash went off near Jin’s eyes, he frowned, and in that moment he was so thoroughly Kazuya that Lee’s knuckles whitened as he thought.
What would he have given to be spared his upbringing? To be free of Heihachi?
And he yet he recognised the lie as he thought it; Heihachi had taken him in when he had been living on the streets. How many times had Heihachi sneered “You would be dead if it wasn’t for me,” at him?
How many times had he seen the lip curl of disdain to remind him of his place? It was the truth, of course, and that had hurt more than anything. All that he had built now was an indirect result of the person Heihachi had shaped him to be.
You would have nothing if it weren’t for me. Skip class one more time and I’ll see that it’s your last.
It had not taken him long to learn the lesson. Kazuya had done more or less as he pleased – but then, when Kazuya had survived death once, there was little Heihachi could threaten him with. And, as he was not shy of reminding Lee, he was a Mishima.
As was Jin.
And, he thought, despite the cruelty and the pain, especially towards the end, would he have rather never known Kazuya? Would his life have been better or worse? Certainly he'd spent the years after his death searching for someone who measured up and every person without exception had been a pale imitation at best. The years he had spent with Kazuya had scarred him, but they were scars he had earned, he felt. Despite all the pain, he'd never once regretted siding against Heihachi at the end of the first tournament.
He remembered Kazuya afterwards. Cold and triumphant, he said "All this is mine," without breaking eye contact. Lee felt a chill, knowing Kazuya included him in this, but he had been so ecstatic that they were finally free that he would have done almost anything. And he had. For two years Kazuya had ruled and Lee had been with him every step of the way. Until Heihachi came back.
Kazuya's death had forced his hand. Would he have ever been able to go it alone without that? Would he still be at Kazuya's side, sharing his bed? He decided not to think about that too much; this was enough of a mess already.
Heihachi’s cold voice carried with a clarity.
“Jin will live with me and alongside the completion of his schooling, he will be raised as my heir, in all aspects of the business and the Mishima Fighting Style.”
The reporters clamoured as Heihachi smiled; Lee could not look away from Jin. He wondered how much Jin knew about him; how much he knew about Kazuya. Jin must have believed whatever lies Heihachi had told him. Why else would he sit there so placidly?
Over the roar, Lee picked out a strand of a question about the inheritance. The Mishima fortune numbered billions, publicly, and there was much more to it than that. To name Kazuya’s bastard son his heir, after all this time, and knowing how much Heihachi had hated Kazuya…
He was so caught up in trying to trace the strands of the plot back to the source, as he had done so many times before, that he missed the question Jin was answering.
“No,” he said, “that was a rumour. My father died in an accident.”
Lee was torn between his voice – deep like Kazuya’s and solemn, yet offset somewhat by a strong regional accent that Heihachi would no doubt have him trained out of in no time – and what he was actually speaking about.
Lee had had his difficulties with Kazuya. They’d hated each other for so much of the time, even during the best times. Nobody could train someone to hate quite like Heihachi. Every kiss was flavoured with it, every touch. Yet Kazuya hadn’t deserved to die as he had – and when Heihachi sent him an unmarked handful of ash in an envelope, he hadn’t needed a translator for the message. He had torn up the accompanying note without reading it. He had heard the rumours from Zaibatsu exiles – that Kazuya had been unconscious, that Heihachi had dropped him in the volcano himself, that the old bastard had been smiling.
He still had the envelope tucked away in a safe somewhere – he hadn’t touched it since. Kazuya was dead; this boy was not him. Lee exhaled, and felt his chest deflate like he'd been punched. It was too much.
“He is a good boy,” Heihachi was saying, “and he’ll make a fine heir for the Mishima family.” He pulled Jin close. Lee grimaced. He'd seen enough.
“Giselle!”
Giselle came, moving quickly across the flagstones, and Lee immediately handed her the tablet.
“Enough. I don’t want to see any more of this.”
She hesitated, but she knew better than to say anything. Lee raised his legs back onto his lounger and lowered his sunglasses, face unreadable to the world once more. Giselle stooped to pick up the glass he’d knocked earlier. He followed her motion without speaking. A few minutes later he had a fresh drink in a fresh glass and when he’d finished that, he had another.
The sky darkened and the palm fronds swayed as the winds cooled and night fell, and Lee lay on his lounger, skin cooled by the breeze, and thought of the mountain, and the envelope in his safe.