She wonders if her shoulder is broken.
The afternoon light angles down into the city streets, glazing the office buildings in a glow of orange and gold, but she ignores it, along with the early spring heat sending tendrils of sweat down the small of her back. She crosses at Koshukaido Avenue and her bare feet tread on broken glass. She gasps, almost stumbles; a car swerves around her. She grits her teeth, pulls her work shirt tighter around her, and keeps walking, looking neither left nor right.
Fifteen blocks, twenty-five blocks. She's lost count. Her feet are raw. She's reached that comfortable numbness from having covered nearly six miles of city pavement in two hours of fast walking. People step out of her way as she heads down the sidewalk, her head up but her eyes firmly focused on the sidewalk. Her left hand clutches her right elbow as she struggles to keep from jarring the arm. Her right shoulder is visibly lower than the left. A grimy envelope is clutched in her right hand.
A shop owner in Harajuku calls out to her, startled by her gruesome and battered appearance. Each time someone hollers for her, or steps in front of her, she snaps her awareness back long enough to step around them without breaking her pace.
She's heading somewhere specific. And she's going to get there, even if she has to crawl the last twenty blocks.
...xxxXxxx...
At a ramen stand where Yamate Dori crosses Dogen Zaka, a delivery boy is locking his bike when she walks past. He's startled to overhear a young girl's voice, muttering to herself.
Stupidest fucking name, she's saying. Stupidest fucking name ever.
Glancing over his shoulder at the retreating figure, the kid notices the dark patch on the left shoulder of the navy-blue work shirt. He shrugs. It isn't until he stands up that he can see red spots on the sidewalk where she'd walked. Blood. He looks at the girl, but she's already a block away and moving fast. His boss is yelling for him, so he's got other places to be than still on the sidewalk, wondering about another crazy, a junkie, a runaway.
...xxxXxxx...
The flower shop is empty. Omi sees the last of the customers to the door and flips the sign behind them. Aya pulls up a stool behind the counter and begins to tally the day's sales. Omi's bringing in the last of the displays from outdoors. The bell on the door rings.
"We're closed," Aya says without looking up from the register.
There's no answer.
"How can..." Omi's voice trails off as he stands up and turns to face the door. The customer is standing just inside the door, her left hand clutching her right elbow. Her right arm hangs stiffly at her side. The long-sleeved work shirt has a patch on the chest pocket that says Kancho's Garage. Under the work shirt is a once-white shirt now covered with grease or dirt, and that familiar brownish-red he knows from long experience is dried blood. There's another large stain on the thigh of her cut-off jeans, and a large bruise trailing down her bare legs. Omi frowns; there's blood mixed with dirt in her footprints.
The girl's dark brown hair hangs down in her face, filthy and matted with sweat and dirt. She twitches her head, enough for the hair to fall away momentarily, revealing a single gray eye staring at Omi. Her other eye remains hidden. There is a line of blood running from her nose down past her lip, down her chin, and scratch marks on her cheek that had bled a little as well. Her lip is split, adding more blood to the gruesome stain that had dripped from her chin onto her shirt. She turns her head and the curtain of brown hides her face again.
"We're closed," Aya repeats, and Omi glances over at the counter. Aya's head is down as he records the day's sales in the accounting book.
"Aya," Omi says softly. "I don't think this is a customer." At Omi's word, the girl's head comes up, eyes barely visible. Omi can't tell if the girl is scared or just really pissed off. He isn't sure which would be better.
"Hidaka-san," the girl mutters.
"Pardon?" Omi takes a step forward but freezes when the girl shuffles back a step. "Oh...Hidaka! No, Ken's not here."
The girl dips her head, looking down at the small grimy envelope in her right hand. Her left shoulder slumps, and she looks away from Omi.
"Well, fuck." Her voice is flat, and she releases the envelope. It plummets to the floor. Backing up a step, she lets go of her elbow long enough to pull the door open without looking. "Sorry for bothering you."
"Wait," Omi says, taking another step forward. "Ken works here – he's just out right now." His hands are out, the palms up. "He should be back any minute now. You can wait for him." He leads her to a chair by the flower-arranging table.
Aya comes around from behind the counter, and Omi smiles at the girl, trying to make up for Aya's glare at the dirty footprints across the shop's floor, and then at the girl. Biting back an irritated sigh, Aya heads into the back to grab the mop and bucket. When he returns, Omi is bringing in the last of the outside displays. With a grunt, Aya finishes the quick cleanup and shoves the mop into the bucket.
"Your arm," Aya says, and the girl flinches just a little.
"What about it," she replies. She doesn't look at him when she answers.
"It's dislocated."
"That's one theory." Her tone's a shrug and a dismissal at the same time.
Aya narrows his eyes. Omi comes to stand by the table, and brushes his hands off on his apron. He leans over, studying the girl's hunched shoulders carefully.
"We can fix that," Omi says. "Or would you rather go to a doctor?"
"No doctors," the girl hisses.
Aya grunts, and Omi gives him a worried look. Before the girl can react, Aya's hands are around her ribs. He hauls her to a standing position. Idly, Omi observes her hair is cut high in the back, revealing a long tanned neck, and then he sees the flash of fear on the girl's face.
"Aya-kun," Omi starts to protest. "Let me tell her—"
Aya ignores Omi, and ducks one arm under the girl's left shoulder. In a swift move, he grabs her right arm with his other hand. The girl whimpers once and Aya is pulling her right arm up, back, and out. He yanks harshly. A bell chimes as the front door opens and swings closed. The store echoes with a popping sound; the girl screams, a cry sharp with pain.
Aya lets go of her. She falls to the chair, clutching her elbow as she twists to glare up at him.
"You damned—"
The girl's words are cut short by an orange blur moving past her. It streaks across Omi's vision and tackles Aya with a shout.
"Aya," Ken yells. "You bastard, you get the hell away from her!"
"Ken, no!" Omi launches himself out Ken's way, twisting to keep his feet.
Ken lands a solid punch against Aya's jaw. Aya falls back several steps, one hand on his jaw. Dropping his hand, Aya glares at Ken. Omi grabs for Ken, letting go when Aya retaliates with a right hook. He moves from the waist, without warning, lethally fast.
"Aya, stop!"
Omi ducks when Ken's head snaps backwards from Aya's blow. Beside them the girl is scrambling to get out of the way.
"Stop, both of you!" Omi screams. Shit, just what I need, the two of them killing each other and Yohji's not even here to help me break it up. Omi ducks under another swing from Ken, grabbing at Ken's waist. The punch lands squarely in Aya's stomach. Aya goes down, falling backwards from the force.
"I'll break your arms," Ken is shouting. "I'll snap your wrist for hurting her—"
Aya sprawls on the floor, his back against the refrigerated display units. The doorbell rings for the third time.
"Idiot," Aya growls.
He comes to his feet, slowly: a controlled, graceful rise. A trickle of blood runs down his jaw where Ken busted his lip; his eyes are narrowed slits, the purple irises swallowed by black. Omi frowns at his teammates and tries to think of the best way to break them up, distract them. The girl is crouched behind Omi; he can feel the fear radiating off her, spiking as Aya and Ken circle each other.
...xxxXxxx...
Omi's back is to the girl, and he doesn't see her reach for the nearby mop. Yohji stands up from where he'd grabbed the envelope off the floor, and sums up the situation in one glance. Shoving the envelope in his pocket, he's at the girl's side right as she swings the mop. She's aiming for the back of Aya's knees. Aya twists, snagging the mop handle at the same instant that Yohji jerks the handle from the girl's grasp.
Yohji steps away, releasing his hold on the mop. It clatters to the floor, the other end still in Aya's hands.
"What the hell is going on here?" Yohji's voice is raised, his expression incredulous. Aya's knuckles are white around the mop handle, and he's shooting death at both Ken and the girl half-hidden behind Yohji. Ken doesn't move, but his fists are clenched.
"She came in," Omi finally says. "Dislocated shoulder. Aya was fixing it but Ken must've thought..." He mumbles to a halt, obviously too distressed – or perhaps aggravated, it's always hard to tell – to continue.
Yohji turns to Aya with an expectant look.
"You're welcome," Aya snarls with an icy glare that takes in the whole group. He flings the mop away from him and stalks out the back door of the shop. A door slams in the back.
"Why'd you get in the middle of it?" Yohji asks the girl. He's still a little bewildered, but he'd come in early enough to see it had been a fight between Aya and Ken until the girl got involved. She had to be stupid or suicidal to get between those two.
She doesn't say anything. Yohji notices she's shifting her weight as if for a rapid retreat. Not as confident as you'd like me to think, are you. You'd be dead in two seconds if Aya – or Ken – were really fighting.
"Next time, avoid the crossfire," Yohji finally tells her.
He picks up the mop, setting it back in the bucket, ignoring Omi's relieved sigh. Ken's glare has transferred to the girl, who hunches her shoulders and doesn't look up. Yohji lets his sunglasses slip down his nose and brings out the envelope, turning it over in his hands. It's covered with bloody fingerprints, mingled with the dirty sweat of being held in a hot palm for too long.
Yohji gives the girl a long, steady look, and purses his lips. Pity when people think girls make good punching bags. It turns his stomach, and he stares down at the envelope for another second before opening it, bringing out the card. Both eyebrows go up as he reads the short note, and he holds it between two fingers. Ken's jaw juts, ready to argue, and Yohji sighs, keeping his expression calm, almost bored. Anything more and Ken will leap back into fighting mode without a second thought.
Or a first thought, Yohji grumbles.
"You always make a point of making it easy for people to find you?" Yohji's tone is amiable. "Aya is going to be furious."
"Aya's already furious," Omi observes.
Ken stops at that, and exhales slowly. The fight goes out of him, and Yohji is satisfied, and uses the breather to study the girl, who's staring at Ken with a wary expression. Whoever this girl is, she means a great deal to Ken, if he'd risk Kritiker's displeasure by giving the girl a tip on his present location. But really, Yohji knows, he can't fault Ken for it. It's not like it's that out of character, really. Ken might be clumsy and loud, but his heart and hands are always at the ready for a friend, and this girl looks like someone who needs a friend, and badly.
Hell. It takes only a heartbeat and one more look for Yohji to know he wouldn't protest – much – if he were asked to lend a hand pounding the girl's attackers, despite his natural preference to stay out of such things. She's got a glare almost up there with Aya's level, but under it she's just a kid. Bruised, bloody, and scared to death but glaring right back at Ken... attitude being the last refuge of the cornered, Yohji reminds himself.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Ken says, and takes the girl by the elbow. She winces, and he lightens his grip with a slight frown. When she doesn't move immediately, he pulls more sharply. She makes a noncommittal grunt, her feet dragging.
The edge of Yohji's mouth wants to curl up at the girl's recalcitrant scowl, but more because Ken looks fit to be tied, and that's always amusing to Yohji. He slides the card back into the envelope, tapping it against his palm several times. Omi's normally wide blue eyes are regarding Ken and the girl with a calculating expression. When Omi notices Yohji's raised eyebrows, his look melts into a pleasant smile. Yohji isn't fooled. Omi has to know the difficulties this presents, as well as – if not better than – Yohji does.
"Move, Rai," Ken is saying. "My apartment's upstairs."
"Ken." Omi finds his voice as Ken starts to follow the girl down the back hallway. For that one word, it's not Omi's usual cheerful tone. It's the solid, commanding voice of their team's strategic leader, reminding Ken that he might play at being a host, but in two hours he'll need to be an assassin again.
"I know," Ken calls over his shoulder. "Later. I need a shower, and I'm starving."
The back door shuts behind Ken and the injured girl. Yohji pockets the envelope and sinks down into the nearest chair, sighing. Omi steps outside to pull down the gate. What the hell is going on? Yohji grimaces.
"I need a smoke," he tells the empty room.
Aya and Ken in blood lust is enough to make a person either need to get seriously drunk, or swear off alcohol forever. They're both just too damn intense, and always over the littlest things. Yohji smirks; things would be so much easier if those two would learn from his example, but that's never going to happen. Bullheaded idiots. He leans back in the chair and stretches his arms over his head.
When Omi returns, keys rattling, Yohji gets up. "You hungry?"
"Sure." Omi removes his apron with a grin. "You buying?"
...xxxXxxx...
"Are you done yet?" Ken stands in the hallway, listening to water sloshing in the tub.
"Almost." Rai's voice echoes in the bathroom's close confines. "Do you have an extra toothbrush, too?"
Ken sighs.
"Use mine." He wanders back to the living room, snagging a leftover pizza crust to munch on. Ken considers being aggravated with Rai, then thinks about his own slow movements after a rough mission. He'd sent her flowers so she'd have at least one day in her life she'd gotten flowers; hell, he worked in a florist's shop, and it was the least he could do. He isn't sure he would've been so generous if he'd known she'd show up on his doorstep with the crap beaten out of her.
Problem is, he's not sure if he's mad because someone hurt her or mad because she's there in the first place.
He stares down at the medical supplies spread across the coffee table. Hydrogen peroxide, sterile pads, bandages, surgeon's tape, sutures, needles, tweezers. Ken squeezes the tube of Xylocaine. This isn't going to be enough. Oh, it'd be enough for her leg and shoulder. Doubtful there's enough for her feet, too, and he picks up the phone, speed-dialing without really paying attention.
He hangs up when Omi's machine answers. Ken tries Yohji's line next. No answer. Which means Ken has to go ask Aya, or figure out a way to break into a pharmacy and pick up some sleeping meds and some extra topical painkillers. One mission a night is enough, he thinks. He drops the tube back on the table and heads back to the bathroom door.
"When you come out, don't walk."
"What?" The tub is draining.
"Scoot on your ass. I don't want you walking on those feet." Ken crosses his arms and leans against the doorjamb. "And don't put that tank top on until I have a chance to bind up your shoulder."
"I am not walking around naked!"
"Use a towel."
There's silence for a moment. Finally she says: "Anything else?"
He grins. "Yeah, if I'm not here, don't panic. I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?"
He doesn't answer.
...xxxXxxx...
Ken takes a deep breath after knocking. There's no sound from inside; Aya's footsteps are too light. But the light is on in the front window, and it's not like Aya would go out.
"I need Xylocaine," Ken says when the door opens.
Aya raises a single eyebrow.
Ken dips his head for a second before his gaze meets Aya's stare. His chin juts just a little. "She's the closest thing to a sister I've got."
Aya seems a little surprised, then nods as he steps back to let Ken enter the apartment.
Ken tries to appear calm, but his stomach flips at the sensation of entering Aya's space. He hates intruding on Aya's minimalist interior. Hell, Ken thinks, Aya makes minimalists look cluttered: the modern, austere sofa; the two metal chairs sitting by the simple glass-topped table. The kitchen countertops are completely bare of appliances; the walls are plain. No pictures. No calendar. Nothing. It's a stark complement to Aya's own appearance, the whiplash-lean body that would seem slender, breakable, but for the steel running through the center. And that crimson hair, which always leaves Ken just a bit confused as to how someone who looks that... strange, he possibly blend in so well. As if through sheer will, Aya simply ceases to exist, becomes part of the steel and glass and emptiness of the space around him. It bugs the frickin' hell out of him, sometimes.
He chews on the inside of his mouth and tries to act suitably appreciative when Aya returns with a large white box. Flipping it open on the countertop, Aya rifles through the properly and precisely catalogued interior. Idly, Ken wonders why Aya bothers to look. He probably knows perfectly well what he has and what's lacking. Another thing that bugs the hell out of him, Ken decides. The list is pretty long, sometimes.
Aya hands him a full tube, silently.
"And any of the sedative? Whatever it's called."
"Demerol," Aya replies, handing him a bottle.
Ken takes it with a sheepish grin, cheerfully forgetting he ever had a list of things he hated about his teammate. "Thanks." Ken turns to go, but Aya's voice stops him.
"Do you need help?"
...xxxXxxx...
Rai is sitting on the sofa when Ken drops the medicines on the table. The deep bruises on her legs are easily visible; she's wearing only a towel, which barely reaches past her hips. Her feet are bleeding again, just like her shoulder and thigh.
"Tuck the towel in and raise your arms a little," Ken tells her.
He grabs the bandages and perches himself on the sofa arm. A temporary bandage on her shoulder wound will have to do. He starts wrapping the ace bandages around her chest, under her arm, up over her shoulder, and back around again.
"You going to tell me what happened?" His voice is neutral.
"Do I have to?"
"Hell yeah." Ken shoots a look over his shoulder at Aya, who is waiting silently. Rai doesn't seem to have noticed the second man's presence.
"I need to borrow forty-two thousand yen."
"What for?" Ken stands up, moving around her to study her left shoulder, frowning at the blood-soaked gauze. "Rai," Ken warns. "I'm tired, I had to cook dinner for two, I still haven't had a shower, and I punched a coworker this afternoon. What happened?" Ken holds up the tank top and she puts her arms up so he can pull it over her head. "Who did this?"
She ignores the question and straightens the tank top around herself, then pulls the towel out from underneath the shirt. The tank top runs low on the sides, and he can see the ripple of her bones under her skin.
Ken looks over her head to see Aya holding out a glass of water. Ken takes it with a grateful nod and hands it to Rai, who stares at it. There's a line appearing between her eyebrows, and she gives the glass a bewildered look. Ken takes her other hand, dropping three pills onto her palm.
"Take these," he tells her sternly.
"What are they?"
"Pills."
"I can see that."
"You rather I shove them down your throat?"
"I don't like pills."
"Take them anyway." Ken crosses his arms. Way he sees it, either he's got to intimidate her into taking the medicine, or he'll have to just shove the pills down her throat.
"I didn't ask you to take care of me, you know," she retorts. She still hasn't swallowed them.
"You showed up," he points out. "Far as I'm concerned, that's a request." Ken blows his bangs out of his eyes and gives her a weary look. Has she always been this obstinate, or did he just forget that part in the years since being her almost-brother? "Just take them."
Her left shoulder slumps a little in defeat and she shovels the three pills into her mouth, following it up with a large swallow of water. Ken points to the sofa and she sighs, turning to lie down on her stomach.
Rai flinches when he puts a hand on the small of her back. Carefully he twitches at the bottom of the tank top, pulling it down a little to completely cover her panties. Dutifully she lies still while he bandages her knee. Every now and then he glances up at her prone body, wondering whether the sedative has kicked in.
...xxxXxxx...
"I think she's out," Aya whispers. He'd moved to watch at the top of the sofa as Ken finishes wrapping Rai's knee.
"Took long enough," Ken replies.
Aya surveys the damage. "I'll do the feet."
The two men work in silence. No words are needed; the distance between them is the natural course after one more argument that came down to fists. Ken swears under his breath as he digs the needle through Rai's shoulder, pulling it tight with a soft snapping motion. Aya ignores the sound; his mind is on the night's mission, but he can't help but note the girl's injuries.
Absentmindedly he plays with theories, not sure why he's bothering. Corner of a glass coffee table, maybe. Or the end of a countertop. Something hard, protruding, that she hit with a great deal of force; add to that the damage she obviously did on her own, and she's nothing but a mass of cuts, bruises, and prickly attitude lost in drugged sleep.
Ken speaks without moving his gaze from the girl's shoulder. "How's it coming down there?"
"Slow." Aya's gaze flickers to Ken over the tops of his reading glasses before he goes back to plucking gravel out of the girl's right foot. Ken's tongue is out, flicking at his lips as he concentrates; every few minutes he tosses his hair to get it out of his eyes. Aya extracts a sliver of glass from the ball of Rai's foot. "Time?"
"Eight." Ken scoots down the sofa to sit next to Rai's thigh and cleans the wound with a rag soaked in hydrogen peroxide.
The thigh muscle twitches. She might be coming around. No, her breath is still deep and even. She's still out. Her left arm hangs over the edge of the sofa. Ken stretches, then leans over to inspect her hand, holding it up. Aya gives Rai's hand a disapproving glance; her fingernails are filthy. Ken wraps his hand around hers, bending her hand backwards so he can look at her palm.
Aya raises his head. "What is it?" His voice is soft, and he studies her feet, poising the tweezers above another embedded sliver.
"Her fingers aren't broken."
Aya waits. There's no need to ask; Ken doesn't know the value of not saying out loud what runs through his mind. Sometimes it bothers Aya, but at least, it means he doesn't have to waste breath to ask questions. Ken will answer as if they were asked. Still, there're several seconds before he speaks, and Aya wonders at the pause.
"She's a mechanic," Ken finally says. "Her fingers, her wrists. Most important tools of the trade."
That makes sense to Aya. Getting nimble fingers in and out of tight places in engines, car bodies, holding a torch in one hand and a scraping brush in the other, running a spark plug against the circular gauge, fiddling with butterfly valves.
"Seen her work, once," Ken says, half to himself. "Her sixteenth birthday. That's when I sent her flowers..."
Aya doesn't react, but listens intently.
Ken purses his lips, as though Aya's silence were a complete response in its own way. "If her hands aren't broken, it means those jackass brothers of hers didn't want her unable to work."
"Brothers?" Aya asks despite himself.
"Her real family." Ken snorts. The way he says it, the meaning is clear: like real family means shit these days.
Aya wonders what Rai would need money for, that she'd come all that way to Ken, rather than turn to her own family, her blood-brothers.
"She has two older brothers, one younger," Ken mutters. "She got placed with them two years ago, when her real father finally kicked the bucket. Oldest brother got custody back from the government. Don't know why," he mumbles under his breath. "Useless trash...Wannabe yakuza, low-rent thugs."
Aya puzzles over the fact that Ken automatically assumes the culprits were Rai's brothers. He suspects the irony isn't lost on Ken that one reason might be gambling debts. It's common enough, certainly.
Ken ties a knot and snips the suture thread. He gets up, rests his hand softly on Rai's head for a long heartbeat, then withdraws his hand. His fingers trail across the dark brown strands, tucking a few behind her ear. She twitches, moving against the pressure of his fingertips, then falls back into sleep.
"Going to take a shower," Ken says.
"About time," Aya murmurs, too low for Ken to hear. He wipes down her blood stained feet with antibiotic cream, and trying not to think about the touch of Ken's hand on Rai's face. It's not the touch that keeps coming back to his mind. It's the fact that Rai moved, just a little, responding to the caress.
Aya scowls down at Rai's feet, and begins to bandage them.
...xxxXxxx...
Yohji follows Aya to his apartment, rather than head up to his own place. Aya glances behind him, the glare warning him away, but Yohji just smiles lazily and holds his ground. After a few seconds of stand off, Aya's gaze falls away, and it's the most surrender he'll give.
"Med kit in the same place?" Yohji rolls his eyes at Aya's growl. "I'll take that as a yes."
In the living room, Aya's stripping off his shirt, and feeling along the small of his back and across his side. Even as stoic as he is sometimes, his fingers jerk when they touch the edges of the knife wound. Yohji drops the towels and the med kit on Aya's glass coffee table.
"Sit down," Yohji orders, and after a second – long enough to indicate he's not giving in, just deciding on his own to cooperate – Aya perches on the edge of the coffee table, his back to Yohji.
If there's any sign of trust in him, it's that moment of turning his back willingly on anyone. Of course, he turned his back on one of their targets tonight, and it nearly cost him a kidney, but it wasn't like Aya had a choice, Yohji tells himself. Three others coming from the opposite direction made the odds easy to calculate.
Yohji kneels down, grimacing at the hard floor under his knees, and swabs carefully at the wound. "Clean cut," he reports, and studies the wound. "No stitches needed, I think."
"Then leave it," Aya says, starting to move away.
"Don't move," Yohji replies, catching Aya by the hips and pulling him back down. Aya's back stiffens at the unwelcome touch. Goddamnit, you boneheaded asshole, Yohji wants to snap, you've made your displeasure clear for the record. Now just shut up and sit there and take a bit of help like a man. But he doesn't say it; Aya's katana is only an arm's length away, and he does value what little living he gets to do. He'd like to keep it up a bit longer.
In retaliation, Yohji covers a gauze pad with hydrogen peroxide, and Aya's incensed hiss is a pleasing sound to Yohji's ears. He smirks, but Aya doesn't move away or protest, though his skin shivers and twitches at the sting of the chemical running down the wound. Yohji dabs it up, covering the thin wound-slice with cream, and bandages it neatly.
"Done," he says, getting to his feet.
"Now go away," Aya replies, pulling his shirt to his chest when he stands up. He turns away slightly, but only enough that he's looking at Yohji out of the corner of his eye. He's standing at the edge of exhaustion, but he's not going to fall until he's alone.
Yohji figures it's time to get to the point.
"You took care of that girl's arm this afternoon."
Aya narrows his eyes, and looks away. His lips are set in a firm line.
"Well, well," Yohji says, just a hint of mocking, but not so much it'll set off Aya's delicate proximity alarms when it comes to ridicule. "There is a human being under there."
"What's your point?" Aya doesn't bristle, really. He just grows completely still. He always seems so braced for someone to hit him, though they'd lose an arm – or both – if they tried.
"And then I hear you helped Ken clean her up." Yohji casually gathers up the bloodied gauze, and strolls past Aya to dump it in the kitchen trash. "Good of you," but he says it like it could be an insult, because a compliment just might be fighting words. "Get some sleep, Aya, long day tomorrow dealing with flowers."
While the rest of us deal with your thorns, he wants to add. We should get wartime pay just for your attitude, and he smirks, amused by his own wit.
"If you're going out drinking, don't expect me to wait up for you," Aya spits. His arms come up, holding the shirt against his chest as he crosses his arms, glowering. He opens his mouth, but Yohji holds up a hand.
"I know, I know, I'm a slut," and he laughs, shrugging. "They love me. Don't know why you insist on being the only one not in the crowd. More love in this world, and it might be a better place. Especially love for me."
He sighs melodramatically, and leers at Aya's bare chest, the curve and dip of pectoral muscles down to a lean, flat stomach. Not quite as classically masculine as an athlete's body, and almost girlish, but Yohji's never going to repeat that observation out loud, though he gets a kick out of it. Then, one glance at Aya's closed-off face, and Yohji knows suddenly that a line was crossed somewhere. The eyes are shuttered, the chin up, the lips no longer tight but relaxed, a bit open with soft breathing; it's a startling change, even if only in minute details on an otherwise inscrutable face. Yohji lets the moment hang, not sure how to go forward or move backwards.
Heartbeats pass, until Aya turns away. "Ken would've fucked it up, if he'd done it all on his own."
Yohji accepts that as dismissal, and leaves without a word. He remembers the startled look on Aya's face, and doesn't forget what he learned.