Title: Your Savior (Low-flying Sparrow Part II)

Author: Shaariin13

Word Count: 942 (details and A/Ns exclusive)

Rating: M for sexual themes (prostitution) crude language

Warnings: sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality and crude language

Summary: Because you know - from the deepest recesses of your heart - that you are beyond salvation, and this cycle of your life will simply replay again and again until the end: student by day, low-flying sparrow by night. M for sexual themes (prostitution), blatant homosexuality

A/N: And here's the promised continuation of Mayang Mababa ang Lipad or Low-flying Sparrow. The main reason why it took this long to materialize was because I couldn't get around connecting LFS to the scenario that popped into my head. Despite not being written, this is a multi-fic, which means this is the second chapter, and there will be more after this. I hope it was worth the wait.

Your Savior

You are on your way to a business meeting that night. It may not be your cup of tea, but your client right now is fond of going to shady clubs and seedy hotels. You shake your head, blowing a thin cloud of smoke out the window of your moving car. Nowadays, rich people act like commoners, while the poor carry themselves like royalty.

The driver stops the vehicle in front of a tall building and you couldn't suppress the urge to expel a sigh of relief. At least this one looks more presentable. You step out and look at the posters hanging on the establishment's façade. Your sigh of relief evolves into a groan of frustration.

Oh, great. You curse mentally. A gay bar, just what I need.

Yes, it suits your preferences nicely, but right now, in the face of a major business deal, you can't afford to stare at the passing call boys and hosts wandering about. Maybe next time.

You enter the club and your eyes wander for your man. You appreciate how business is conducted: no one in skimpy, barely there outfits, only a tolerable amount of alcohol, and no minors that you could see. It seems that old De Luca can appreciate the better things in life once in a while.

The usher stops you on the threshold and asks for your business. You give De Luca's name and the man nods before leading you to a backroom where – you realize as you step into the dim, and boggy opium-scented room – the real deal happens.

Your face bunches into a despaired expression as you see half-inebriated, half-debauched men, women and teenagers fill booths and tables, strewn bottles of different spirits and random pieces of clothing. You are directed to a private booth and you get even more disgusted.

A private strip show is the mode for entertainment which, judging by the height and general body structure of the dancers, is mainly comprised of very young men who couldn't be out of college.

Currently, a young man with long flowing silver hair (could it be bleached? Platinum is not a common hair color in Asian countries) is dominating the small raised platform. The only things left on him are his pants and a mask that covers the lower half of his face. The wide mouth and pointed teeth depicted on the mask reminds you of a shark somehow, and you realize that must be it, as the youth's movements are fluid and aggressive. You take a seat and down the shot of scotch handed to you. You rub your right temple, where you feel a migraine blooming.

"Mr. De Luca, can we please get this over with?" You ask in your most patient tone. "You know that my sister Bianchi insists I be home for dinner every night."

"Now, now, Mr. Gokudera," the over-sixty Italian chuckles as he guzzles down some brandy. "I hardly ever visit the Philippines; let me enjoy the main event."

You sigh and watch as the small stage goes dark. At least, you think, I wouldn't get bored while I wait.

The lights blaze on, and a lone man stands on the platform, his back to the room. The song comes on, the melody a mix of traditional Japanese and Mandarin. The performer moves, smooth and swift, like a bird in flight. He turns around, and his masked face comes into view: sapphires and rich, royal blue feathers around narrow eyeholes, a golden beak on his nose. A noble sparrow, if you've ever seen one.

You are captivated. Every wave of his hand, sway of his hips, nod of his head; your eyes trail every part of him. Fortunately, you are a master actor, and you have schooled your face into a disinterested expression; or else, the old coot sitting across from you would have been treated to a different kind of show. You thank your lucky stars that the dimness of the room hides the entrancement in your eyes.

The show draws to a close, and for the finale, the young man rips off his mask and it flies in your direction, landing soundly by your feet. But you don't take notice, because your eyes are glued to him, instead. You can't believe it. All you see is the face of your dead god brother when he was younger.

You pace in front of the table; back and forth, back and forth. Bianchi is sitting down, the papers and documents you were able to get your hand on were in hers now, and said hands were shaking from deep emotion.

"I-I can't b-believe it," she whispers, breathless, disbelieving but relieved. "We… did it. We finally found him…"

"It's still unconfirmed," you mutter, but, in your opinion, it's as good as done. Apparently, Bianchi thinks so, too.

"What more confirmation do you need, Fratellino?" she asks. "He has it all: his face, her eyes, her hair, his smile…"

She caresses the photo attached to the employee's profile he had his secretary, Damien, 'buy' from the owner.

"It's also written here, his parents," Bianchi continues, smiling widely, yet sadly. "Mother: Maya Rivera; Filipino; deceased. Father: Tsuyoshi Yamamoto; Japanese; deceased."

She sighs, puts down the sheaf of papers on the table, and leans back in her seat. "Now the question is: How do we get Tsuyoshi-nii's son back to Japan?"

You pick up the profile and stare hard at the photo of a young man with spiky, short hair, brown eyes, and a warm smile. I'll get you, Takeshi Yamamoto, you vow to yourself. I'll get you; even if it's the last thing I do.

Whew! Okay! I'm working on the next part. Oh, and Hayato's around in his late twenties to early twenties, and his dead god brother is Tsuyoshi. And yes, this is going to be 5980. This'll be a little longer than expected, but since it'll only be two weeks from now that I'll be on semestral break, I hope I'll be able to continue this. It'll still be categorized to completed, though... Review, please!