Title: Where the Wild Lilies Grow (1/10)
Universes: Haru wo Daiteita & Casino Lily
Pairings: Carlo/Magira, Iwaki/Katou, Shouji/Shu Ti Fan(o_O)
Rating, all over: NC-17
Warnings, all over: Explicit sex and violence. Shameless romance - this is not an angst-fest.
Word count, this chapter: : 2,600
Notes: List of all chapters here. For elfflame who wanted me to put Magira in this situation. Thanks to lore for looking this over.
Summary: When Carlo comes home from a business trip only to discover that Magira has left him, he has to change the passive way he usually takes when it comes to defending his relationship with the charming, but spoiled young player. Carlo has once offered to wager his entire fortune in exchange for Magira's company. This time, Carlo has to realise that his life might be at stake as well...



Where the Wild Lilies Grow

Chapter 1. The Red Suit

'Magira?' Carlo puts down his suitcase in the hall, expecting his lover to come running to greet him. Magira is like that: childishly happy at times, and a spoiled child in the way he behaves. Carlo even loves that about him. But the hall is silent and cool; just the muted sound of the air condition is heard. 'Magira?' Carlo sighs. What kind of game is he playing now? Carlo reaches for the leather suitcase and walks up the stairs. If he's lucky, Magira will be waiting, naked on the bed. If he's not lucky... who knows?

The silence is a presence in itself. It is broken only by the sound of an expensive suitcase dumped on the floor just inside the bedroom door. The absence of sound becomes suffocating. Carlo closes his eyes to keep reality out for just a little bit longer before he turns, coolly, emotionless, and walks downstairs, to his study.

The house feels so empty. It is as if all life has left it. Carlo had known it would come to this one day: that he would be abandoned like an unwanted puppy, despite the love and the sacrifices and the way he let Magira indulge. He has never taken Magira for granted, but he didn't think, never believed this was how it would end: to come home, happy, longing for his lover, only to be met by an abandoned house with discarded clothes and torn papers scattered all over the place.

Carlo clenches his fist around the phone so hard the plastic makes a threatening crack as he dials the number. He feels so disappointed. If he sticks to that feeling of angry disappointment, he doesn't have to feel anything else. He should not have trusted that instinct: the instinct that told him Magira had changed. This is nothing but Magira's previous modus operandum: just disappearing when he's fed up with the man he is with and playing is no longer fun. He has done it so many times before, Carlo knows only too well. The childish, superficial brat might not have been buried as deep as Carlo had thought. The phone makes a weak, electronic noise and connects. Somewhere in Japan, another phone is ringing.

No matter this doesn't feel truly surprising, Carlo had thought Magira had grown up,; that the boy would have said so if he wanted to leave. That Magira would have made a clean break instead of this. It is so cowardly. Berating himself, Carlo doesn't understand how he could not have seen it, realised that Magira's love had disappeared. Such an accomplished liar, Magira Yuri... so accomplished. Carlo can still feel Magira's kisses, imagine his scent, sense how it felt when they kissed each other goodbye before Carlo left on this brief business trip. Magira had sworn he loved him and had been pouting because he couldn't come. A wry smile flashes over Carlo's face. A player, that is what Magira is. The best.

The phone continues its lonely du-du-du. It makes Carlo feel even more alone. He waits for the connection to break. It doesn't seem that Magira's uncle Shouji wants to speak to Carlo either. Carlo puts down the phone on the desk. It turns half way around and leaves a small scratch on the polished mahogany surface. Hiding his face with his hands, Carlo sighs so deeply that it feels as if the pain inside him is ready to materialise and burst his heart. Why did he have to fall so deeply?

He rubs his burning eyes and reaches for the phone again. He will surely go insane if he cannot let out a little of the frustration and the hurt. If only he had the slightest clue of where Magira had gone... Carlo browses through the phone's address book until he finds the right number. He knows he is being pathetic, but apart from Shouji, they are the only people in Japan Carlo knows well enough to ask for this. He is dragged out of his deep thoughts as the phone is finally answered.

'Moshi moshi? Iwaki desu.'

'Thank God! Iwaki-san?' Carlo is so relieved he can hardly speak. 'Anthony Monte Carlo. I...' Words are suddenly so hard to find. What the hell was he thinking, dragging Iwaki and Katou into this? He isn't able to think clearly at all. Iwaki and Katou... they owe him, but not this kind of favour. This is not business, it is personal, far too personal.

'Carlo-san?' Iwaki's voice doesn't express any surprise, which, in turn, doesn't surprise Carlo at all.

Carlo can hear some kind of Japanese pop music playing in the background; someone is singing about how he loved someone too much and how that someone is now on the other side of the wall, laughing softly. As if Carlo didn't feel miserable enough; he most certainly does not need to have someone singing it to him as well, how big a fool he has been. He wants to put the phone down, but it is too late now.

'Hello? Are you there, Carlo-san?' Iwaki sounds as if he is wondering what is going on.

Clutching the lure as not to drop it, Carlo nods, as if Iwaki can hear it. 'Yes. I'm... sorry.' He pulls himself together and asks politely, 'how are you, Iwaki-san?' This is going to be difficult. Carlo takes a deep breath and mentally pulls the hard businessman back in place, covering the bleeding heart and the unshed tears with a mask of professionalism. 'It has been a long time.'

For a few minutes they discuss the weather in Tokyo and Vegas; and Carlo calms down a bit. He manages to listen with some interest to Iwaki praising Katou.

'Magira,' Carlo says, letting the politeness shatter. 'I wonder how his uncle Shouji is doing.' Carlo acts like an idiot, but there is no way he can ask Iwaki directly. 'I think Magira mentioned that he wanted to visit him.'

There is a moment's silence in the other end. 'Is that you, Carlo-san?' Iwaki 's question underlines the oddness of this rather peculiar situation, as if Carlo's strange behaviour is too unbelievable.

'Er, yes.' Carlo is slowly losing his composure. 'Please, Iwaki-san... my... Magira... he always said I give up too easily... This time, I don't want.... I don't want to give up!' Carlo knows he shouldn't have called Iwaki. The rare connection they felt once because of the love for their men... it is not enough to justify this call. They are not friends because they both love the same way: this all-encompassing, devouring love.

'What is wrong?' Iwaki's voice is soothing and quiet. Maybe he is used to this type of fragmented conversation from Katou. 'Carlo-san, please, why are you calling? What is it you are giving up?'

'Magira. He... left.' Left me. Carlo cannot say the words; it is going to make it real. Every second he can delay the inevitable blow is precious. 'He's gone, Iwaki-san. I... can't get a hold of Shouji-san. I thought maybe Magira....'

'Left? He has broken up with you? Carlo-san?'

The sadness in Iwaki's voice almost kills Carlo. He, too, remembers why Iwaki and Katou accepted Carlo's offer when they married in America: to give Carlo and Magira hope that their love would blossom too. Carlo thought it had, which made the blow so much harder. His Lily, his beloved... gone.

The phone is a poisonous black snake in his hand, spewing the venomous reality into his mind. 'If only,' Carlo says and his mask is crumbling, 'if only he had... he just.... he's gone.' Carlo is happy no one can see him now, because it must be evidently clear how his life and heart are going to pieces. 'Nothing. He didn't tell me anything.'

'Without a word? Are you sure? There is no letter anywhere?'

Carlo wonders if Iwaki is too polite to mention that Magira is a spoiled brat whose actions don't always make sense. 'No. He just took some of his clothes and...'

'And?' Iwaki's one word seems to reflect the sudden doubt that wells up inside Carlo. 'Carlo-san? Only clothes?'

'I...' Carlo hesitates, then decides to go on. No matter what, this is not the time to be proud or to nurse the finer sentiments of some sensitive and reserved Japanese actor. 'Shouji-san's place is not far from where you live, is it?' In the background someone turns the music down. 'I think so.' Carlo's worry grows and becomes icy anxiety.

'Try calling Shouji-san again?' Iwaki suggests. 'If you can't reach him, we'll go. Carlo-san... what if he is not there? How long has he been gone?'

'Long enough to reach Japan. If that is where he is.' Carlo doesn't even dare think the thought to an end. 'Iwaki-san?' he says, and prepares for something even worse than Magira breaking up with him. 'I am going to put the phone down and see exactly what is missing. Magira left our... bedroom in a mess. I'll call you back as soon as I know, all right?'

'I can ask Shimizu-san to call the airports. Someone might be able to trace the flight.' Iwaki pauses, the moment poignantly telling what words do not. 'Be careful what you touch and move, Carlo-san. Continue calling Magira-kun's uncle.'

'Iwaki-san... thank you.' Carlo feels grateful that this reserved Japanese man understands how he feels, without the words being said. Maybe they are more alike than Carlo thought? 'I'll try to reach Shouji. If he doesn't know... then...' Desperation is sneaking up on Carlo. 'I'm worried.'

'You need to stay calm,' Iwaki says, and disconnects.



'No, he is not here. Bugger all, I'd kill him if he'd gone back to Japan and not told me.' Shouji sounds sincere, and his crude English makes Carlo smile for a moment. 'You must be crazy if you think he's left you, Carlo-san! What the fuck's going on? Magira... he loves you! He's a fool, but not that foolish.'

'Lovely to speak to you too,' Carlo manages, sending Shouji a wicked grin he cannot see. Carlo is so relieved that Shouji finds it unlikely Magira would break up like this that his sense of humour has returned. 'And I wish I could tell you. He's gone and the house is a mess.'

'Has he been gambling lately?' Shouji enquires, 'with people he shouldn't be gambling with?'

'No. He plays for the pleasure of it.' Money is not a problem, Magira would never have to return to his old ways to continue gambling. Carlo has more money than he knows what to do with, and he happily shares his fortune with Magira. Magira has changed in that regard, Carlo is certain; it is not about losing and winning, but about pleasure for him. 'He is careful,' Carlo says. 'Magira is not just a charming young man.' Magira's fragile charm has saved him more than once, it is probably his most powerful weapon.

'So, where is he, Carlo-san?' Shouji's voice is flat, neutral. 'Is he playing a game, or is he being played?'

The cold, emotionless question makes Carlo think of Iwaki's advice not to touch the mess Magira has made. To ruin evidence. 'I don't know.'

'Maybe you better go look at things again,' Shouji says. 'I'm going to book a flight.'

'Yeah,' Carlo says, almost coldly, and puts the phone down too.



His palm is sweaty as he leaves the phone on his desk and runs up the stairs. His steps are muted by the thick carpet that covers them. He braces himself before he enters their common bedroom, his and Magira's, to overlook the scattered remains of his life. There are clothes everywhere, thrown carelessly on the floor and on chairs and the bed. He closes his fists so hard his nails cut hard into the palms. It is an insignificant pain compared to the deep, paralysing ache in his heart. He looks around, eyes narrowing as he takes in the destruction. His own suitcase, left inside the door, still stands there, un-unpacked.

The nagging suspicion that Magira has not left by his own volition worms its way back into Carlo's mind. He stands quietly, watching, making accounts, figuring out. The wardrobes' open doors hang limply from the hinges like birds' broken wings. A pillow is torn, and the loose feathers add to the impression. The wardrobe is almost empty, the rest of their clothes is pulled out and off the hangers so casually. Now that Carlo is able to look at this calmly (or at least as calmly as possible, the situation taken into consideration) it looks as if there has been a fight, and that somebody has tried to cover it up slightly.

Then he notices it, the red suit. Or rather half of it. The trousers are still hanging inside the wardrobe, looking strangely lonely without the tailored jacket to go with them... The beautiful red suit that Magira looks so utterly sexy in. The red suit that was Carlo's first gift to Magira on the day they met. Carlo remembers very well. He still hasn't seen anyone more beautiful or desirable than Magira when he is wearing that suit. Magira knows it too, and leaves no occasion to wear it, driving Carlo insane with need. Suddenly Carlo knows it with a certainty that both makes him very, very afraid and also very, very certain: Magira did not leave the house willingly. He would either have taken the suit, because God knows he loves it, or he would have let it stay, that way telling Carlo their relationship was over. But half of it?

Never.

It is Magira's sign that this is wrong, that he would never leave Carlo like this. The sadness inside Carlo turns to fire, the paralysis to action. With a deep, shaky breath, the determined, hard man Carlo also is returns. The strength and determination that has helped him become a powerful casino owner, fighting older and more experienced casino tycoons, wells back and he straightens, collecting himself, making himself ready to face what will come.



It takes more than fifteen minutes to make the police accept that Magira might be missing. 'Call us again if someone' contacts you,' the officer says, deliberately ignoring half of what Carlo is saying. The change from accommodating to reluctant comes when Carlo is asked about his precise relation to Mr Magira Yuri. Finally, the officer promises to send another "someone" to investigate-- when they have time for it. The man doesn't believe a word, or he doesn't want to. Somehow, the way the word kidnapping is not mentioned makes Carlo believe that the officer in question should get another job. One he actually is able to do properly. Or maybe the officer needs to practise the way he pronounces the word "boyfriend" without making it sound so distasteful.

Luckily, Carlo has not reached his position in life and society by playing nicely. Now is the time to call in all favours. No matter from whom and no matter what the costs might be. He pulls the bedroom phone closer and makes a few calls. Enough to make the police arrive considerably sooner than they've planned, and with enough men to cover a decent investigation.

Once, Carlo put his entire fortune at stake for the chance to win Magira. Now he realises he is willing to offer everything he owns, everything he is, even his life, for the man he loves, for his spirited, fragile Magira.

Regret is too mild a word to describe what the abductors might feel when Anthony Monte Carlo is done with them.

On to chapter 2