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He's studying for his end of term exams when the phone rings. It is Atobe, and he barely dwells on social pleasantries before getting down to the point. He's abrupt these days, Yuushi thinks, it's not like him. Or perhaps Atobe has changed as well, and he hasn't been paying enough attention.
"I'm playing Osaka-jo next Saturday. May I stay at your apartment?"
"Of course," Yuushi says, bemused. As with most of Atobe's putative requests tone of voice turns it from a query regarding what could be into a statement of what will be. What he doesn't understand is why Atobe does not simply take over the top floor of the New Otani for himself and his 'people'. "When should I expect you?"
"Late," Atobe says. "Friday night." There is a pause, but just as Yuushi begins to wonder if a response is required Atobe adds, "I'll bring dinner with me," and hangs up. It is not until minutes later that Yuushi remembers the existence of fans and reporters and paparazzi cameramen.
The worry proves unnecessary. If an escape is involved it is evidently well-executed as well as premeditated: at ten-thirty on Friday evening the sleek black hull of a limousine moors itself to the postern gate of Yuushi's building in a street deserted of life and sound. Yuushi watches until it glides away again, then sighs and drops the curtains. The buzzer sounds as he's clearing his textbooks from the kitchen table.
Atobe sweeps in as soon as Yuushi opens the door, trailed by a brace of house servants – not record company gofers – carrying picnic baskets and a miniature luggage set. "Over there," he says, gesturing at the just-emptied table. "Evening, Oshitari."
Yuushi feels like laughing. "I see you're well." Cold air is still clinging to the folds of Atobe's ankle-length golden sables; he can feel it, a tingle against his skin. On a common young man the coat would look ridiculous – the object is tossed carelessly into his arms the ensuing second, heavy and shining like honey under the lamplight – but Atobe carries it like a birthright. It's been too long, he thinks, then wonders at himself. Too long since what?
By the time he's hung the coat up and closes the closet door, the servants have set the table and been summarily dismissed. Atobe turns on his heel in the middle of the open-plan floor, taking in the surroundings. His clothing is slimly, casually tailored, brown velvet and dusty rose corduroy and cream angora, a touch of sky blue silk at his throat. He's by far the most colourful object in the room.
"It looks like an empty art gallery," he says. "Why don't you get some paintings?" Yuushi raises an eyebrow.
"Women," he says. "I like beautiful women, who know their own minds and tastes. Women with style."
"They replace works of art for you?"
"It wouldn't do to let anyone clash with the interior decoration. Champagne?"