Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss, I just like to play with them once in a while. My work is always pro bono.
I wake up to David Bowie. Cold morning sunlight slices through dusty venetian blinds casting striped shadows across my feather duvet. I shut the radio off and will myself out of bed. I bite back last night's half-eaten dinner as the room tilts in all manner of directions and shuffle into the shower. I start cold but soon enough the bathroom's filled with steam. I brush my teeth, run mousse-coated fingers through dampened hair. It's only when I'm fully dressed, casting one last bleary-eyed glance around my disheveled room, that it occurs to me who I'm working with today.
Two weeks ago, I was enjoying a post-mission cigarette to calm the nerves. My hands were steady but that just comes with practice. I went through the motions as if I were doing stockroom inventory. It couldn't have felt more routine. It's only now that I'm beginning to wonder why Aya decided to cover me, leaving Omi to his own devices, sitting cross-legged in a tangle of wires and laptops, his back potentially vulnerable to the Hanabusa-Eikiguchi Pharmaceutical Company's security. As I make my way to the shop, I light up my morning smoke. This time my hands are slightly shaky. I blame it on the hangover.
To be perfectly honest, I don't really like Aya and this dislike is increasing as I watch him, once again, create the perfect flower arrangement. I take a sip of my scalding black coffee and study his graceful fingers as they dart back and forth with a tiny pair of shears, working furiously to get the morning's order out. Desperate for small talk, I pick up the order book and ask, "When's this one due? I'll get the box."
"8:45," His voice is so excruciatingly smooth. Like butter wouldn't melt.
I half nod, not sure if I should say anything more and duck into the back room wondering what else I can do here so I don't have to go back. The tension in the store is unbearably thick. The morning rush doesn't usually start until 9:30. I sigh heavily and fold the box. He's quiet for the next little while, content to prepare more arrangements. I sit back on a stool by the cash and put my booted feet up on the counter. I close my eyes, ready to take a quick nap. But before I completely sink into the fog of sleep, I can feel his eyes on me. He doesn't have to say anything; I know right away that I'm not supposed to put my feet on the counter. I refuse to move. Besides, he owes me.
About fifteen minutes later and I'm half-dreaming about nothing in particular, he finally has to say something. "Watch your feet."
I half open my eyes and glance at designer steel toes, give a satisfactory nod since I am evidently doing as I am told and promptly return to my nap's sweet embrace.
"Youji."
He's usually more patient.
I reach for my coffee and take a sip. Boots still on the counter. I'm in the mood to ruffle some Abyssinian feathers this fine morning. It becomes a cold war – will Aya have to ask me (the horror!) to move again? Or shall I behave? We'll never know because the person for the 8:45 order steps in to the sound of a door chime.
I sit up and give her a pleasant, "Good morning!"
She has nothing on Yuri. Lacks her statuesque facial features, the poise. She seems about my age, maybe a little older with lots of brown curly hair. She's in a cute trench coat, though, with a pair of red pumps and I give her my most charming smile. She blushes a little, leans in a little too close. Aya stands to the side as I present her with his arrangement.
"It's perfect!" She beams.
I guide her over to the cash and we make small talk. The entire time I can feel Aya watching me, that is until he steps into the back for whatever reason. My guess is jealousy and while Fujimiya-san really pisses me off sometimes, this isn't exactly what I want. Irritating him over a pair of boots is one thing but I'm not this cold. Not when everything is so fresh and confusing and so utterly complicated. I try to make the transaction quick but she lingers for a while. I tape the box shut and wave her out the door, feeling relief as the staccato click, click, click of heels on wet concrete fades away.
I step into the back, looking for Aya. He's sitting on the worn sofa with a cup of tea and a pile of papers in front of him, likely mission-related stuff. I take a deep breath and sit on a chair across from him. He doesn't bother to look up.
"Thought she'd never leave," I try to sound lighthearted, like we talk like this all the time.
"Why would she, with you draped all over he like that?" He still doesn't look up at me but instead makes a quick note on a black and white photograph of what looks like a slightly overweight salary man leaving a building, eyes hiding behind a pair of sunglasses. I suddenly wish for the comfort of mine.
"Okay, so maybe next time I'll be really rude to the customers so they don't bother to come back."
"The Koneko's just a front anyway."
"You're not the one to be talking about 'fronts'". At this, he finally looks at me but it's only momentary. At the very least, though, he doesn't go back to his work. I hesitantly continue, "I don't really know what to do about this either. It's just not… well, I mean I never would have thought this would happen. I mean, maybe I could see this happening with Ken but I'm pretty sure Ken doesn't swing that way."
"I don't need this." Is all he bothers to say and he goes back to the front of the store.
"You don't need this? You! I don't need this, Aya," I rush after him. "Look, this is just as awkward for me as it is for you. I don't even know what to make of you half the time and then you ruin my plans only to lay this insane confession on me…!"
After my shouting the room is eerily quiet. Aya takes his time to respond and before he does I finally take a good, solid look at him – at his long nose, his perfectly oval face, that fringe of red only making his features seem that much sharper, the same orange sweater, the same dark jeans, worn out running shoes and tight lips. I realize I've never really bothered to look at him before and beneath that hideous outfit and the impenetrable scowl lies something far deeper than I originally gave him credit for.
"I don't know why I said what I did either," the tone of his voice is measured, as if he is weighing each word carefully before uttering them, "but I had to. Youji, you're so self-involved and it was becoming too much for me. It doesn't matter anymore. I said what I had to say and I expect nothing from you. I'm going to get some change for the cash."
He leaves. Stricken, I slump back onto my stool and look into the cash drawer. It's full.