![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaigouwarnings: language, violence, adult situations, major liberties with medical facts
pairings: Aya/Ken friendship; Schuldig+OC; developing Aya/Yohji
disclaimer: I don't own WK, but if I did, I'd spend at least a few pennies more on animation quality and less on seiyuu.
Occurs between ep19&20. Apartments & appearances per manga.
Aya puts his hand on the doorknob as he gets out his key and is surprised to feel the knob turn easily in his hand. He steps into the back hallway, senses on alert, and freezes when he hears a girl's voice coming from the shop.
"Leave off, I can figure this out." The words are punctuated by a light slap.
Ken's laughter, deep and rich, echoes down the hall.
Aya debates whether he should backtrack and make more noise as he enters. Instead, he leans against the wall behind the door to the shop, then carefully pries the delivery clip board off its hook.
"Where's my coke?" Rai's voice sounds distrustful. Something rustles. A paper bag, maybe.
"I got you orange juice."
"You what?"
Aya smirks, wry. Ken and his salads. His healthy drinks. His good-for-you foods.
"I knew I should've gone with you." Noisy slurping almost drowns out Ken's response.
"Your feet aren't up to four-block walks. Not for a day or two."
"Why not, when I have such fashionable footwear?"
Something solid hits the ground. Aya recalls Ken asking Omi for a pair of shoes, at the end of last night's mission.
"You're lucky my coworker has small feet. And was willing to loan you anything."
"Aren't I." She sounds sarcastic, with a dose of affection. "Which one is the small-footed guy?"
"Omi."
Aya gives serious consideration to yesterday's delivery sheet. He really doesn't want to hear Ken's opinion of his teammates, let alone Ken's opinion of him. As silently as he can, he flips the sheet up to review the deliverys for the past few days, making sure they match what he recalls entering into the shop's financial system. He's relieved when Rai changes topics.
"You do this all day long?"
"Except on my days off."
"Weird."
"What's weird about it?" Ken sounds a little defensive, but Aya can tell from the tone that he's grinning.
"Just... you. In a flower... place."
"It's called a florist's."
"Yeah, whatever. Just... weird."
"You said that already."
Aya sighs. He wants to hate Ken for what he hears, but can't; every passing moment is another that his own sister moves farther away: gone, adrift, lost. His knuckles are white, gripping the clipboard while he holds his breath, waiting. A steady beeping sound startles him at first, until he sees a truck backing into the loading area. In four steps he is down the hallway and out the back door, nodding sullenly to the regular driver. Ken joins him a few seconds later.
"Damn, I can't find—" Ken sees Aya, then sees the clipboard in Aya's hand. "Oh, you've got it."
"I'll do the orders," Aya says. He turns his back on Ken and focuses on the truck.
"Gotcha," Ken replies, retreating into the building.
"What's going on?" Rai looks up from her perch behind the counter. One sandal is on the floor, and the other several feet away. Her bandaged feet are hooked in the lowest rung of the stool as she leans over the counter. She's finished lettering two signs and is starting on the third.
"Delivery. Aya's getting it." Ken leans against the table, the inventory momentarily forgotten as he stares down the hallway at the back door. He shakes himself out of his contemplations. Aya comes and goes so silently; maybe Yohji was right that they should put a bell on him. Secretly sometimes he thinks it might be a good idea, if there were a way to do it without dying at the same time.
"Which one is Aya?" The tip of Rai's tongue points from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on writing as neatly as she can.
"The redhead."
"Oh. Him." Rai sits up from her task. "Mister I won't ask, I'll just—" She sees Ken's disapproving stare. "What?"
"Yeah, so he's got an attitude. He also reset your shoulder." Ken crosses his arms. "And he spent an hour picking gravel and glass out of your feet."
"Okay, fine, I owe him thanks. Assuming he can hold a civil conversation..." Rai catches Ken's expression. Her voice trails off to a quiet grumble under her breath.
Sure he can. Just not about things she'd know anything about. Well, okay, Aya might talk about his Porsche. But that'd be about it. And then she'd open her mouth and leave him completely cold with too many questions about engine size and fuel pumps and other gear-head idiocies.
"You in there?" Rai throws a pen cap at him.
Ken grins as it hits him in the shoulder, purposefully not evading. "Your aim still sucks."
"And you still sleep like the dead. And snore. Horribly."
"I doubt it." Ken rolls his eyes. He picks up the inventory sheet, turning to stare at the assorted boxes of florist tape and blocks.
"I'll get a tape recorder and prove it to you. You made the windows rattle." Rai sits up, cocking her head at the sign. "It's not normal."
"You talk in your sleep," Ken retort. "Something about tinfoil, and you say I'm not normal?"
"You're just upset I didn't profess my undying love for you."
"If you'd done that, I'd have known you'd been abducted by aliens and replaced with a replica." Smug, he tosses the inventoried florist tape into a separate box. Rai bends over the counter, finishing off the sign. For a few minutes there's silence in the shop. Finally she sits up, snapping the lid on the marker with a flourish.
"I do not talk about tinfoil." Rai holds up two of the signs for Ken's approval. "Where's the scotch tape?"
"You got the prices reversed. Roses aren't 400 each. Daisy bundles are."
"How do you know?"
"Because Aya made a list, and I actually read it." Ken points to the stack of notes by the register.
Rai shuffles through the papers, then frowns; Ken bets she's doing a double-take at Aya's precise and graceful hand. He did the same thing, first time he saw Aya's handwriting. Delicate characters. He still isn't sure why it struck him as incongruous. Rai scowls, waving Aya's notes and her own bold scratch-marked sign. "He writes like a girl," she announces, dubious. "So who are the other two guys?"
"Omi's the youngest. Yohji's the oldest." He's finished with the florist tape and is counting the foam blocks used as bases for some of the flower arrangements. "Yohji's a good guy, but he gets around."
"Really?" She looks bored, but something in her expression is speculative, teasing.
"Don't even think about it." Ken glowers momentarily, then his eyes narrow, knowing the shot that'll get her. "Yohji's a six-condom lover."
"Ken!" It's Rai's turn to be shocked.
"Don't tell me I made you blush?" Ken laughs and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. He's pleased with himself. As soon as he takes his hand away his bangs fall right back in his face. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Yeah, well, never thought I'd hear you with a perverted comeback."
"I've been practicing." He shuffles the rest of the foam blocks back into the storage bin and returns to the counter. "Anyway, if you can do the register, that'll leave me free to deal with the customers. Aya can do arrangements, he's better than anyone." Ken crumples up her signs, and scrawls out a casual version of his own, this time with the correct amounts. "If the customers get to you, hide behind Aya. He'll clear them out in no time."
"Hide behind him?" Rai shudders. Ken raises an eyebrow at her, and she hunkers down. "More likely I'll hide behind you to get away from him. He gives me the creeps. And his eyes! That color..." She hisses the complaint. "--isn't normal."
"Oh, like I see your eye color everyday."
Her brash humor comes right back, full-force, momentary discomfort forgotten. "You would if you brought that beat-up motorcycle by. I'd set it up properly."
"You are not touching my bike." Ken tapes the corrected signs to the flower buckets. "I do enough work on it. I'm not spending more time fixing anything you break." He pushes too hard at the second bucket and nearly tips it onto its side, but catches it at the last minute with an abashed grin.
"I'm a professional now, moron." She leans forward on the counter, propping her chin in her hands. "Anyway, I deal with customers in Kancho's shop all the time. They tell you what they want, you give it to them, you take their money. This isn't rocket science."
"No, it's hell." But he grins as he says it. It's hell, but not as bad as some hells.
"Hell is having to sleep with your blanket-hugging ass."
"I still want to know more about this fixation with tinfoil." He opens his eyes wide, but ruins the effort at innocence by laughing at her disgruntled glance.
"Tinfoil?" Aya's deep voice startles them both.
Rai starts, arms going out to catch herself. The move knocks over the cup of pens next to the register and ball point pens fly everywhere. Aya doesn't turn to look; a muscle flickers in his jaw.
"Damn, uhm, sorry." Rai collects the pens on the counter and drops them into the cup, even if she's knocking half of them out of her way in sheer nervousness. She jumps at the rattling sound of pens hitting the floor. "Sorry," she repeats, and hops off the stool to gather the escapees.
"Get back on that seat!" Ken is across the store in two strides, his brows down, heading straight for her. She backpedals quickly, hopping back onto the stool just as he gets within pushing distance. "And stay there," he adds. He snags the last handful of pens and drops them on the counter, then gives her another stern look. "I'm serious."
She sticks out her lower lip. Rai's gaze darts around him, clearly embarrassed at being reprimanded with an audience, but Aya's gone. Ken returns to his chores, giving Rai a moment to regain her composure. Aya reappears with several long boxes. He drops them on the table and heads to the back again.
Only once Aya's on his third trip, and heading to the back for another, does Rai perk up to give Ken a mischievous grin. "Say, when I need to pee, does this mean you'll carry me?"
"What?" Ken gives her a bewildered look, then scowls. "Shut up already."
Rai grumbles quietly for a second, then shrugs. She says nothing else, and Ken is happy to let her fade into the background while he prepares the shop for the morning rush.
By mid-morning Aya has to reluctantly admit the girl isn't entirely useless. She at least seems determined to stay out of his way, and offers no more conversation than he would've offered himself. That is to say, absolutely none. He gets a perverse sense of pleasure contemplating Ken's likely suffering, the brash extrovert surrounded by surly introverts.
The morning rush comes and goes in the space of an hour. The last thing the customers expect is a girl behind the counter, her long bangs framing her face and hiding it half the time. The oversized soccer jersey on her small frame makes more than a few of the girls throw suspicious looks Ken's way. The long sleeves cover the bruises on her wrists, and the jeans cover the garish colors on her legs; at least the shop doesn't look like it's hired a battered teenager. Aya reminds himself that what matters, really, is that she's decent with the customers and fast with the change.
Ken goes out to get lunch for the three of them. It's his turn, anyway; Aya had gone the previous two days. Frankly, he had half-expected Ken would refuse to leave him alone with Rai, just because Ken can get stubborn like that. But perhaps the morning's peace has been enough to satisfy Ken that he wouldn't be returning to a scene of blood, gore, and chopped plants.
The doorbell rings and Aya looks up from the arrangement before him. Three young women hover in the doorway, local office workers on their lunch break; the first, in a blue knock-off designer suit, is pulling out bouquets and regarding them thoughtfully. Her two friends glance at Aya, and giggle; he grits his teeth and waits to see if they'll actually purchase anything.
He's startled when the three women see Rai and promptly fall silent. The first woman, holding a bouquet, murmurs something to her friends about Ken. Rai doesn't offer any explanations, and the women are too familiar with Aya's stern expression to ask him. Instead they spend several long minutes chatting softly, while casting suspicious glances in Rai's direction. Aya's fingers slow over the most recent ikebana, as the odd behavior catches his attention. He's not sure, but he might even say the women are studying Rai and finding her lacking.
Rai's words break the silence, with a challenge, delivered flat and cold. "You going to buy those?"
The woman shrugs, hands over her money, accepts the change and carries the flowers out. Her friends pointedly ignore Rai until they're at the door, where their backwards glances are disdainful.
Aya glances over, one quick look, to catch Rai tucking her hair behind an ear. She looks hurt; she tugs at the shirt, brushed off invisible dirt, fidgets, then dips her head, letting her hair fall back over her face, shoulders down. His eyebrows go up, involuntarily. He knows what that expression would have meant on his sister's face, although he doubts he'd ever hear his sister be rude to anyone. He'll find her and she'll laugh and cry and talk and sing but she sure as hell wouldn't be the kind of person to coldly shove at people with foul words or an icy front.
No, that's his job. He'd learnt that lesson so she'd never have to.
Yohji buries his head in the pillow, groaning when the pounding at his door times itself perfectly with his hangover's rhythm. The noise refuses to go away. "I'm coming, shut up," he mutters, rolling out of bed to pull on a pair of jeans. He stumbles to the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fumbles for the latch.
"I need a favor," Ken says without preamble, pushing into the apartment
"This better involve death," Yohji replies. "It's only twelve-thirty." He presses fingers into his forehead and heads to the fridge for some beer. Maybe whiskey would be better. His spider sense is telling him he's about to get dumped with a project. He takes out a glass from the upper cabinet.
"Don't drink," Ken orders. "I need you to run an errand for me."
"Bike broken?" Yohji takes out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, shakes it, checks the amount.
"I need you to meet my friend's brother and get her stuff from him."
"When?" Yohji halts, the whiskey bottle tilted and ready to pour.
"As soon as you can."
"Which part of twelve-thirty did you not get?" Yohji puts the bottle down and leans his head against the cabinet for several seconds. Calm regained, he turns around to face Ken with a lazy smile. "Borrow Aya's car."
Ken's lost for a response for a half-beat, then catches up. "Assuming he even would let me within ten feet of it, that would mean I run the errand..." His grin gets wider, delivering the final blow. "And you'd be stuck working with Aya."
Yohji buries his face in his hands.
"Anyway, I can't ask Aya."
"Why not?" Yohji leans against the countertop and crosses his arms. His fingers itch to pour the whiskey. That would take the edge of the hangover, at least.
"Rai didn't think it'd be a good idea." Ken shifts his feet nervously. "Not sure... but I think this is all because my friend's brothers found out she's dating a foreigner."
"Sick bastards, and bigots." Yohji shakes his head slowly. He glances down at the whiskey bottle. "Of the four of us, you look least like a gaijin."
"Keep your sunglasses on," Ken says helpfully, looking Yohji over. "The hair just looks like a bad bleach job, after all." He dissembles nonchalance badly; the grin is threatening again. "Unless you really want to cover my shift with Aya..."
"Not if I have a choice. Aya and hangovers don't mix." Yohji pushes away from the countertop. "Where do I need to go?"
"Kabukicho," Ken says and drops a key into Yohji's empty glass. "That'll get you in my apartment. Shouldn't be much to get, from what Rai says. Two boxes, or maybe in bags. I'll cover for you at the shop if you can bring them in."
"She walked all the way from there?" Yohji stares at the key. "Damn."
"Thanks for doing this," Ken says over his shoulder as he opens the door. "Gotta get back with lunch before Aya kills Rai...or the other way around."
"Got lunch," Ken calls as he pushes the front door open. "Rai, stay there."
"I have got to get up," she replies, a hint of a whine starting up in her voice. "My ass is asleep."
Ken grins as he drops off Aya's lunch. "Come on, then, we'll eat in the back."
"Hey!" Rai sits up straight. "Carry me!"
"Bite me!"
Aya listens as she leaves, her gauze-wrapped feet slapping quietly on the floor. For a long minute, he stares blindly at his lunch. She shouldn't be here. The risk is too great. He should say something...but he can't. All he can think is: am I really such a cruel bastard that I'm hating Ken for having her visit? What he wouldn't give...
He pushes the thought away. Opens the carryout carton. Realizes...and looks around the table, puzzled. He'd asked for a drink. Ken must've forgotten, again. Aggravated, Aya's about to get up when he hears padding footsteps behind him. A tanned hand with dirty fingernails appears in the corner of his vision, plunking his drink down on the table. He doesn't turn around.
"Thanks," she finally whispers.
Aya doesn't say anything, and only lets his breath out once the backroom door swings shut.
Yohji balances a box under his arm while he unlocks Ken's door, and nudges the door open with his foot, juggling keys and box and ready for whatever leaps out at him this time. Ken is a packrat. Yohji has his own difficulties with keeping things neat, but even he has to bow before Ken's ability when it comes to complete chaos. Soccer balls pile in one corner; sports magazines sit nearly a foot high along the wall, taking over floorspace after conquering the one bookshelf. The television sits on a plastic crate. The VCR on the floor flashes 12:00 repeatedly. The X-box is shoved up against the wall by the television, with a few games scattered haphazardly. There are more CDs on the floor than in the rack.
Who'd want to be invited into this mess? Yohji grins. No one. Not like anyone'd be asked. Ken is like Aya. They both have outside faces and inside faces, although Ken is the quickest to show what he's thinking or feeling, if only to the rest of the team. Yohji thinks about it for a minute. There's still something Ken keeps for himself, like Aya. Yohji knows his own coping mechanism is pretending like it doesn't matter. But his two team-mates will never be able to pretend they doesn't care, even if one refuses to let it show and the other is incapable of hiding it. They both care, too deeply. Yohji hopes they always will.
Still, where should he put the boxes? Sweatshirts, sweatpants, and old socks cover the sofa, dirty dishes cluster in the sink, shoes lurk in a heap by the door. He grimaces at the clothes scattered everywhere, and wonders how long it took the two friends to find something to cover Rai's bruises without chafing the bandages. And since Ken's life is spent in jeans, t-shirts, and shorts, a girl's choice is probably limited.
Ah, hell, set the box down by the sofa, and let Ken trip over them. Yohji straightens up, stretching, and wonders whether there's a coffee table under the stuff in front of the sofa. Maybe, once; now it's a bunch of clutter seemingly floating a foot off the floor. One glass and two mugs perch on the edge of the coffee table, relinquishing the battlefield to the showdown between the soccer magazines and the medical supplies.
Putting that girl back together, Yohji muses. He suspects that even a week ago, Ken would have wagered pizza money that Aya would summarily pitch any sibling contacting one of them. Not for security, but out of spite. If he can't have his sister... Yohji shakes his head and returns to the Seven for the next two boxes, but he can't stop the honest thought, once begun. Gut instincts gotten him pretty far, and with that gut certainty he'd be willing to bet pizza money and a bar tab that Aya would be the last person to deny a sibling. His, or anyone else's. It's Ken's nature to expect that if he has something good, it'll turn out to be a trick, one more almost-had revealed to be never-had. Which makes it no surprise that Ken's blind to Aya's nature: if he's something good, he'll move heaven and earth to keep it safe.
Yohji has no idea what his nature is, though.
He shakes himself out of his funk by the third box, setting it down beside the others, flexing his fingers at the ache. An entire box of tools and books up two flights of stairs -- Ken owes him bigtime. If he'd had any clue, he might've signed up for working the shop with Aya, after all. Still, what's done is done, and his curiosity keeps him there, reading the book covers. Audi Transmission Manual, one says. Another, Porsche 944/928 Engines, is well-thumbed and grease-spattered. Rifling through the box, Yohji raises his brows at the practical collection of grease-stained manuals. Audi. Jaguar. Porsche. MG. Mercedes. Austin-Healey. BMW. Volvo. Triumph. Volkswagen. Yohji lets the guides fall back into the box, thinking back to the kid who'd been waiting for him.
Rai's kid brother had those same washed-out gray eyes, alien in a city of dark-eyed, dark-haired people. The boy's face was long, with a pointed chin like his sister's, his dark brown hair as coarse and thick as hers. His cheeks were round, girlish, which created an even stronger likeness to Rai. His lips had the same look of thinness kiss-thickened into a soft fullness. The boy's fingers were thicker, however, and his shoulders were wider and more powerful.
The kid spoke only two or three cryptic lines that made the hair on the nape of Yohji's neck stand up, for reasons he still can't pin down. Where has she put the parts for the red Jaguar, and has she ordered the clutch cable? And something else. Tell Rai: he had, and I did. Yohji hadn't bothered repeating it to make sure; he just wanted to get out of there. The kid's nervousness was contagious.
Well, whatever. He'll pass along the message, return the keys, and demand two shifts at the shop for this favor. Unfortunately, he isn't paying attention. His foot slams into one of the boxes, dislodging the cigar box perched on top. It hits the floor with a clatter, its contents upended across the wooden floor.
"Shit." He goes down on one knee to quickly scrape the items back into the box. Idly Yohji gathers the items, automatically cataloging with a detective's long-ingrained habit. A pressed rose, faded and brown. A pair of large hoop earrings, the fake gold plating chipping off. A plastic ring like the kind dentists give kids - an oversized diamond of purple plastic. A card, bent at one edge, indecipherably blurry characters scribbled it. Yohji flips it over and realizes it's an old photograph.
It's three kids. The two boys look not more than eleven; the girl with them seems to be maybe eight or nine. The boy on the far right has an arm draped around his friend's shoulder, and the boy in the middle has returned the gesture with an equally casual arm. They're both wearing soccer jerseys. The girl, half-hidden behind the middle boy, has her hair in two ponytails that stick up at uneven angles. There's a band-aid on her cheek.
Yohji stares at the boys' faces. The boy in the middle is unmistakably Ken. Messy dark hair, easy-going smile, posture so familiar: leaning back from the waist a little, as though he only pauses in motion to brace for impact. The child-Ken is looking straight at the camera; his friend is looking at him. The girl's attention is caught by something off to the side, her smile faintly sad. The boy on Ken's right, Yohji concludes, must be Kase. He recognizes the expression. It's someone who wants something badly. It's the look of someone isn't going to get it, and knows it, and hates because of it.
Strange dynamics of childhood. He collects the rest of the items: a nearly empty perfume sampler bottle, a beaded bracelet with a broken clasp, two grimy and folded envelopes, a pink pen without a cap, and soon it's all back in the treasure box. After a second, he digs into his back pocket and pulled out the card Rai had carried into the shop. Yohji gently lays the envelope on the top of the cigar box, then rocks back on his heels and stands up with a single fluid motion.
Without a second glance he leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him. Flipping the key in the air once before pocketing it, he heads down to the Kitten to relieve Ken.
Omi pushes away from the computer and rubs the back of his neck while he waits for the printer to finish. He scans the sheets, shuts the system down and heads upstairs. This isn't going to be the best night. He can feel that already. He just hopes the unease has nothing to do with the night's assignment.
Maybe it does, some. There are times he has no clue who he's been saddled with, when he thought he had it all figured out and then he turns around to find he's working with strangers. He's still baffled that Ken had -- under duress, of course -- admitted to purposefully drugging the girl the night before. Omi wasn't sure whether to give into a shocked laugh at the gall, or be pissed at the risk. What if she'd woken up?
He just can't get past the deception -- whether that of drugging the girl, or that of hiding from his team that he'd done so. Ken is usually the most open of any of them. What has Omi equally flustered is Aya's willing involvement, notorious glare turned full-bore as he demanded an alternate plan. Aya doesn't get involved in anything that doesn't involve death, his sister, outrageously expensive sake, or the shop's finances. Anything else isn't just unimportant, it's irrelevant; he never pretends otherwise. It's one way in which Omi can, and does, see eye-to-eye with Aya. Except for him, it's anything not involving death, his schoolwork, ingeniously invasive software, or the team's morale.
The girl falls into the last category, he supposes.
He runs a hand through tangled hair while he trudges up the steps, lost in thoughts running on eighteen tracks at once. The ongoing surveillance. Ken's visitor. Need for a replacement DVD-burner. Where to get better ink refills for the printer. Scooter's almost out of gas. Ongoing experiments with tipping his darts. Evening plans. The list goes on; he's used to a chattering brain, but his brain grinds to a near-halt at the upcoming evening. What the hell is he supposed to do? Maybe...no, going out to eat is out of the question. He'll need to be near the computer in case Ken or Aya reports in, and he's not hooking his laptop to just any old network. He'd scheduled Yohji and Aya tonight; Omi prefers pairing long-range with short-range, and knows better than to just hope Schwarz doesn't show up.
But Ken must've chalked up a significant favor, and Yohji called it in -- and if they've both agreed, they know the risks. Besides, rumor -- or at least Ken -- has it there's a new club opening downtown. Omi grins ruefully. Never let it be said Yohji doesn't have priorities.
Outside Aya's door, Omi slips the paper under the door rather than knock. He trots up the last flight of stairs, turning the corner to his own door with a sigh. He toes off his shoes and pads softly to his personal system, lets it boot up while he does a last-minute check on the tracers for his teammates' cell phones. That done, he ignores the computer to take a look around, trying to see with a stranger's eyes. What doesn't belong? Other than the general issue of being seventeen and living on his own, that is.
If anything, his apartment veers closest to Ken's joyful mess, except that his own mess revolves mostly around electronic gadgets, old hard drives, mother boards, and three old monitors lined up along the wall. There's a laptop on the low table in the living room, and a bulky desktop system on the kitchen table. The printer rests on a mismatched kitchen chair, cabled to the laptop. His apartment is mostly textbooks, notebooks, computer magazines, mangas, and programming manuals. And six crossbows, seventeen sets of darts, four dark bottles with coded labels for tipping, and six sets of throwing knives.
Just the average, living-alone, no-real-visible-income, seventeen-year-old, senior-high, kid.
Right.
When he trips over one of those crossbows, he decides: this is not going to make a good impression. He does his best to shovel the majority of his stuff into semi-organized piles, sorting the various knives, darts, arrows, and other fascinating -- but not fit for guests -- projectiles into a hamper and covering it with dirty laundry before hiding it in his bedroom. He worries for a second over the lack of a sofa. The rest of his team can manage the idea of large furniture, but his extra money always ends up at the computer store, or buying old parts online.
From what Yohji mentioned earlier, the girl is a bit of a geek. No. She's a gear-head. Maybe she'll have some ideas about what to do with the electrical system he hacked into last week. He's come up with several options, but it'd be nice to have a second set of eyes. Omi shakes his head at the thought. No, there's no way to come up with a decent explanation. Here's a schematic, he imagines himself saying, what do you think might be the best way to wreck it?
No. That won't work. Car mechanics fix things, not break them.
Omi glances over the apartment one last time before slipping on his shoes. It'll be dark soon. Ken is probably already pushing to get going. Omi pulls his door shut behind him and goes down to retrieve his non-date.
"Goddammit, Siberian!"
"Get off." Ken jerks his shoulder away from Aya's hand. "I didn't say to abandon position," he growls, turning away.
"You didn't answer any of my calls," Aya retorts coldly. Ken looks like he's about to speak, then his expression goes dull and he just shrugs. Aya has no intention of killing Ken, not most days, not anymore... but maybe knocking him over the head with the katana's hilt about twenty times. Doubtful it'd achieve anything but the reduction of Aya's frustration, and maybe that'd be reason enough. "Did you get the exchange length?"
"Yeah." Ken steps out of the alleyway, jacket pulled tight around him, hands shoved deep the pockets. "Already called Omi with the news."
There's silence; the two have the city sidewalks to themselves for the five-block walk. At the corner splitting the difference between their parking spots, Aya stops at the door to the small cafe. It's impulse, but he goes with it. He's still off-balance from Ken's uncharacteristic distance. "Dinner?"
"Not hungry," Ken says, sullen.
Aya gives him a skeptical grunt, and lets Ken enter first, just to make sure he does. A few minutes later they're seated. Ken has rediscovered his appetite, and Aya is sipping hot tea while Ken nurses his coffee.
"So what's the occasion?" Ken's eyebrows are lowered.
"Is this going to keep up? You were barely worth it last night." Aya sips his tea, grimacing at the taste of scalded tea leaves. "And tonight, I got the jump on you."
"Fuck you," Ken mutters. "I knew you were there."
Aya lets his silence speak all the skepticism he feels, but Ken's made no move to leave in a huff, so Aya doesn't push it. There's something Ken needs to say. Experience says it's wiser to let Ken come around to it, but Aya is too tired to have the patience -- or to deny his curiosity at what could throw Ken, of all people, so far off-track. He has his theories, though. "What's going on?"
"Rai," Ken replies, his tone softer. He stares down at his beer. His expression's intent, as though he's forcibly trying to forget Aya's presence.
Aya bites back the words. You're quicker to say what's bothering you, he wants to say. You never make us drag it out of you. Ken's present quiet is forcing Aya to be the one to do the talking, and Aya's badly out of practice. He resigns himself to a battle of staring.
He stares at Ken, and Ken stares at the coffee cup.
"Keep feeling it's hypocritical to complain to you, of all people." Ken's brown eyes are cat-eye slits when he smiles wryly. "I can't protect her, Aya-kun. I want to. I always did." He leans back, his eyes focused on the middle distance. "Now... every time I see those scratches on her cheek, or check her stitches, it means I failed her. And I don't want to be reminded of that. I don't want to have failed her."
"Don't fail her next time, then." Aya's voice is remarkably level. He unlocks his fingers, moving to clasp his empty cup rather demonstrate how much his hands shake at Ken's confession. Can he ever look at his sister again, knowing that her ordeal went from bad to unbearable because he'd not been there when he should have? Yes, Aya knows all about it. Not wanting to be around her, but helpless to stay away. Unable to forget the failure, or forgive the crime.
"I guess." Ken's voice interrupts Aya's thoughts; Aya only nods.
When their dinners arrive, the two men eat in silence, pay in silence, and leave in silence. There's simply nothing else to say.
pairings: Aya/Ken friendship; Schuldig+OC; developing Aya/Yohji
disclaimer: I don't own WK, but if I did, I'd spend at least a few pennies more on animation quality and less on seiyuu.
Occurs between ep19&20. Apartments & appearances per manga.
Aya puts his hand on the doorknob as he gets out his key and is surprised to feel the knob turn easily in his hand. He steps into the back hallway, senses on alert, and freezes when he hears a girl's voice coming from the shop.
"Leave off, I can figure this out." The words are punctuated by a light slap.
Ken's laughter, deep and rich, echoes down the hall.
Aya debates whether he should backtrack and make more noise as he enters. Instead, he leans against the wall behind the door to the shop, then carefully pries the delivery clip board off its hook.
"Where's my coke?" Rai's voice sounds distrustful. Something rustles. A paper bag, maybe.
"I got you orange juice."
"You what?"
Aya smirks, wry. Ken and his salads. His healthy drinks. His good-for-you foods.
"I knew I should've gone with you." Noisy slurping almost drowns out Ken's response.
"Your feet aren't up to four-block walks. Not for a day or two."
"Why not, when I have such fashionable footwear?"
Something solid hits the ground. Aya recalls Ken asking Omi for a pair of shoes, at the end of last night's mission.
"You're lucky my coworker has small feet. And was willing to loan you anything."
"Aren't I." She sounds sarcastic, with a dose of affection. "Which one is the small-footed guy?"
"Omi."
Aya gives serious consideration to yesterday's delivery sheet. He really doesn't want to hear Ken's opinion of his teammates, let alone Ken's opinion of him. As silently as he can, he flips the sheet up to review the deliverys for the past few days, making sure they match what he recalls entering into the shop's financial system. He's relieved when Rai changes topics.
"You do this all day long?"
"Except on my days off."
"Weird."
"What's weird about it?" Ken sounds a little defensive, but Aya can tell from the tone that he's grinning.
"Just... you. In a flower... place."
"It's called a florist's."
"Yeah, whatever. Just... weird."
"You said that already."
Aya sighs. He wants to hate Ken for what he hears, but can't; every passing moment is another that his own sister moves farther away: gone, adrift, lost. His knuckles are white, gripping the clipboard while he holds his breath, waiting. A steady beeping sound startles him at first, until he sees a truck backing into the loading area. In four steps he is down the hallway and out the back door, nodding sullenly to the regular driver. Ken joins him a few seconds later.
"Damn, I can't find—" Ken sees Aya, then sees the clipboard in Aya's hand. "Oh, you've got it."
"I'll do the orders," Aya says. He turns his back on Ken and focuses on the truck.
"Gotcha," Ken replies, retreating into the building.
"What's going on?" Rai looks up from her perch behind the counter. One sandal is on the floor, and the other several feet away. Her bandaged feet are hooked in the lowest rung of the stool as she leans over the counter. She's finished lettering two signs and is starting on the third.
"Delivery. Aya's getting it." Ken leans against the table, the inventory momentarily forgotten as he stares down the hallway at the back door. He shakes himself out of his contemplations. Aya comes and goes so silently; maybe Yohji was right that they should put a bell on him. Secretly sometimes he thinks it might be a good idea, if there were a way to do it without dying at the same time.
"Which one is Aya?" The tip of Rai's tongue points from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates on writing as neatly as she can.
"The redhead."
"Oh. Him." Rai sits up from her task. "Mister I won't ask, I'll just—" She sees Ken's disapproving stare. "What?"
"Yeah, so he's got an attitude. He also reset your shoulder." Ken crosses his arms. "And he spent an hour picking gravel and glass out of your feet."
"Okay, fine, I owe him thanks. Assuming he can hold a civil conversation..." Rai catches Ken's expression. Her voice trails off to a quiet grumble under her breath.
Sure he can. Just not about things she'd know anything about. Well, okay, Aya might talk about his Porsche. But that'd be about it. And then she'd open her mouth and leave him completely cold with too many questions about engine size and fuel pumps and other gear-head idiocies.
"You in there?" Rai throws a pen cap at him.
Ken grins as it hits him in the shoulder, purposefully not evading. "Your aim still sucks."
"And you still sleep like the dead. And snore. Horribly."
"I doubt it." Ken rolls his eyes. He picks up the inventory sheet, turning to stare at the assorted boxes of florist tape and blocks.
"I'll get a tape recorder and prove it to you. You made the windows rattle." Rai sits up, cocking her head at the sign. "It's not normal."
"You talk in your sleep," Ken retort. "Something about tinfoil, and you say I'm not normal?"
"You're just upset I didn't profess my undying love for you."
"If you'd done that, I'd have known you'd been abducted by aliens and replaced with a replica." Smug, he tosses the inventoried florist tape into a separate box. Rai bends over the counter, finishing off the sign. For a few minutes there's silence in the shop. Finally she sits up, snapping the lid on the marker with a flourish.
"I do not talk about tinfoil." Rai holds up two of the signs for Ken's approval. "Where's the scotch tape?"
"You got the prices reversed. Roses aren't 400 each. Daisy bundles are."
"How do you know?"
"Because Aya made a list, and I actually read it." Ken points to the stack of notes by the register.
Rai shuffles through the papers, then frowns; Ken bets she's doing a double-take at Aya's precise and graceful hand. He did the same thing, first time he saw Aya's handwriting. Delicate characters. He still isn't sure why it struck him as incongruous. Rai scowls, waving Aya's notes and her own bold scratch-marked sign. "He writes like a girl," she announces, dubious. "So who are the other two guys?"
"Omi's the youngest. Yohji's the oldest." He's finished with the florist tape and is counting the foam blocks used as bases for some of the flower arrangements. "Yohji's a good guy, but he gets around."
"Really?" She looks bored, but something in her expression is speculative, teasing.
"Don't even think about it." Ken glowers momentarily, then his eyes narrow, knowing the shot that'll get her. "Yohji's a six-condom lover."
"Ken!" It's Rai's turn to be shocked.
"Don't tell me I made you blush?" Ken laughs and runs a hand through his dark brown hair. He's pleased with himself. As soon as he takes his hand away his bangs fall right back in his face. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Yeah, well, never thought I'd hear you with a perverted comeback."
"I've been practicing." He shuffles the rest of the foam blocks back into the storage bin and returns to the counter. "Anyway, if you can do the register, that'll leave me free to deal with the customers. Aya can do arrangements, he's better than anyone." Ken crumples up her signs, and scrawls out a casual version of his own, this time with the correct amounts. "If the customers get to you, hide behind Aya. He'll clear them out in no time."
"Hide behind him?" Rai shudders. Ken raises an eyebrow at her, and she hunkers down. "More likely I'll hide behind you to get away from him. He gives me the creeps. And his eyes! That color..." She hisses the complaint. "--isn't normal."
"Oh, like I see your eye color everyday."
Her brash humor comes right back, full-force, momentary discomfort forgotten. "You would if you brought that beat-up motorcycle by. I'd set it up properly."
"You are not touching my bike." Ken tapes the corrected signs to the flower buckets. "I do enough work on it. I'm not spending more time fixing anything you break." He pushes too hard at the second bucket and nearly tips it onto its side, but catches it at the last minute with an abashed grin.
"I'm a professional now, moron." She leans forward on the counter, propping her chin in her hands. "Anyway, I deal with customers in Kancho's shop all the time. They tell you what they want, you give it to them, you take their money. This isn't rocket science."
"No, it's hell." But he grins as he says it. It's hell, but not as bad as some hells.
"Hell is having to sleep with your blanket-hugging ass."
"I still want to know more about this fixation with tinfoil." He opens his eyes wide, but ruins the effort at innocence by laughing at her disgruntled glance.
"Tinfoil?" Aya's deep voice startles them both.
Rai starts, arms going out to catch herself. The move knocks over the cup of pens next to the register and ball point pens fly everywhere. Aya doesn't turn to look; a muscle flickers in his jaw.
"Damn, uhm, sorry." Rai collects the pens on the counter and drops them into the cup, even if she's knocking half of them out of her way in sheer nervousness. She jumps at the rattling sound of pens hitting the floor. "Sorry," she repeats, and hops off the stool to gather the escapees.
"Get back on that seat!" Ken is across the store in two strides, his brows down, heading straight for her. She backpedals quickly, hopping back onto the stool just as he gets within pushing distance. "And stay there," he adds. He snags the last handful of pens and drops them on the counter, then gives her another stern look. "I'm serious."
She sticks out her lower lip. Rai's gaze darts around him, clearly embarrassed at being reprimanded with an audience, but Aya's gone. Ken returns to his chores, giving Rai a moment to regain her composure. Aya reappears with several long boxes. He drops them on the table and heads to the back again.
Only once Aya's on his third trip, and heading to the back for another, does Rai perk up to give Ken a mischievous grin. "Say, when I need to pee, does this mean you'll carry me?"
"What?" Ken gives her a bewildered look, then scowls. "Shut up already."
Rai grumbles quietly for a second, then shrugs. She says nothing else, and Ken is happy to let her fade into the background while he prepares the shop for the morning rush.
By mid-morning Aya has to reluctantly admit the girl isn't entirely useless. She at least seems determined to stay out of his way, and offers no more conversation than he would've offered himself. That is to say, absolutely none. He gets a perverse sense of pleasure contemplating Ken's likely suffering, the brash extrovert surrounded by surly introverts.
The morning rush comes and goes in the space of an hour. The last thing the customers expect is a girl behind the counter, her long bangs framing her face and hiding it half the time. The oversized soccer jersey on her small frame makes more than a few of the girls throw suspicious looks Ken's way. The long sleeves cover the bruises on her wrists, and the jeans cover the garish colors on her legs; at least the shop doesn't look like it's hired a battered teenager. Aya reminds himself that what matters, really, is that she's decent with the customers and fast with the change.
Ken goes out to get lunch for the three of them. It's his turn, anyway; Aya had gone the previous two days. Frankly, he had half-expected Ken would refuse to leave him alone with Rai, just because Ken can get stubborn like that. But perhaps the morning's peace has been enough to satisfy Ken that he wouldn't be returning to a scene of blood, gore, and chopped plants.
The doorbell rings and Aya looks up from the arrangement before him. Three young women hover in the doorway, local office workers on their lunch break; the first, in a blue knock-off designer suit, is pulling out bouquets and regarding them thoughtfully. Her two friends glance at Aya, and giggle; he grits his teeth and waits to see if they'll actually purchase anything.
He's startled when the three women see Rai and promptly fall silent. The first woman, holding a bouquet, murmurs something to her friends about Ken. Rai doesn't offer any explanations, and the women are too familiar with Aya's stern expression to ask him. Instead they spend several long minutes chatting softly, while casting suspicious glances in Rai's direction. Aya's fingers slow over the most recent ikebana, as the odd behavior catches his attention. He's not sure, but he might even say the women are studying Rai and finding her lacking.
Rai's words break the silence, with a challenge, delivered flat and cold. "You going to buy those?"
The woman shrugs, hands over her money, accepts the change and carries the flowers out. Her friends pointedly ignore Rai until they're at the door, where their backwards glances are disdainful.
Aya glances over, one quick look, to catch Rai tucking her hair behind an ear. She looks hurt; she tugs at the shirt, brushed off invisible dirt, fidgets, then dips her head, letting her hair fall back over her face, shoulders down. His eyebrows go up, involuntarily. He knows what that expression would have meant on his sister's face, although he doubts he'd ever hear his sister be rude to anyone. He'll find her and she'll laugh and cry and talk and sing but she sure as hell wouldn't be the kind of person to coldly shove at people with foul words or an icy front.
No, that's his job. He'd learnt that lesson so she'd never have to.
Yohji buries his head in the pillow, groaning when the pounding at his door times itself perfectly with his hangover's rhythm. The noise refuses to go away. "I'm coming, shut up," he mutters, rolling out of bed to pull on a pair of jeans. He stumbles to the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fumbles for the latch.
"I need a favor," Ken says without preamble, pushing into the apartment
"This better involve death," Yohji replies. "It's only twelve-thirty." He presses fingers into his forehead and heads to the fridge for some beer. Maybe whiskey would be better. His spider sense is telling him he's about to get dumped with a project. He takes out a glass from the upper cabinet.
"Don't drink," Ken orders. "I need you to run an errand for me."
"Bike broken?" Yohji takes out a half-empty bottle of whiskey, shakes it, checks the amount.
"I need you to meet my friend's brother and get her stuff from him."
"When?" Yohji halts, the whiskey bottle tilted and ready to pour.
"As soon as you can."
"Which part of twelve-thirty did you not get?" Yohji puts the bottle down and leans his head against the cabinet for several seconds. Calm regained, he turns around to face Ken with a lazy smile. "Borrow Aya's car."
Ken's lost for a response for a half-beat, then catches up. "Assuming he even would let me within ten feet of it, that would mean I run the errand..." His grin gets wider, delivering the final blow. "And you'd be stuck working with Aya."
Yohji buries his face in his hands.
"Anyway, I can't ask Aya."
"Why not?" Yohji leans against the countertop and crosses his arms. His fingers itch to pour the whiskey. That would take the edge of the hangover, at least.
"Rai didn't think it'd be a good idea." Ken shifts his feet nervously. "Not sure... but I think this is all because my friend's brothers found out she's dating a foreigner."
"Sick bastards, and bigots." Yohji shakes his head slowly. He glances down at the whiskey bottle. "Of the four of us, you look least like a gaijin."
"Keep your sunglasses on," Ken says helpfully, looking Yohji over. "The hair just looks like a bad bleach job, after all." He dissembles nonchalance badly; the grin is threatening again. "Unless you really want to cover my shift with Aya..."
"Not if I have a choice. Aya and hangovers don't mix." Yohji pushes away from the countertop. "Where do I need to go?"
"Kabukicho," Ken says and drops a key into Yohji's empty glass. "That'll get you in my apartment. Shouldn't be much to get, from what Rai says. Two boxes, or maybe in bags. I'll cover for you at the shop if you can bring them in."
"She walked all the way from there?" Yohji stares at the key. "Damn."
"Thanks for doing this," Ken says over his shoulder as he opens the door. "Gotta get back with lunch before Aya kills Rai...or the other way around."
"Got lunch," Ken calls as he pushes the front door open. "Rai, stay there."
"I have got to get up," she replies, a hint of a whine starting up in her voice. "My ass is asleep."
Ken grins as he drops off Aya's lunch. "Come on, then, we'll eat in the back."
"Hey!" Rai sits up straight. "Carry me!"
"Bite me!"
Aya listens as she leaves, her gauze-wrapped feet slapping quietly on the floor. For a long minute, he stares blindly at his lunch. She shouldn't be here. The risk is too great. He should say something...but he can't. All he can think is: am I really such a cruel bastard that I'm hating Ken for having her visit? What he wouldn't give...
He pushes the thought away. Opens the carryout carton. Realizes...and looks around the table, puzzled. He'd asked for a drink. Ken must've forgotten, again. Aggravated, Aya's about to get up when he hears padding footsteps behind him. A tanned hand with dirty fingernails appears in the corner of his vision, plunking his drink down on the table. He doesn't turn around.
"Thanks," she finally whispers.
Aya doesn't say anything, and only lets his breath out once the backroom door swings shut.
Yohji balances a box under his arm while he unlocks Ken's door, and nudges the door open with his foot, juggling keys and box and ready for whatever leaps out at him this time. Ken is a packrat. Yohji has his own difficulties with keeping things neat, but even he has to bow before Ken's ability when it comes to complete chaos. Soccer balls pile in one corner; sports magazines sit nearly a foot high along the wall, taking over floorspace after conquering the one bookshelf. The television sits on a plastic crate. The VCR on the floor flashes 12:00 repeatedly. The X-box is shoved up against the wall by the television, with a few games scattered haphazardly. There are more CDs on the floor than in the rack.
Who'd want to be invited into this mess? Yohji grins. No one. Not like anyone'd be asked. Ken is like Aya. They both have outside faces and inside faces, although Ken is the quickest to show what he's thinking or feeling, if only to the rest of the team. Yohji thinks about it for a minute. There's still something Ken keeps for himself, like Aya. Yohji knows his own coping mechanism is pretending like it doesn't matter. But his two team-mates will never be able to pretend they doesn't care, even if one refuses to let it show and the other is incapable of hiding it. They both care, too deeply. Yohji hopes they always will.
Still, where should he put the boxes? Sweatshirts, sweatpants, and old socks cover the sofa, dirty dishes cluster in the sink, shoes lurk in a heap by the door. He grimaces at the clothes scattered everywhere, and wonders how long it took the two friends to find something to cover Rai's bruises without chafing the bandages. And since Ken's life is spent in jeans, t-shirts, and shorts, a girl's choice is probably limited.
Ah, hell, set the box down by the sofa, and let Ken trip over them. Yohji straightens up, stretching, and wonders whether there's a coffee table under the stuff in front of the sofa. Maybe, once; now it's a bunch of clutter seemingly floating a foot off the floor. One glass and two mugs perch on the edge of the coffee table, relinquishing the battlefield to the showdown between the soccer magazines and the medical supplies.
Putting that girl back together, Yohji muses. He suspects that even a week ago, Ken would have wagered pizza money that Aya would summarily pitch any sibling contacting one of them. Not for security, but out of spite. If he can't have his sister... Yohji shakes his head and returns to the Seven for the next two boxes, but he can't stop the honest thought, once begun. Gut instincts gotten him pretty far, and with that gut certainty he'd be willing to bet pizza money and a bar tab that Aya would be the last person to deny a sibling. His, or anyone else's. It's Ken's nature to expect that if he has something good, it'll turn out to be a trick, one more almost-had revealed to be never-had. Which makes it no surprise that Ken's blind to Aya's nature: if he's something good, he'll move heaven and earth to keep it safe.
Yohji has no idea what his nature is, though.
He shakes himself out of his funk by the third box, setting it down beside the others, flexing his fingers at the ache. An entire box of tools and books up two flights of stairs -- Ken owes him bigtime. If he'd had any clue, he might've signed up for working the shop with Aya, after all. Still, what's done is done, and his curiosity keeps him there, reading the book covers. Audi Transmission Manual, one says. Another, Porsche 944/928 Engines, is well-thumbed and grease-spattered. Rifling through the box, Yohji raises his brows at the practical collection of grease-stained manuals. Audi. Jaguar. Porsche. MG. Mercedes. Austin-Healey. BMW. Volvo. Triumph. Volkswagen. Yohji lets the guides fall back into the box, thinking back to the kid who'd been waiting for him.
Rai's kid brother had those same washed-out gray eyes, alien in a city of dark-eyed, dark-haired people. The boy's face was long, with a pointed chin like his sister's, his dark brown hair as coarse and thick as hers. His cheeks were round, girlish, which created an even stronger likeness to Rai. His lips had the same look of thinness kiss-thickened into a soft fullness. The boy's fingers were thicker, however, and his shoulders were wider and more powerful.
The kid spoke only two or three cryptic lines that made the hair on the nape of Yohji's neck stand up, for reasons he still can't pin down. Where has she put the parts for the red Jaguar, and has she ordered the clutch cable? And something else. Tell Rai: he had, and I did. Yohji hadn't bothered repeating it to make sure; he just wanted to get out of there. The kid's nervousness was contagious.
Well, whatever. He'll pass along the message, return the keys, and demand two shifts at the shop for this favor. Unfortunately, he isn't paying attention. His foot slams into one of the boxes, dislodging the cigar box perched on top. It hits the floor with a clatter, its contents upended across the wooden floor.
"Shit." He goes down on one knee to quickly scrape the items back into the box. Idly Yohji gathers the items, automatically cataloging with a detective's long-ingrained habit. A pressed rose, faded and brown. A pair of large hoop earrings, the fake gold plating chipping off. A plastic ring like the kind dentists give kids - an oversized diamond of purple plastic. A card, bent at one edge, indecipherably blurry characters scribbled it. Yohji flips it over and realizes it's an old photograph.
It's three kids. The two boys look not more than eleven; the girl with them seems to be maybe eight or nine. The boy on the far right has an arm draped around his friend's shoulder, and the boy in the middle has returned the gesture with an equally casual arm. They're both wearing soccer jerseys. The girl, half-hidden behind the middle boy, has her hair in two ponytails that stick up at uneven angles. There's a band-aid on her cheek.
Yohji stares at the boys' faces. The boy in the middle is unmistakably Ken. Messy dark hair, easy-going smile, posture so familiar: leaning back from the waist a little, as though he only pauses in motion to brace for impact. The child-Ken is looking straight at the camera; his friend is looking at him. The girl's attention is caught by something off to the side, her smile faintly sad. The boy on Ken's right, Yohji concludes, must be Kase. He recognizes the expression. It's someone who wants something badly. It's the look of someone isn't going to get it, and knows it, and hates because of it.
Strange dynamics of childhood. He collects the rest of the items: a nearly empty perfume sampler bottle, a beaded bracelet with a broken clasp, two grimy and folded envelopes, a pink pen without a cap, and soon it's all back in the treasure box. After a second, he digs into his back pocket and pulled out the card Rai had carried into the shop. Yohji gently lays the envelope on the top of the cigar box, then rocks back on his heels and stands up with a single fluid motion.
Without a second glance he leaves the apartment, locking the door behind him. Flipping the key in the air once before pocketing it, he heads down to the Kitten to relieve Ken.
Omi pushes away from the computer and rubs the back of his neck while he waits for the printer to finish. He scans the sheets, shuts the system down and heads upstairs. This isn't going to be the best night. He can feel that already. He just hopes the unease has nothing to do with the night's assignment.
Maybe it does, some. There are times he has no clue who he's been saddled with, when he thought he had it all figured out and then he turns around to find he's working with strangers. He's still baffled that Ken had -- under duress, of course -- admitted to purposefully drugging the girl the night before. Omi wasn't sure whether to give into a shocked laugh at the gall, or be pissed at the risk. What if she'd woken up?
He just can't get past the deception -- whether that of drugging the girl, or that of hiding from his team that he'd done so. Ken is usually the most open of any of them. What has Omi equally flustered is Aya's willing involvement, notorious glare turned full-bore as he demanded an alternate plan. Aya doesn't get involved in anything that doesn't involve death, his sister, outrageously expensive sake, or the shop's finances. Anything else isn't just unimportant, it's irrelevant; he never pretends otherwise. It's one way in which Omi can, and does, see eye-to-eye with Aya. Except for him, it's anything not involving death, his schoolwork, ingeniously invasive software, or the team's morale.
The girl falls into the last category, he supposes.
He runs a hand through tangled hair while he trudges up the steps, lost in thoughts running on eighteen tracks at once. The ongoing surveillance. Ken's visitor. Need for a replacement DVD-burner. Where to get better ink refills for the printer. Scooter's almost out of gas. Ongoing experiments with tipping his darts. Evening plans. The list goes on; he's used to a chattering brain, but his brain grinds to a near-halt at the upcoming evening. What the hell is he supposed to do? Maybe...no, going out to eat is out of the question. He'll need to be near the computer in case Ken or Aya reports in, and he's not hooking his laptop to just any old network. He'd scheduled Yohji and Aya tonight; Omi prefers pairing long-range with short-range, and knows better than to just hope Schwarz doesn't show up.
But Ken must've chalked up a significant favor, and Yohji called it in -- and if they've both agreed, they know the risks. Besides, rumor -- or at least Ken -- has it there's a new club opening downtown. Omi grins ruefully. Never let it be said Yohji doesn't have priorities.
Outside Aya's door, Omi slips the paper under the door rather than knock. He trots up the last flight of stairs, turning the corner to his own door with a sigh. He toes off his shoes and pads softly to his personal system, lets it boot up while he does a last-minute check on the tracers for his teammates' cell phones. That done, he ignores the computer to take a look around, trying to see with a stranger's eyes. What doesn't belong? Other than the general issue of being seventeen and living on his own, that is.
If anything, his apartment veers closest to Ken's joyful mess, except that his own mess revolves mostly around electronic gadgets, old hard drives, mother boards, and three old monitors lined up along the wall. There's a laptop on the low table in the living room, and a bulky desktop system on the kitchen table. The printer rests on a mismatched kitchen chair, cabled to the laptop. His apartment is mostly textbooks, notebooks, computer magazines, mangas, and programming manuals. And six crossbows, seventeen sets of darts, four dark bottles with coded labels for tipping, and six sets of throwing knives.
Just the average, living-alone, no-real-visible-income, seventeen-year-old, senior-high, kid.
Right.
When he trips over one of those crossbows, he decides: this is not going to make a good impression. He does his best to shovel the majority of his stuff into semi-organized piles, sorting the various knives, darts, arrows, and other fascinating -- but not fit for guests -- projectiles into a hamper and covering it with dirty laundry before hiding it in his bedroom. He worries for a second over the lack of a sofa. The rest of his team can manage the idea of large furniture, but his extra money always ends up at the computer store, or buying old parts online.
From what Yohji mentioned earlier, the girl is a bit of a geek. No. She's a gear-head. Maybe she'll have some ideas about what to do with the electrical system he hacked into last week. He's come up with several options, but it'd be nice to have a second set of eyes. Omi shakes his head at the thought. No, there's no way to come up with a decent explanation. Here's a schematic, he imagines himself saying, what do you think might be the best way to wreck it?
No. That won't work. Car mechanics fix things, not break them.
Omi glances over the apartment one last time before slipping on his shoes. It'll be dark soon. Ken is probably already pushing to get going. Omi pulls his door shut behind him and goes down to retrieve his non-date.
"Goddammit, Siberian!"
"Get off." Ken jerks his shoulder away from Aya's hand. "I didn't say to abandon position," he growls, turning away.
"You didn't answer any of my calls," Aya retorts coldly. Ken looks like he's about to speak, then his expression goes dull and he just shrugs. Aya has no intention of killing Ken, not most days, not anymore... but maybe knocking him over the head with the katana's hilt about twenty times. Doubtful it'd achieve anything but the reduction of Aya's frustration, and maybe that'd be reason enough. "Did you get the exchange length?"
"Yeah." Ken steps out of the alleyway, jacket pulled tight around him, hands shoved deep the pockets. "Already called Omi with the news."
There's silence; the two have the city sidewalks to themselves for the five-block walk. At the corner splitting the difference between their parking spots, Aya stops at the door to the small cafe. It's impulse, but he goes with it. He's still off-balance from Ken's uncharacteristic distance. "Dinner?"
"Not hungry," Ken says, sullen.
Aya gives him a skeptical grunt, and lets Ken enter first, just to make sure he does. A few minutes later they're seated. Ken has rediscovered his appetite, and Aya is sipping hot tea while Ken nurses his coffee.
"So what's the occasion?" Ken's eyebrows are lowered.
"Is this going to keep up? You were barely worth it last night." Aya sips his tea, grimacing at the taste of scalded tea leaves. "And tonight, I got the jump on you."
"Fuck you," Ken mutters. "I knew you were there."
Aya lets his silence speak all the skepticism he feels, but Ken's made no move to leave in a huff, so Aya doesn't push it. There's something Ken needs to say. Experience says it's wiser to let Ken come around to it, but Aya is too tired to have the patience -- or to deny his curiosity at what could throw Ken, of all people, so far off-track. He has his theories, though. "What's going on?"
"Rai," Ken replies, his tone softer. He stares down at his beer. His expression's intent, as though he's forcibly trying to forget Aya's presence.
Aya bites back the words. You're quicker to say what's bothering you, he wants to say. You never make us drag it out of you. Ken's present quiet is forcing Aya to be the one to do the talking, and Aya's badly out of practice. He resigns himself to a battle of staring.
He stares at Ken, and Ken stares at the coffee cup.
"Keep feeling it's hypocritical to complain to you, of all people." Ken's brown eyes are cat-eye slits when he smiles wryly. "I can't protect her, Aya-kun. I want to. I always did." He leans back, his eyes focused on the middle distance. "Now... every time I see those scratches on her cheek, or check her stitches, it means I failed her. And I don't want to be reminded of that. I don't want to have failed her."
"Don't fail her next time, then." Aya's voice is remarkably level. He unlocks his fingers, moving to clasp his empty cup rather demonstrate how much his hands shake at Ken's confession. Can he ever look at his sister again, knowing that her ordeal went from bad to unbearable because he'd not been there when he should have? Yes, Aya knows all about it. Not wanting to be around her, but helpless to stay away. Unable to forget the failure, or forgive the crime.
"I guess." Ken's voice interrupts Aya's thoughts; Aya only nods.
When their dinners arrive, the two men eat in silence, pay in silence, and leave in silence. There's simply nothing else to say.
no subject
Date: 31 Jul 2007 09:13 am (UTC)But now I'm wondering... if I friend you, does that mean you see my journal entries on your friends page? I just want to make sure, because I can imagine very few people would be interested in my inane ramblings.
no subject
Date: 28 Sep 2007 07:44 am (UTC)You can filter them, of course, but the only time I ever personally get cranky about posts is when it's over about four paragraphs and there's no LJ-cut. Then it just turns an already-long fpage into an even longer one, and my scroll finger gets tahhhhed, woe, woe.
heh.