So…..the Dinner Date. Created by popular demand. Rejoice, and by merry!
Well, I should just warn you to consider this an AU to the AU of the hotel-book-stalking one-shot. It's just that the mood in this one is decidedly lighter, with a lot more humour. So no doom and gloom. Sorry, I know how everyone loves doom and gloom.
Sigh.
Hope you enjoy!
Warning: Far too much John Cusack bashing. You'll see what I mean.
-x-x-x-
At the tender age of eight years old, Misaki Ayuzawa had learnt two vital, international, indisputable truths that would enable her with a bright step into her awaiting future; the first – grovelling will get you everywhere.
The second – all men are babies.
While she had learned the first observing the antics of her once-was-there-but-is-now-nowhere-to-be-seen-the-good-for-nothing-bastard father (or so she thus christened him now in her mind, which, you may agree, would be nothing short of sardonic if the very same thought was running through her earlier eight-year-old mind. Which hadn't – yet) appealing to her mother – proof of the fact it had been only his perpetual pleading that had induced her mother to put up with the scoundrel for so long, and in effect, was the only thing keeping him there for so long.
With grovelling, anything was excused. Hell, she could have gone on a puppy vendetta and live through the consequences with the help of a little carpet-to-knee time.
The second truth (which renders it by no means lesser to the first) was conceived after a particularly intense viewing of Anastasia, and although Dimitri was mighty fine (well, as mighty fine as a man can be to an eight-year-old girl with a developing hate-all-things-x-chromosome complex), all mighty finess was lost when six years later, thanks to a faulty Google search and one too many suggestive pop-up ads, she discovered the voice of the charming 2-D Russian belonged to none other than John Cusack.
John Bloody Cusack.
Ugh.
So the fascination ended there. Despite this traumatic turn of events, however, she a) not only survived, but b) had already gleamed the most important message those overly happy buggers stowed away laughing maniacally away in Pixar had implanted in the animation on the first viewing: All Men are Babies.
She swore by it.
Big, fat, cry-baby babies.
(Babies as in the under one-year-old kind of babes, not the kind you find without their shirts on in Italy strolling down the cobble-stone streets with hands that were born to cook Mamma's authentic lasagne.)
(Although, it would be nice if all men were that kind, though. Just saying.)
So, it was this second truth-to-end-all-truths that Misaki chanted inside her head as she stumbled out of the taxi (gracefully) and surveyed the (slightly shabby) restaurant before her.
"Out gonna go have yourselves a good time tonigh,' eh?" the bearded, slightly chubby taxi driver commented appreciatively, gazing up at the store front of her intended destination with an alarming mix of awe and nostalgia. The tattoo on his right arm cheerfully informed her that, indeed, All Love to Mum.
Before she could even inform him that his question defied all principles of grammer, let alone common courtesy, he barked out the fare. In currency. (She was hoping by some small miracle she could pay him in left-overs. Or violence.)
To which stated price she naturally haggled.
And when feminine charms didn't cut it, or rather, he seemed too distracted by her chest to make any other reasonable offer, she unleashed the venom.
The venom that tore out one-third of the Idiot Trio's earrings. And laughed.
The venom that hospitalised Kanou from a case of sheer, unadulterated fear, and sent funeral lilies as a get well gift.
The venom that sunk fifty-three battleships, damn it.
"You know what," the taxi driver practically choked on his own spit, turning slightly blue, "this one's on me."
-x-x-x-
Usui had devoured his third olive by splitting it vertically with his teeth, and attempted to extract the filling with his tongue. Which was hard – but he bravely persevered, as any good soldier would.
After another twenty-three seconds, the valiant battle was won by only a hair (which had somehow slithered into his mouth, no doubt with the intention to sabotage the epic war. Upon pulling out the culprit, he realised, without some astonishment, that it was red. Which was inexplicably creepy.) This glorious triumph sent all the other olives meekly assembled in the 'refreshments' bowl in the middle of the table quaking with fear.
It was at this point of his half-assembled hero-complex that he realised if his date didn't walk in through the door in the next three seconds, he would officially go mad. Straight jacket. One short of the stack. Devoid of marbles. Mad. Insane. Asylum-dwelling. Downright unattractive.
However, before he could discreetly pull out a hair from his head and check that it was the still golden-gorgeous-better-than-thou's blonde he had been blessed with (the thought of unattractiveness always seemed to incite concern for the state of his hair), an ominous shadow fell heavily from before him, darkening the entire table.
He might have squealed.
You know, a manly squeal.
"Your shoes are untied," was what she first announced from behind him. A poorly concealed cough was the second.
A quick beat passed, tasting primarily of confusion. "They're slip-on."
She smiled, and though he couldn't see it at first, the remnants of it remained lazily as she settled down opposite him, conveniently ignoring the space left beside him in their little booth in the corner of the hustling, bustling, slightly grimy Mexican Restaurant. Their neighbours were either laughing uproariously, passionately making-out, or in most cases, a complicated inclusion of both. A small (yet at the same time overtly ample – Misaki wondered how a girl with that physique could possibly stand upright) hula-dancer with a bobble head stood in the centre of the chipped table as the primary ornament, holding what seemed to be a frying pan and a chilli. Or a giant magnifying glass and a red grenade.
It was hard to tell.
Beside her, the salt and pepper shakers stood, along with a depleted bowl of green, stuffed olives – all three being the dancer's beaus, of course. All hula-dancers need beaus.
Misaki blinked one, twice, then sat, for lack of a better word, primly.
She realised she should probably acknowledge his statement rather than, you know, stare at the salt and pepper shakers. "You're smarter than you look," she offered finally.
"Is it the hair?"
Misaki shrugged, taking in the gaudy, multi-cultural (or culturally confused) interior instead of paying him any real attention. She focused on a rusty numberplate hanging behind his left shoulder that read Beer, Booze and Babes: State of Luxury. A thoughtful donation to the establishment, really.
"It might be the hair," she finally conceded, marvelling at his choice of restaurant. She wasn't offended as much as she had been proven wrong. On that account she was off-kilter. She expected imported dancers from the Moulin Rouge to break out from nowhere at any moment. Or John Cusack. In which case, she would leave – date be damned.
Usui noted all this with growing amusement. He couldn't wait till the Mexican trio with guitars came out. That was always fun. Especially when the confetti fell in your food and poisoned your silver(plastic)ware.
"It was worse in high school," he told her conversationally, indicating his hair with a slight gesture.
Misaki assessed him. Worse wasn't the word she would have used, because, well, he looked good. Like he always did – walking, swimming, brooding, talking to cats. Obviously, he was one of those annoying people (or aliens) who could actually make themselves look pretty damn fine if the fancy so took them. Even at seven in the morning. Even at three in the morning.
While still asleep.
Bastards.
True, with all that warm blonde pushed back from his forehead in an old-Hollywood style, she wouldn't call it bad, per se. More like acceptable – acceptable in a way that made her feel slightly self-conscious, tugging at the hem of your shirt or checking your hair in the reflection of the water jug.
Like you would if George Clooney suddenly walked in the room.
Or the Queen (only in a more masculine sex-appeal way and less a wrinkly, old woman way).
She frowned at him. "It couldn't have been that bad. What was your name, anyway?" she tacked the last question on as an afterthought, trying to account for that fact they had officially started counting the time on their date fifteen minutes ago, and she didn't even know his full (or real, for that matter) name.
Smooth.
Usui smiled down at her from his side of the table, only a little but evilly.
He then proceeded to comb his hair with his fingers against the way it had been combed back, pushing fistfuls of hair toward his forehead, clumps hanging around and between his eyes. His hands remained firm on his head, lest it all fall back to his neck again out of habit.
"Holy-Usuu?" Miaski's eyes just about popped out of her head, danced a jig, and refused to come back to their rightful place.
"Usui," he corrected, somewhat grimly. "Takumi Usui."
He had hoped she would at least get his damn name right. It was slightly unfair – he had remembered her with such clarity that creeped himself out at times. He had seen her, his maid, in his room.
His own ex-president of his own ex-high school.
Misaki Ayuzawa.
And it had all came rushing back.
The Demon President. The detentions. The endless threats – boy, did he cop them – and in all shapes and sizes, too. She seemed to have a new catchphrase every lunchtime; I swear, I'll carve out your kidneys as a side-dish for tonight's dinner…Today, you become a sushi roll. A dead sushi roll…Do you plan on producing any children in the future?. . .I'll make you cry blood, boy. Then I'll drink it… Half of them would have been admirably creative if they hadn't been so terrifying at the time. The energy that exuded from her was like a drug.
Misaki Ayuzuwa.
She had been that girl.
And who was he?
Takumi Bloody Usuu.
Unrecognizable due to a hairstyle change.
Who the hell would show their face when their name's Usuu anyway, damn it?
Misaki still seemed to be coming to grips with this blast from the past (past was undeniable, blast, however, was open for contention. Lots of contention. – like John Cusack).
"You knew who I was?" she cried incredulously, hands fluttering about her, gesticulating nothing but utter nonsense. She finally grasped her glass of water (on the house) and proceeded to drown in it for a short period. Anything to get herself to shut up before she really embarrassed herself.
Good god, Takumi Usui? The one and only wunderkid of Seika High. The Most High. The untouchable Untouchable. The one Sakura would prattle on and on about when she'd run out of fun-facts-everyone-should-know about her darling – wait, what was his name again? That Indian singer. Wait, no – that indie singer.
Okay, so she was a bit out of touch.
But Usui?
They barely had any communication through those six long years that strayed beyond herself verbally beating the crap out of him for being Player of the Year every year, and him shrugging noncommittally in response. Always. He was notorious, though: the I-get-fifty-confessions-every-day-and-it's-utterly-normal prince. The I-land-at-the-top-of-my-class-every-time-even-though-I-didn't-even-take-the-exams nerd. The I-can-just-stand-here-in-this-potato-sack-and-look-prettier-than-all-you-girls-combined idol. The I-don't-need-to-look-anyone-in-the-eye fool.
The I'm-on-a-date-with-Misaki-Ayuzawa-and-may-or-may-not-be-glancing-at-her-chest man.
Misaki growled menacingly as this new piece of information computed.
Usui only laughed, holding up his hands in mock defence, guiltless as anything.
"I was only reading the logo," he offered charmingly.
Misaki imagined two little red horns making themselves comfortable on the top of his head in the midst of all that gold. Charming. Right.
Her growl deepened. Dangerously so. "It's a plain shirt."
Positively grinning, Usui stretched his arms above his head in an at-home kind of way, all the while watching her from under hair that was half hanging in his eyes and half returning to its (now) usual form. It reminded her somewhat of those children's hairstyles once they find the fun and thrills of homemade electricity. "You're smarter than you look," he echoed her, successfully butchering the attempt of a girly, high-pitched voice.
She ignored the playful jibe. Often, it was the safest thing to do when it came to Usui Takumi. She had learnt years ago from students and teachers alike he seemed to have a fascination with firing her up over nothing.
She sighed long-sufferingly.
"So if you know me," she indicated this with a point in his direction, then hers, "and if I know you," the same process of pointing, reversed, "what on earth are we doing here?"
Usui, who had been in the process of hunting, slipped his fork against the slippery plate before him and stabbed a regretful slice of garlic bread instead of his lethal-looking quiche.
Garlic bread – not one of his greatest ideas when it came to romantic outings, for sure.
He glanced up at her quickly, his mouth too open for anything as innocent as eating would require.
"Er, do you want to go back to mine?"
For something long and lost called decorum, he at least tried to beat down his enthusiasm in its remembrance. Dear god, he didn't know why he just hadn't gone for it sooner if she was this open to progress? Discreetly, he put the garlic bread down. Nothing kills the mood like a nice ol' lump of garlic in the molers. He had learnt that the hard way.
Meanwhile, Misaki choked, coughed herself calm, and looked altogether decidedly paler. As if she was going to be sick.
Which, in the world of romantic persuasions, probably isn't a very good sign.
Her hand clutched her fork a little tighter, only slightly lowering it to the level of his chest. Just in case. "I meant why are we even on a dinner date – don't you want to just end it and go home? This feels so awkward, and I'm sure you've had your fill of amusement from this whole thing."
Usui shrugged, reminding her of years past: wild hair, glasses, smirk, school uniform that never quite hung the way it should. "No."
"No?"
"Not really, no."
Misaki stared with a might that could send a raging bull cowering to its mother. "The hell, Usui?"
Usui smirked, shrugged, and managed to catch a glimpse of her bare calf from underneath the table all in one go.
"Say, what are you doing next week? I've got a king."
He yelped with great gusto when water splashed over his face and down his favourite green shirt, courtesy of that girl's glass.
"Men are such babies," Misaki sighed.
-x-x-x-
So, I hope I didn't let you guys down or anything – I know some peeps were pretty eager for this. I tried to include a kiss – I really did, but it just wasn't working. They just kept wanting to be feisty with each other. Oh, and, er, upon first seeing the anime, when Usui first walked in with his hair combed back, I thought 'who the hell's this guy?' So I thought it was slightly plausible for him to be fairly unrecognizable.
Take care and drop a line (or a review, whichever)
x Schnook
p.s. and by 'I've got a king,' obviously he means in bed terms. Not that I really need to say that. We all know we're all pervs here ;)
p.p.s. I'm actually going to marry John Cusack