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, his senses on full alert, and freezes when he hears a girl's voice echoing from the shop.
"Leave off, I can figure this out."
There is a sound of a light slap, followed by a man's laugh.
Aya relaxes slightly. He 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. He knows he's giving himself a cover but he listens anyway.
"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." She's irked, but Aya can hear the slurping of someone drinking thirstily.
"Not with those feet."
"Forget that! What about these stupid sandals?"
Something solid hits the ground. Aya remembers Ken asking Omi for a pair of shoes, and realizes the sound was Omi's shoes being kicked off onto the floor.
"You're lucky my coworker has small feet – and was willing to loan shoes out."
"Aren't I." She sounds sarcastic, with a dose of affection. "Which one is the small-footed guy?"
"Omi."
Aya's ears perk. He wonders whether he's going to have to suffer through a conversation about his team. He certainly doesn't want to hear Ken's opinion of his teammates, let alone Ken's opinion of him. 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 misses the casual sound of two voices, but listening isn't going to do anything but make him bitter that Ken has someone to call sister. Especially when Aya feels with every passing moment that his own sister is moving farther away, gone, adrift, lost. His fingers clutch the pen tightly. His knuckles are white as he grips the clipboard.
His thoughts are interrupted by a steady beeping sound. Through the window in the rear door, he can see a truck backing into the loading area behind the shop. 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.
...xxxXxxx...
"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. Ken 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?" Rai is studying the sign carefully. The tip of her tongue points from the corner of her mouth as she concentrates.
"The redhead."
"Oh. Mister Attitude." Rai sits up from her task. "Mister I won't ask, I'll just—" She sees Ken's disapproving stare. "What?"
"He has an attitude. He also reset your shoulder." Ken crosses his arms. "And he spent an hour picking gravel and glass out of your feet."
"So I owe him a thanks. Assuming he can ever be civil and talk to people..." Rai catches Ken's expression. Her voice trails off to a quiet grumble under her breath.
Sure he can, Ken thinks. Just not about things you'd know anything about. Well, he reflects, on second thought, Aya might talk about his Porsche. But that'd be about it. And then you'd open your mouth and leave him completely cold with your 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. "You still have bad aim."
"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 as she finishes the third 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." He grins smugly, and he throws the inventoried florist tape into a separate box. Rai bends over the counter to letter the last sign as neatly as she can manage, and 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?"
Ken looks over at the signs. "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. Frowning, she studies Aya's precise but graceful handwriting. She holds it up against the sign she'd lettered; the flowing characters a far cry from her own bold marks. "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 grins wickedly.
"Don't even think about it." Ken glowers momentarily, then his eyes narrow; he looks smug. "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 fell right back in his face. "Never thinks I'd see the day."
"Yeah, well, never thinks I'd hear you with a perverted comeback." Rai holds up the sign she'd just completed.
"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 takes two of the signs. "If the customers get to you, hide behind Aya. He'll clear them out in no time."
"Hide behind him?" Rai mock-shudders. Ken raises an eyebrow at her. "More likely I'll hide behind you to get away from him. He gives me the creeps. Bizarre crazy-looking eyes."
"Oh, like I see your eye color everyday."
"You would if you brought that beat-up motorcycle so I can work on it 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, you 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," Ken says, tossing a grin over his shoulder as he stands up.
"Hell is having to sleep with your blanket-hugging ass."
"I still want to know more about this fixation with tinfoil," Ken replies. His large brown eyes are wide, but the innocent effect is ruined when he grins again.
"Tinfoil?" Aya's deep voice startles them both.
Rai sits up quickly and promptly knocks over the cup of pens next to the register. Blue ball point pens fly everywhere. Aya doesn't turn to look; a muscle flickers in his jaw.
"Damn, sorry," Rai whispers as she collects the pens on the counter and drops them into the cup. In the chill of Aya's entrance, the rattling sound of five pens hitting plastic makes her jump. "Sorry," she repeats softly as she hops off the stool to collect the pens on the floor.
"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. Ken leans over and snags the last three pens in a quick movement. Dropping them on the counter, he gives Rai another stern look. "I'm serious."
She sticks out her lower lip. Rai's gaze darts around Ken, checking; he realizes she's worried about being reprimanded in front of an audience, but Aya's gone. Ken returns to his chores, and a minute later Aya reappears with several long boxes. He drops them on the table and heads to the back again.
Rai regards Ken with a mischievous grin. "Guess now isn't the time to ask if you're going to carry me to the bathroom?"
"What?" Ken gives her a bewildered look, then scowls. "Shut up already."
Rai grumbles quietly for a second, then shrugs. She leans onto the counter, watching as the two men prepare the shop for its daily opening.
...xxxXxxx...
By mid-morning Aya is reluctantly admitting 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 his brash teammate being cursed with surly, introverted people.
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. And 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 plant.
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.
"You going to buy those?" Rai's flat voice breaks the silence. The woman obediently hands over her money, accepts the change and the flowers. The three women leave without another word, but their backwards glances are suspicious and disdainful.
Aya glances over, one quick look, as Rai tucks her hair behind an ear. She looks grumpy, but hurt, at the same time. 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, Aya realizes, that's his job. He'd learnt that lesson so she'd never have to.
...xxxXxxx...
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. Giving up, he rolls out of bed. "I'm coming, shut up," he mutters, scratching at his chest as he pulls on a pair of jeans. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles to the door.
"I need a favor," Ken says without preamble, pushing into the apartment
"This better involve death," Yohji replies. "It's only twelve-thirty." He rubs his forehead as he 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 ignores Ken's comment. He brings 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 whiskey bottle down. Frowning, he leans his head against the cabinet for several seconds before turning 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. Ken's smile disappears, and he shakes his head.
"But, no, 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 dye 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."
...xxxXxxx...
"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. God, he thinks. I can't take this. She shouldn't be here. The risk is too great. I 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 I wouldn't give...
He pushes the thought away. Opens the carryout carton. Realizes...and glances around the table, puzzled. Where's my drink? Aggravated, Aya's about to get up when he hears padding footsteps behind him and 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 as she departs. He lets his breath out softly once the backroom's door is closed.
...xxxXxxx...
Yohji drops the third and final box on Ken's floor, vaguely surprised that there's open space on the floor for any additional stuff. 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. There are clothes across the back of the sofa, dirty dishes and damp dishrags on the countertop, and shoes piled around the door. There's dirty dinnerware on the coffee table, and a stack of medical supplies.
Probably from putting that girl back together, Yohji muses.
Soccer balls huddle in one corner; sports magazines pile nearly a foot high against the wall. The kitchen table is piled high with clean clothes that hadn't been folded. The television sits on a plastic crate. The VCR 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.
Yohji shakes himself out of his funk and stares down at the box at his feet, flexing his fingers at the ache of carrying a box of tools and books up the stairs. Audi Transmission Manual, one says. Another, Porsche 944/928 Engines, is well-thumbed and grease-spattered. Rifling through the box, Yohji raises his eyebrows at the practical collection of oversized, filthy, fingerprinted paperback 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 had nodded without repeating the message, and left without another word.
The man grimaces at the clothes scattered over the sofa. He 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.
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," Yohji mutters. He goes down on one knee to quickly scrape the items back into the box. Idly the man gathers the items together, automatically cataloging as though he were still a detective. A pressed corsage, 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 photograph, bent at one edge, indecipherably blurry characters scribbled on the back. Yohji flips it over to look at the picture.
It's three kids. The two boys look not more than 11; the girl with them seems to be maybe a few years younger. Her hair is short, but pulled back in two ponytails that stick up at uneven angles. There's a band-aid on her cheek. 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.
Yohji blinks, staring at the boys' faces. The boy in the middle has to be Ken, that easy-going and open smile unmistakable. Ken is staring at the camera; his friend is staring at him. The girl is looking off a little to the left of the camera, her smile faintly sad. She's partially hidden behind Ken at the same time. The boy on Ken's right, Yohji concludes, must be Kase. He recognizes the expression. It's someone who wants something badly. Someone, Yohji thinks, isn't going to get it, and knows it, and hates because of it.
Strange dynamics of childhood friends, he thinks. Quietly 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. A few more items and the entire box's contents are 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.
...xxxXxxx...
Omi pushes away from the computer and rubs the back of his neck. Grabbing the printouts, he scans them quickly before shutting everything down and heading upstairs. This isn't going to be the best night. He can feel that already, but it's a favor to Ken.
Not, Omi admits, that Ken had asked. Ken, that crazy bastard, saw nothing wrong with drugging the girl and leaving her out cold until after he gets home. Thankfully Aya backed Omi up, notorious glare turned full-bore until Ken agreed to an alternate plan. Omi is still a little confused by Ken's willingness for deceit, since Ken is usually the most open of any of them.
Trudging upstairs, Omi runs a hand through his tangled hair. Maybe...no, going out to eat is out of the question. He'll need to be by the phone in case Ken or Aya reports in. It was supposed to be Yohji and Aya tonight. Ken must've chalked up a significant favor, and Yohji called it in.
New club opening downtown. Omi grins ruefully. Never let it be said the eldest of the team 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. Stepping inside, he drops his shoes and pads softly to the computer. While it boots up, he checks the system attached to the cell phone.
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 sitting against 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 is propped up on one of the mismatched kitchen chairs. A cord runs from it across the floor and over to the laptop. His apartment is mostly textbooks, notebooks, computer magazines, mangas, and programming manuals.
This is not going to make a good impression, Omi decides, and does his best to shovel the majority of his stuff into semi-organized piles. 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.
...xxxXxxx...
"Goddammit, Siberian, focus!"
Ken jerks his shoulder away from Aya's hand. "I am. You've left your position," he growls, turning away.
"I'd still be there if you has answered even one of my last sixteen calls," Aya retorts coldly. "I thought you'd passed out or shut off your transmitter."
Like you'd care anyway, Ken thinks dully. He considers saying it out loud: ice cubes run in your veins. A single glance at Aya's expression reminds him of the stupidity of doing that. Aya doesn't need the katana to kill. His glare is a registered weapon.
"Did you at least get the times for the exchanges?"
"Yeah." Ken steps out of the alleyway. His leather jacket is pulled tight around his chest. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. "Already called Omi with the news."
There's silence as the two approach the corner. Aya startles Ken by stopping in front of the small café.
"Dinner," Aya says, guiding Ken into the restaurant. His tone brooks no argument.
"Not hungry." Ken's tone is sullen, but a skeptical grunt is the only response to his protest.
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 as he shoots the question at his companion.
"I want to know if this is going to keep up," Aya replies evenly. "You were barely worth it last night, and tonight I don't think you've seen but a third of what's been under your nose." He sips his tea, grimacing at the still-hot liquid. "This keeps up, I'll take you off the mission."
"Fuck you," Ken mutters. "I'm fine."
That skeptical sound again, in the back of Aya's throat, but Ken's made no move to jump up and leave in a huff, so Aya doesn't push it. He suspects there's something Ken needs to say. His gut instinct tells him it'd be wiser to let Ken come around to it but waiting is a luxury Aya can't afford. He gives Ken a hard stare.
"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." Ken 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? Yeah, 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.
...xxxXxxx...