Author's Notes: Update! YAY! I'm glad to see there are some people who go alternate pairing hunting. Most fics you see here are Kite/Elk (I don't abhor it, I just am not a fan) or BlackRose/Kite (which I deeply love) or Balmung/OC (die, Satan spawn) and whatnot. So, uh, yeah. Update.
This chapter has…revelations! Yes, the very ones you have been waiting for about two chapters… Don't give me that look! I wish I could prolong it, but the story rate called for a confrontation. And without further ado… Guardian Angel!
And, uh, ignore the car-type bit. Look, I can't really predict what kind of amazingly expensive and sexy cars will be around several years from now. Do it yourself, numbskulls. XD The writing here is…not quite poetic. But this is more of a dialogue chapter.
Automatically, Akira knew that Balmung was not the unpunctual type. He was too anal not to be.
The hospital magazines were ancient. Stone age ancient. Maybe contemplating the age of magazines was not the smartest or the best means of occupying her time, but damn it to hell, Sato was late!
Her eyebrows drew even lower over her eyes as thunder jarred and rattled her bones. Although she would die rather than admit it, she was a somewhat timid person; her thoughts drifted to a certain first encounter with a tentative Twin Blade, and a nervous smile graced her lips as she suddenly drifted off to quiet euphoria. The past few days in The World had been chockfull of hesitant but affectionate gestures, but Akira was silently grateful that her party members had yet to confront her about it.
"Yoo-hoo?"
She was suddenly swept out of dreamland by a hand idly flapping in front of her face; she glowered at the offender, grabbing poor Daisuke's fingers and wringing them until the 23-year-old felt the need to wrestle the appendages from her grasp and nurse them, slurring pained swears under his breath.
"Now that's weak, Daisuke," Akira said blandly, hopping out of her seat on the small magazine table. Daisuke proceeded to ignore her, continuing to vehemently express how his fingers throbbed. "Eh? You talk too fast. Try Japanese."
Daisuke rubbed his hand gingerly and spared the teenager a withering glare. "Hayami-san," he said coldly, tucking the crumpled hand into his pants pocket. "We're going to a Ramen bar."
"Oh, I'm going to a restaurant with the most famous player in The World. Everyone will be so jealous. I'll make a post on the BBS."
Daisuke gawped at her, a peculiar mix between an indignant scowl and the egotistic foreknowledge that, yes, he was the most famous and highly appreciated player in all of The World. He shook his head, thin strands of wheat blonde draping lightly over his eyes. "Come on." Without awaiting the negative reply, he turned and exited the hospital, eyes skimming the parking lot before settling on a—
"Oh. My. God. Daisuke, don't tell me that's…""My car?" The guy had a knack for looking like a stuck-up jerk. Humbled by the vehicle she stood before, Akira refrained from decking him in the jaw. "Yes." From the silvery 2010 Porsche sitting prim, proper, and unblemished before her, she deduced that Daisuke Daisuke was either very educated and rich or very lucky…and rich.
"Oh my GOD. OH MY GOD. Daisuke, may I bear your children!?" Akira shrieked, randomly disappearing and reappearing in various areas to inspect various aspects of the luxury car. Daisuke blinked. "Look at that…look at that! Traction control, anti-lock brakes! Removable hardtop! Holographic navigation…" When she turned to him, her ruby eyes were glazed over and about the size of saucers. "Good taste, Daisuke. Really, really good taste."
Daisuke opened the passenger seat, quirking a brow at her as she tentatively clambered inside. "You know your stuff," he commented dryly, shutting the door before plunking himself in the drivers' seat.
"My brother was a car buff," Akira responded, suddenly despondent and not quite as gleeful. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, fixing her gaze on her reflection in the window as Daisuke promptly abandoned the hospital. "Aside from video games, my brother's passion was fancy cars." Her teeth sunk lightly onto her lower lip, but she couldn't fight the small smile that flickered onto her melancholy expression. "Though he didn't really want to fix them or anything…he just wanted to own one."
Daisuke was, for some obscure reason, bewildered.
She didn't notice.
---
Akira loved Ramen bars. She loved the gentle scent of seasoned meat, the steam from the viewable kitchens that clouded the glass sheets separating stove from customer, the disruptive sound of stir-fried vegetables. And, hell with it, she loved the Ramen itself. Her and her brother's parents were away from home, and so they often lived off of prepackaged noodles. Malnourished? No, not really. The Hayami siblings were often given money to shop for themselves. Also, Kazu in a kitchen was perilous—give him a stove and a sink and he could most likely set water on fire.
"Woo hoo! Alright! Let's eat!" And, raising her right hand triumphantly, she dove into her bowl with a pair of chopsticks, darkish hair glinting in the overhead lanterns. The pale pink streaks became unabashedly apparent.
Daisuke merely watched the contents of his bowl swirl placidly.
"What? You're not eating? You're making me feel greedy here, Daisuke."
"I'm waiting until your pig-out session ends so I may receive the answers I've been denied for two days."
"Wow, it's only been two days? I feel like I've known you for—what!? Pig-out session!? I'm highly insulted."
Glare.
Resignedly, Akira swallowed a noodle dangling out of her mouth before shoving the bowl aside and folding her arms. "Alright, Daisuke. I am completely and utterly prepared for whatever questions you've got."
"You sure?"
"Sure."
"Positive?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Not gonna run again?"
"I didn't run…per se."
"Whatever. Let's begin."
"Lame-o."
Daisuke studied her eyes, an eclectic blend of crimson and some murky tinge of violet. She fixed her gaze on the swirling oak patterns of the table before apprehensively staring back, head still slightly inclined. She was uncomfortable. Which in fact made the interrogation easier—but the thought sounded cruel even to him. He paused before exhaling quietly; now was not the time to lose his initiative. Daisuke cleared his throat and began to fling the questions that lingered in his mind, pausing deliberately on occasion and remaining as expressionless as possible—disinterest was key. She might become more relaxed that way, and more inclined to disclose responses to his inquiries.
"What's your username?"
"Can I skip this one for later? How 'bout…"
"How do you know Kite?"
"He's my…buddy."
"How does Kite know Orca?"
"Kite's Orca's buddy. In real life."
"What's your username?"
"You're not gonna let me leave tonight without that bit, aren't you?"
"No way in hell."
"Next question."
"Are you a hacker?"
"No."
"…"
"Really! I have no hacker abilities whatsoever! Hell, I can't even speak leet!"
"…"
"…Next question…dumbass."
"I heard that."
"I said it out loud."
"…Username. Now."
"…Next question?"
"No."
"…Damn."
"…"
"…Please don't hate me."
Daisuke's eyes softened, and he splayed his palm gently on her forearm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. (He didn't fail to notice the visible flush on her cheeks as he did so. Yes indeed, the great Balmung's influence is everywhere.) "I won't hate you," he claimed firmly, ignoring the denizens of the bar who deemed them misguided lovers or brothers or cousins or, god forbid, father and daughter. She straightened and cleared her throat—several times—before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and finally, his long-awaited answer came.
"Fine, okay? FINE! BlackRose! BlackRose, the Heavy Blade!"
"…"
Flashback sequence. Heavy Blade in violet breastplate and metal skirt armor. Yellow, bladelike tattoos. Marching up to him and reprimanding him—not like he gave much of a damn, but… And there was Kite, and the monster, and then Helba mentioned he was…
Daisuke peeled his trembling fingers off of her sleeve; then, his entire arm shot to his side, and he sat stiff and rigid, though slumped faintly against the back of the seat. Unable to string together coherent thought or speech, he settled for clamping his teeth onto his lower lip and glancing around frantically, suddenly lacking all form of previous grace.
Silence. Daisuke had the nagging feeling that he wasn't the only one who was in a state of discomfiture.
"Told you," came the flippant mumble. "Excuse me. I…uh…can walk home." With that, Akira stood, backing away from the booth before throwing her upper body forward in an inelegant bow. "Later, Daisuke. Thanks for dinner." She departed, gloomily trotting out the glass double doors.
She's with the enemy. I was too foolish to see it earlier. How she knew Yasuhiko…and Kite…and the highlights.
Too young. Immature. …Stupid? …Er…probably.
She's not like the other fans.
She's worse.
After a long while, Daisuke, in his black turtleneck and tight-fitting pants, left a fistful of money on the table before jolting to his feet and striding out the front doors. Guilt tugged at his heartstrings, and his more…analytical side nagged him for it. And then there was something else, something he couldn't quite place. Hayami…BlackRose was…a character.
If avoiding his inquiries was her idea of intriguing him, she had done a damn good job.
To be continued