Roulette
Disclaimers:
Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Zipper, and Tokyopop.Warnings and rants:
(THIS IS A SPEC FIC!) Takes place five years after the manga series, or what is currently the manga-series. OOC characters, OOC situations... then again, this is five years later. Might give way to yuri/yaoi/slash relationships in the future. Keep an open mind, everyone.Summary:
The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later. Life never works out the way you want it to, the way you expect it to, for better or for worse.Status:
3/? (in progress)Radishface
"Miss Hayasaka?"
Yukari turned to look at her personal secretary... driver... butler... whatever the hell he was. He was a bookish, slightly shorter than her, an American with mousy brown hair and ordinary brown eyes. He could dress, though, so she gave him that much. She turned back around and temporarily forgot he existed-- after all, there was something fascinating in this magazine she was reading now. Maybe he'd just shut up. His Japanese wasn't great, but it was decent. He spoke better Japanese than she did English, at any rate. Her annoying accent still persisted, even as she practiced saying her 'ARRRRrrrrrs' in front of the mirror every night, and reminded herself day in and day out that English words ended with consonant sounds, not vowel sounds. She could still understand it fairly well, though.
"Miss Hayasaka?" He repeated, and Yukari shrugged, flipping the magazine shut.
"What, Robbie?" It took a conscious effort not to say wa-tu.
The skinny, pale American had a phone in his hand, and his pale face looked excited. "It's Jimmy Choo on line one... and there's somebody from Vera Wang is on line two. And then you got a call this morning at eleven from the representative at Nicole Farhi."
Yukari wanted nothing more than to say a hardy fuck you to anybody else who tried to interrupt her Sunday. I mean. She thought, gazing out her bay window, out at the ocean. It's a beautiful day-- a little cold, but still beautiful. And I've got a private beach. And mother's in Tokyo, and Suguru's going to be going on a scholarship program to Waseda University, even though mother wants him to accept the program at Cambridge. He hasn't even frickin' reached puberty yet.
"Yeah?" Yukari rose up and stretched, curling her toes into the sheepskin rug. There was a runway tonight, winter fashions for Helmut Lang and Victoria's Secret (what?? she remembered thinking. WHAT??). She had been invited to go. Maybe she should keep Jimmy Choo on the phone and make excuses that way. Oh, I couldn't attend the runway show because I was talking to Jimmy Choo. Yeah, you know, Jimmy Choo? The one with the shoes and the purses? He wants to use me in his new campaign. Not like he doesn't have a bias for Asians already. Yeah, I know his last advertising run were nude shots, but my tits are perky enough, I guess. Not like I'm going to show them, anyway. What am I supposed to do? He's Jimmy Choo.
Yukari reluctantly accepted the phone from Robbie, eyeing the doorway to her penthouse critically-- her Manolos were lying in a heap. Gesturing for him to go arrange them, she turned around and walked to her balcony door and opened it, letting in a waft of ocean air. Yes, southern California. Not a bad place to be, but Hawaii was better. Too bad her real estate agent couldn't procure that nice 10-acre plot of island...
"Caroline Hayasaka speaking."
"Miss Hayasaka." A voice, sounding somewhat bored, somewhat pleased. "I'm Jimmy Choo's representative."
"Yeah, well." She said, because it seemed like a good thing to say. Be still, my heart. You will not make a fool out of yourself just yet. Jimmy Choo, Jimmy Choo. Remember what Shimamoto told you. You're the most beautiful woman in the world.
"Miss Hayasaka?" The voice came over the phone, and she realized she had been silent for a while.
"Yes." She said, and her voice was cool again, it was cold, it was like ice, aloof, haughty, and she reminded herself, she loved it like that. That was what success sounded like.
"Mr. Koizumi," his secretary executed a half-bow as he poked his head through the door to the man's office. "Should I just set the bills on your desk, sir?"
"Go ahead, Hanzo." Joichi smiled, heard the rustle of paper as his secretary approached.
"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" Hanzo asked.
"No." Joichi said. "Nothing I can think of."
"I'll be taking my lunch break, then." Hanzo said, and looked at his watch. "I'll see you in an hour, sir."
"I'll leave the assignment for you on your desk." Joichi said. "I've got a meeting to go to, so by the time you're be back, I'll be gone."
"Should I lock the door when I leave for the evening, sir?"
"No, that'll be all right." Joichi said. "The meeting shouldn't take too long."
"Right, sir." Hanzo turned to leave. "I'll see you, sir."
"Have a good lunch."
"Thank you, sir."
The door closed, and Joichi looked at the bills. Two of them were from credit card companies-one was Sakura's-he tucked the envelope away affectionately into the drawer of his desk, and made a note to inform her of it later. Perhaps the time had come to discard her-Sakura was a bit too young for his tastes, anyway.
The next was George's credit card, and Joichi raised an eyebrow. George had always prided himself on not using his father's money to do anything. What a change, what a change. Certainly there would be a reason for this. Joichi opened the envelope and smiled.
Chanel perfume, a Christian Dior handbag, and a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. He could only wonder who George's new girlfriend was, if it wasn't that black-haired model. Joichi Koizumi gave a superior smile and decided to keep Sakura a bit longer.
"Hey, George." Kaori said, as she stretched in the bed, letting out a yawn. "G'morning."
George was propped up against the pillows next to her, absently flipping through television channels, hesitating for a minute on the remote control when he saw a model turn and pivot at the end of a runway. No, it wasn't Yukari. It was a model for Gianfranco Ferre. He exhaled, and then changed the channel.
"Where should we go today?" Kaori burbled, her speech smothered as she rolled on her pillow, and then popped out of bed dramatically, stretching again. George's eyes averted from the television for a minute as he surveyed the line of her back, the curve of her butt.
"Put some clothes on first, and then we'll decide." He said, and turned the television off. She glared at him and threw a pillow at him. He caught it with a bemused expression on her face. "You have to admit, that's not very decent."
"And who's going to walk in on us?" She said, folding her arms across her chest. "It's not like you're dressed, either."
"At least I'm under the sheets." He intoned solemnly.
"Bastard." She said. "Well, I'm going to take a shower, then." She looked pointedly at him, and ran a hand through her hair, grimacing. "We both need a shower after last night."
"I don't." George said, and lay back down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I always smell like roses."
"Because you're such a fag, that's why." She walked over to him and kissed his forehead. "George."
"What?" He said, not opening his eyes. He felt Kaori pinch his nipple, and gave a start.
"Lots of other girls would be offended by this comfort-sex thing." She stated, and stared at him. He opened his eyes a crack. Her breasts were dangling in his face, and he playfully bit at them. She jumped back just in time, and glared at him, but he could tell she was smiling.
"No, seriously." She said, and sat on the foot of the bed, sighing. "I mean, I don't care, really. You know I'm meeting Mersealt tomorrow, anyway."
George raised an eyebrow. "Really? Kaori, you two-timing bitch."
"Shut up." She aimed to smack his groin through the sheets, and he twisted away just before she could strike. "I just want you to be happy, okay? Get over her, George."
"I am over her." He told her, and sat up in bed, looked at her full in the face so she would know. "I'm over Yukari."
They looked at each other like that for a minute, and then Kaori huffed and broke the gaze. "Yeah, right." She laughed. "Behind your cool exterior lies the heart of a broken man."
"You wound me." George said.
"That's my purpose." Kaori shrugged, and stood up. "But seriously. The least you could do for me after all I've done for you is to take me out to the Pompidou Museum or the Louvre. That's all I'm asking from you. I have to leave in a three days, and we've barely done any sightseeing."
"You can always come back to Paris." George stated, and turned on the television again. Loud music blared, and an advertisement for French coffee came on the air. "I mean, you live here, and you're telling me you haven't gone to the Louvre or the Orsay- ."
"-Pompidou," she corrected. "And besides, I have to leave for that meeting in Italy-did I mention Dolce and Gabanna are going to be there? - I would extend that invitation to you, but I'm already going with Mersealt."
"I think I'd like him."
"Put on a floor show for him, then." Kaori shrugged. "He's bisexual, too. I'm sure he'll appreciate it."
George stared at her for a minute. "You are a fag hag."
"Half of one." She said. "Bi-hag. It doesn't have the same ring."
"Or the same tone." George agreed.
"But I need to treat you and take you out like a good friend and a good hostess before you leave." Kaori said, and headed to the bathroom. "So we're going to the museums today."
"Then why did you ask me to take you?" George called after her.
"Because it's customary for the man to take the woman out somewhere. It doesn't say anywhere she can't ask."
"And what makes you think I'm leaving?" George said, and Kaori stuck her head out the bathroom door and smiled wistfully at him.
"You're flighty like that." She said. "You're really flaky when you're not serious about things. When things get boring, you're going to leave. And when I'm gone, you're going to find yourself a nice fuck at the Moulin Rouge and move to his or her apartment. You're going to waste away in front of the television and watch runway shows and old Palme D'Or movies until your brain rots from independent-film overload. Your fashion career is a mess, George Koizumi. I guess I beat you in the end, huh?"
He stared at her and anything he could have said was stuck in his throat. A minute, an hour, a year passed between them as they stared at each other.
"Fuck you, Kaori." George finally croaked.
She grinned at him, but he could hear the anger and frustration in her voice. "It's your fucking life, George, and you ruined it."
She disappeared into the bathroom, and he slipped in there after a few minutes. The shower compartment was steamed up, and she was humming something to herself. He first brushed his teeth, and then went over to the bathtub and turned the water on. He got in and held his head under the faucet to wash his hair, forcing himself not to blink when the soap got in his eye.
She was still in the shower when he got out of the bathtub, and he slipped on a pair of slacks and a blue dress shirt, feeling subdued. He went downstairs to the café of the hotel and bought four éclairs and a carton of orange juice, and headed back up in the elevator with the paper.
Kaori was buzzing around the room like nothing had happened between them, and had three shirts out on the bed. She stood in her underwear, contemplating which one to wear. George set the éclairs and the orange juice on the table and walked over, smelling the Chanel No. 5 perfume he had bought for her a few days ago. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised, a flash of anger still in her eyes before it suddenly dispelled and she was the old bubbly and sunny Kaori of comfort sex.
"Which one, George?" She said, putting a pout on her face and squinting at the three shirts. "I think the lace shirt matches the skirt, but then it won't go with the Manolos that you gave me, and the Christian Dior purse…"
Winter was well on its way, Hiro thought, as he gazed out the window of his boss's office. The skies today were dark, clouds hanging overhead, the air outside had bit at his face even as summer's humidity persisted, and he had been torn between taking off his scarf and leaving it on.
The subways were crowded in the morning, and he regretted not being able to acquire a parking space within his apartment complex. Natsukawa drove to work, and even though she was late to work everyday, she still insisted on driving. Natsukawa's apartment was smaller than Hiro's, but since her car was her second home, Hiro supposed that the situation worked out somehow. Natsukawa's parents had presented her with a Mercedes-Benz after she got into Waseda University, and Hiro had gone to her family's house to celebrate. Hiro had gotten into Tokyo University, and was still studying as he paid for his tuition through this internship. Natsukawa's family was willing to pay her tuition, but Hiro's parents had been adamant in that he pay for his own college education.
It built character, Hiro thought. Arashi had moved into his apartment as soon as his liberal parents decided that was a good idea. Then again, Arashi was a rebel at heart, and moving out of the house seemed like something he would have loved to accomplish at an early age.
Eleven in the morning, and the skies still hadn't cleared of their morning fog yet. His boss commented on his good work and then dismissed him, telling him to finish filing and indexing the binders for the Asahi archives. Hiro sighed-he didn't mind the brainless secretarial work, but he had an exam this coming weekend, and desperately needed the time to study. Hiro decided to get as much filing done today as possible, and leave tomorrow's options open. With this in mind, he headed off to his cubicle and turned on the computer just as his cell phone rang.
"Hiroyuki speaking."
The voice on the other line was slightly hesitant. "Hey, Hiro."
Hiro's eyes widened and he held the phone closer to his ear. "Arashi?"
"Yeah, it's me." His voice was blurred, and Hiro could make out the sounds of cars honking, people talking, the wind blowing.
"Where are you?" Hiro asked.
"Oh, I'm-" There was a buzz of static, and Hiro was afraid the connection was lost. "I'm on a public phone."
"Outside?"
"I'm in Shinjuku right now." Arashi's voice said, indistinct.
"Pity." Hiro said, and balanced the phone between his shoulder and his ear-an exceptional feat, since the cell phone was so thin. "The trains must have been crowded this morning." He paused. "What are you doing in Shinjuku?"
Arashi sighed. "Job options."
Hiro straightened. "If you're still interested, you know, I could just talk to my boss and-"
"No, that's fine." Arashi's voice held a note of impatience, and Hiro smiled when he heard it. "I'll manage on my own."
"If you say so." Hiro grinned.
There was a pause, almost awkward, almost comfortable. Hiro could hear the horns honking in the background, could imagine Arashi standing there, a scarf whipping around his head. Hiro wondered if Arashi had spiked his hair.
"I was wondering if you'd like to go out for lunch. If you're free, of course."
Hiro gave a start, and scratched his head, glancing about him for his briefcase. "Actually, Arashi-"
"Yeah, I know you're busy." Arashi said hurriedly, and Hiro could almost kick himself. "I shouldn't have asked."
"No, just that-" Hiro struggled with his briefcase, and opened it, papers almost spilling out over the cubicle floor. He set the briefcase down and took the phone into his hand. "I've got a lot of work to do today. Normally-"
"Then I'll just let you get back to work." Arashi's voice was light. "Have fun, Hiro."
"No, I mean--damn." Hiro said, and stared at the phone in annoyance. He'd hung up. "Dammit Arashi, it wouldn't hurt you to hear the whole story for once." He smiled fondly and put the phone away. He's not angry anymore. He thought. He's not mad at me. It's just like it used to be, only we're more estranged. But he's not angry at me anymore.
What surprised him was how happy he was about it.
Shaking the thoughts away, Hiro pulled the files out of his briefcase. He left the phone by his side just in case it rang again. He didn't think it would, but he'd be going straight to Shinjuku once he was done for the day.
What was it that Miwako had said?
Yamamoto stood outside in the courtyard, sipping a glass of lemonade. His parents had arrived home a few days ago, and his father had brought a book for him, supposedly to mock him, but he was enjoying it, nonetheless. And the expression on his father's face at his son's sudden change in clothing preferences had left him gaping as Yamamoto made a graceful exit upstairs. His mother had been harboring a look of suspicion on her face, but had masked it well.
Not well enough, Yamamoto thought. Middlesex, he read to himself, looking at the cover of his book.
He closed the book suddenly, nearly upsetting his glass of lemonade. He had talked to Miwako as well, had met her at a café in Ginza and had bought Miwako her favorite parfait, strawberry, vanilla wafers, and raspberry filling, with whipped cream and sprinkles on top.
Oh. Isabella?
She had said. Well, of course she had said that. She had never seen him without his dresses and his hats and his hair rolled up in that absurd Western Europe, Victorian style. Her face had been rather blank, and Yamamoto supposed that was because of her ongoing trauma about her breakup with Arashi and Yamamoto's sudden… change in appearance. He supposed he should have waited to tell her that he was going to be a man again, if it could really be called that.Miwako, sit.
He had said. I know what you're thinking.Miwako loves this parfait.
She had said, her facial expression careful. Thank you, Isabella.It's Yamamoto now.
He said.Yamamoto.
She had said, sweetly, her voice as sweet as her parfait, and Yamamoto had felt his stomach turn at the tone of her voice.Yes.
He had said.Well then, Yama.
She said, her voice quavering. Can I call you that for short?It's what George used to call me.
He had said, a pang of something shooting through his heart as he remembered back then, fourth grade, his first dress.Is this because your parents are home?
She asked, eating her parfait, spoon dipping into the ice cream. Are you doing this for them?Well.
He had said, and she hadn't waited for him to finish, she had looked up, her face lined with disappointment, resentment, and resignation.Miwako should listen to Mikako more often.
She said, and seemed on the verge of tears. Men run away from everything. They all run away, eventually. You and Arashi, running away like this. And Miwako had thought you were different, Miwako had thought he was different.She had started crying, silent tears down her face, and he had to take her home, and the other customers in the café had stared after them, wondering what was wrong.
She had apologized when they were in front of her house, even though she had stopped crying long before that, when they were switching trains in the subway, and she had clung to his hand like a lost child, staying close to him, and he had felt relieved, because to Miwako, he was still the same Isabella, even if he didn't want to be. And then she had said she would call him later, and she'd make it up to him. He had said that he knew what she was going through, and that he was sorry that he had decided to show her this way. She had sniffled, had murmured a goodbye, and had disappeared into the house.
Am I running away?
Yamamoto thought, and ran his finger along the edge of the spine of the book, words tracing over the letters, M, I, D, D, L, E.No, because George was the first one to run away. George had been the first one to leave after Yukari had gotten promoted in the Shimamoto firm, after the first runway show, after Yukari's fifth photo shoot with Happy Berry, after Yukari had been scouted by a representative from Hermes who had recommended her to a position on the Christian Dior modeling team. George was the one who left.
And wasn't Yamamoto a boy before George had come along? Wasn't Yamamoto a nice, well-adjusted boy without parents, a well-adjusted boy who wanted to wear a skirt and wanted to grow his hair longer? But he was happy being a boy, all the same, even though sometimes, he felt out of place, but that was normal, because everybody felt out of place once in a while.
And then George had come and became friends with him, and had discovered Yamamoto's secret the one day George's mother had taken them out for ice cream and George had caught him looking at dresses in a shop window with a mystified look on his face.
Do you like dresses, Yamamoto?
And George had said it in the most precocious and unassuming way, a way that could be interpreted as liking dresses in general and not liking them in a way that one would want to wear them.Yes.
Yamamoto had unwisely replied. I love them. There's so much variety.Variety?
George had asked, and then they had not sounded like they were in elementary school.Variety.
Yamamoto had said. You see, guys are always wearing pants. It's always pants for the guys, and all pants look the same. And girls get to wear dresses, and there are so many different dresses.George had nodded, had acted like he understood. And then Yamamoto had said it,
I wish I could wear a dress.
George had raised his eyebrow and had laughed a bit, and Yamamoto had turned bright red, his mind had railed at him for letting that slip, he was a boy, why would he want to wear a dress?
They wear dress-like clothes in Scotland.
George had said, and the mood had lightened unexpectedly, and Yamamoto had thanked George's amazing capability for saying the right things at the right time and saving Yamamoto from further embarrassment from himself.Those are kilts,
Yamamoto had said, laughing with George. And they don't count.The incident wasn't mentioned again, but Yamamoto knew George had remembered it, otherwise how would he have known Yamamoto's birthday wasn't in the spring, but gave him a present anyway? And it was in the spring, when Yamamoto received his first dress, that Yamamoto became Isabella, and Isabella was born. His father and mother had another child, a girl, and they didn't know about it.
But he wasn't running away, by becoming Yamamoto again. He was only letting Yamamoto live again, after killing him in the spring, he was only letting Yamamoto live to what Yamamoto might have been, if George had not killed him and put Isabella in his place.
Who said he wasn't just George's plaything when he was Isabella? Who could say that he wasn't just George's experiment to put a boy in a dress, to see what he looked like? It could have been a long-term scheme to humiliate him, to ensure that George knew that he could control and manipulate Yamamoto, because Yamamoto looked up to and venerated and adored and loved George.
But Yamamoto knew that George wouldn't do that, wouldn't humiliate him like that. Yamamoto knew that George was the first one who saw who he really was, who he could really be. And when George went to Yazawa Arts, he talked to Yamamoto's parents and they had relented, and George had only been fifteen at that time, and already possessed charm and rhetoric and charisma, and Yamamoto was still the awkward boy who stayed in the corners and only wore dresses, only became Isabella, when George came to visit. And then when his parents left, when George came over every day, when he was constantly around George at school, he wore the dresses, he grew out his hair, and George had kissed his forehead, called him beautiful, and had helped him hem his dresses, alter the sleeves, tighten the corsets.
Yamamoto set the book down and took his glass of lemonade and walked over to the rosebushes, where white roses had once grown, the white roses that had been painted blue for Yukari's gown. White roses, precious and beautiful and rare, like George, tainted by Yukari, stolen by Yukari, and Yamamoto and Isabella had never said anything. He poured the lemonade into the dirt, watched it glimmer as the lemonade splashed against his feet.
No, Isabella wasn't Isabella without George.
Miwako stirred the curry as it cooked, adding the occassional pinch of salt. Mikako was going over the Happy Berry financial woes, and Alice was watching something on the television. Tsutomu had not come back home yet since his fight with Mikako, and its effect on Mikako was starting to show. Not only was Alice constantly asking and complaining about where 'daddy' was, but Mikako was drinking three cups of coffee a day and there were bags under her eyes. Miwako was the only one who seemed unaffected, but that was how things were.
Miwako tried not to let things get to her now. She wouldn't want to break down again like she did in front of Isabella-- excuse her, Yamamoto. Things were just changing too quickly-- everything had fallen apart after they had graduated, after Yukari had left them. George would never admit it, but Yukari was the one who held Parakiss together. They were on the edge of breaking up before Arashi had scouted her. It was for Yukari that Parakiss decided to complete the senior show and the dress, it was for Yukari that they had all bonded together again and decided to overcome their differences. The year in which Yukari became Caroline was the year that everything really changed.
George loved her. Isabella (for he was still Isabella then) was more distant. Miwako was happy that she found a friend that Arashi approved of (if not initially), and Arashi had undergone a huge change. He wasn't as grumpy, for one, and his outlook on things improved hugely. It was as if the addition of Yukari to their fashion group gave him an opportunity to start again, start over with everything.
Everything.
And it had been her own undoing when she had met Hiro again, when Arashi realized that they had met. And it had been her own undoing when she had decided to keep meeting Hiro, because then Arashi would keep confronting him when he saw him. And hadn't she been the first to realize it, to realize that it wasn't about confrontations? Arashi had too much pride to admit that at heart, Hiro would always remain friends with them. She didn't know now-- she hadn't talked to either of them since Arashi had decided that it wasn't going to work out. Didn't he think that she already knew?
Men are fickle, she thought. They're not when they find something to devote themselves to. It's our fault for humoring them. It's my fault for believing he only loved me, because he didn't. Miwako blinked away the tears in her eyes as she stared down into the bubbling pot.
But it's better that he left you.
Something said. Would you prefer to lie to each other?Miwako sniffed at the curry and decided it was done. She turned off the stove and lifted the pot over to the table. Alice looked anxiously at her-- Miwako gave her a reassuring smile. Mikako looked up and frowned.
"Dinner already?" She said.
"Yes, Mika." Miwako said. "You're hungry." It was a statement, and it was simple. Unlike her life.
"No, I'm not."
Contradicitions again. Arashi, and Isabella, and then George, and now her older sister. Miwako sighed.
She knew that Mikako was hungry and tired, she knew Alice was frustrated, even though the girl was too young to know what the word meant. Miwako knew she was sick of it all, that all she wanted right now was to go soak in a hot spring somewhere with a wet towel over her head and fall asleep in the sulfuric waters.
Alice came and tugged at Miwako's skirt, a silently imploring to leave her mother alone-- she didn't want another outburst. Miwako gritted her teeth and decided she didn't want a confrontation either.
"Suit yourself." She spat out, uncharacteristically snide, and went to the rice cooker and spooned out some rice for her and Alice.
It didn't help much that it was also that time of the month.
The last person Arashi expected to see in the noodle shop was Hiro.
He had found a place in Shinjuku, a couple blocks away from Takashimaya Times Square. They were hiring waiters, and he figured that was one step up from being a cook, and had taken the job. So now he was wearing an black apron with pockets in the front, two pens in one pocket and a small notepad in the other, and Hiro was looking for a place to sit. Dammit.
Satsuki, a waitress who had been around for five months, had ultimate superiority over him. She was sitting off to one side, chatting with a busboy, narrowed her eyes at him. He had only begun work this afternoon, and therefore, had more energy than her. He sneered at her and headed over to Hiro, who was draping his coat and his scarf on the empty chair next to him. Though the light was dim, Arashi noticed that Hiro's eyes brightened considerably as he approached.
Affecting his best impersonal stance, he dug out the notepad. "Drink?"
"Hi, Arashi." He smiled, and Arashi's brow furrowed because of an unexplicable feeling.
The cold-shoulder wouldn't work. "Hiro." He hissed, and leaned in. "It's eleven at night. We close in half an hour. Did you just finish work?"
"No." Hiro shook his head, a rueful and amused smile on his face. "I usually finish work around five."
"What are you doing here now?" Arashi said, getting more and more annoyed with... himself, really. Did it help that Hiro was going to college with a successful internship to help him along the way, while Arashi had just gotten a job as a waiter he might lose any minute, given his usual disposition? Damn it.
Hiro's expression turned from an amused one to one that was slightly confused, if not bitter. "Look, if you want me to leave--"
"No." Arashi sighed, and sat down on the chair next to him. Hiro raised an eyebrow. "It's not that."
"I'm sorry about this morning." Hiro said sincerely, and Arashi looked at his earnest expression, and decided he really wasn't going to try to... do whatever it was. Feel offended, that was it. If Hiro couldn't have lunch with him, it was no skin off his neck. It didn't mean anything. Right.
"Don't think about it." Arashi waved his hand to dismiss the subject, but Hiro persisted.
"No, really." Hiro leaned in. "I wanted to call you back, but you said you were using a public phone."
Arashi flushed, and hoped in the dim lighting that it wasn't noticeable. Yes, well, he never did consider that.
"And I had time this evening, but you didn't give me a chance to explain." Hiro sat back, surveyed Arashi with a bemused expression. "You're always a hothead."
"I'm always impulsive, so get over it." Arashi huffed. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here."
"Natsukawa's not home tonight." Hiro said. "I thought I'd have a night out."
"Is she out of town?" Arashi recalled Hiro's girlfriend, their six-month anniversary is this week, he remembered, and flinched. Damn. Hiro, his girlfriend, and six months. Him, Miwako, and a recently severed relationship. And it wouldn't have worked. He told himself fiercely. Because you can't love her. Because you'll never be good enough for her. For anybody.
Hiro gave him a strange look. "She's still here."
Arashi stared blankly. "You don't live together?"
"No." Hiro shook his head. "She lives with her parents, comes over to my house sometimes."
"How often do you do it?" Arashi said, aiming for flippancy, and missing altogether. Instead, he sounded tired, and Hiro had the decency to look concerned and offended at the same time.
"That." He said, coughing, "is none of your business."
Arashi tried to smile, but it faltered. "Are you two going to celebrate your six months?"
"I have an exam this weekend." Hiro closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hunching over in the chair. "So I can't do anything for her. I'll be studying the rest of the week."
"Then shouldn't you should be studying now?" Arashi asked gently, and without realizing it, put a hand on Hiro's shoulder. "Honestly."
Hiro looked up, eyes somewhat bleary, and Arashi realized that Hiro was a customer and Arashi was the waiter. "I'll be right back." He said, and stood up, leaving Hiro to stare after him.
Arashi came back with a pot of tea, ignoring the glances Satsuki was giving him. "Here." He said, and Hiro yawned as he reached for the tea.
"Thanks." He said, and held it up to his face, inhaling the steam, without drinking it. Arashi looked at him, and then sat down next to him again. It was funny, how years of rivalry and antagonism on his part could just vanish-- but forgiveness had been chipping away at his conscience for a while.
"You still haven't explained why you're here in Shinjuku at eleven at night, when you're obviously exhausted, and when you have better reasons to stay at home." Arashi grinned as Hiro yawned again, and then brown eyes met his own, somewhat unfocussed.
"I had to apologize to you, didn't I?" Hiro said, and smiled. "Wouldn't want you to think of me as a callous, rude bastard."
"Too late." Arashi said, and swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Hiro--" He took a sip of the tea. "You didn't spend all night looking for me?"
Hiro's eyes widened a bit-- Arashi could tell, he was going to fall over from fatigue. "Not the entire night, no."
Everything suddenly seemed very serene, very tranquil, as if the air were still around them, the horrible lighting of the place actually soothing. Arashi was looking at Hiro, who was staring into his tea.
Years of antagonism, just--
"Arashi."
Satsuki was looking at him with an expression of annoyance and amusement, and he sat upright, and then stood up in haste, nearly falling off the chair. Hiro looked bewilderedly at him, then at Satsuki, and then sat up a little straighter as well, as if he were back in class and he was about to be called on to answer the next math problem.
"Yeah. Satsuki. Um." Arashi said, and gritted his teeth. Wonderful. He was about to be fired on his first day on the job.
"Boys." She said. "We're closing now. Arashi, I'd like to talk to you."
Hiro stood up nervously, took his coat and his scarf, and glanced at the tea. "How much--"
"Just go." Arashi hissed. "I'll pay for it."
Hiro's brow furrowed. "But that--"
"Sir." Satsuki said, not unkindly. "It's all right. It's only tea."
Hiro still looked unsure, but moved to the exit. "I'll wait for you outside."
Arashi nodded, and then turned to Satsuki, began wiping the table off. "Are you going to tell me I'm fired?"
"No." Satsuki shook her head and crossed her arms. "Just don't do that again."
Arashi nodded, and scrubbed a stubborn spot on the table with increasing annoyance.
"I'll let you go this time only because we were so near to closing time, anyway." Satsuki yawned. "There aren't that many people around at this time, usually."
Arashi nodded, and picked up the teacups, when she walked over to him.
"I'll do that." She said. "Just take off your apron and you're free to go."
"Really?" Arashi raised an eyebrow. "You know, if you're always this nice, I'm going to take advantage of you."
"Oh, shut up." She smacked him on the arm. "Are you two friends?"
Arashi paused in taking off his apron, and then set it down on a chair and stretched. "Yeah." He said, nonchalantly. "I think so."
"You think so." Satsuki said absently. "Well then. Good night."
"G'night." Arashi said, and headed for the exit, grabbing his jacket from the coatrack along the way.
Hiro was standing outside, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. "I didn't get you in trouble--?"
Arashi made a face. "Hiro, I was a fired and it was completely and utterly your fault."
"Oh." Hiro blinked rapidly, and Arashi shook his head and laughed.
"You're too dense for your own good sometimes."
They walked closely to each other, shoulders barely touching, didn't speak to each other as they rode the subway home. Hiro fell asleep as the train jolted along, and Arashi had to force himself to stay awake, because one of them had to remember to get off at the stop.
Hiro was asleep when Arashi tried to wake him up, and walked in a half-stupor out of the train, Arashi's hand behind his back, guiding him to the stairs.
"You are a complete invalid." Arashi huffed, and Hiro nodded his assent-- or maybe that was just his head lolling on his shoulders. "Do I have to walk you home?"
Hiro opened his eyes for a minute, and then they closed again. "I'd appreciate that."
Arashi looked at him for a while, and then shrugged, a small smile making its way onto his face. "You owe me one."
