“Chocolates, Yohji?”
Progress, that was the first time this week Aya hadn’t called him Kudou! Yohji gave the redhead a lazy grin. “A lot of chocolates, Ayan. You’re too skinny.” That was a lie, Abyssinian was perfect. But the shi-ne glare would show up if Yohji said that, or if he confessed he hoped to gain favor through Ran’s sweet tooth. The blonde shrugged. “Share them with Aya-chan.”
“Oh, Yohji-kun, how sweet!” Aya-chan squealed, earning the blonde a scowl from her brother. Yohji had asked her not to do that, but Aya-chan was a Fujimiya, and she did what she wanted to do. “My other present is last, Oniisan!” She plopped another box in front of Aya. The scowl mellowed to gentle disapproval as it moved to her.
“Two presents, Aya-chan? You shouldn’t have–“
”Nande? You are worth two presents!” Besides, this one was from Yohji. But he and his conspirator knew Aya wouldn’t take it from Yohji. “Come on, open it!”
Yohji tried not to focus on those long, sensitive fingers as Aya carefully removed the wrapping. God, if he didn’t get some relief soon, he was just going to tackle the man, and–no he wouldn’t. There couldn’t be many more painful ways to die than suicide-by-Aya.
“Che!” Aya-chan exclaimed. “Just open it, Ran-niisan!”
“Aya-chan!” Aya stopped to stare at her. “Watch your language!”
“I know worse words than that, Ran-niisan, and if you don’t hurry up I’ll use them!”
Aya scowled at Yohji again, like he was the only one who swore around the girl, and slid his fingers inside the wrapping paper to pull out a box. He opened it and stared.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Aya-chan squealed. Though she didn’t know what it was, all she could see was the color. Yohji had ordered it very last-minute, and picked it up already wrapped. Aya lifted the shirt and looked at it.
“Umm…it’s…lovely.”
“Anou, Aya-chan,” Omi began, but stopped at a look from Aya. Ken just walked away. Yohji kept an eye on Aya-chan’s raptures, and made a note to never forget what an actress the girl was.
“Oh, but the color suits your eyes, Ran-niisan! And when Yohji-kun said you were going to go out this weekend…” Another glare at Yohji, he just shrugged, and hoped he didn’t show a hint of how much he wanted to see Aya in that top. Hiroshi was indeed the best. The shirt was a deep purple-blue that really did do wonders for Aya’s already beautiful eyes, it was leather, with a high but open collar that would show off his incredible neck, it was short enough it would show muscle when Aya moved, and it had zippers and buckles all over it. Aya wore anything for his daily life–witness the orange sweater–but for work he liked things with zippers and buckles. As if he gave only his victims the courtesy of seeing his true self. Well, that was enough of that. Yohji was all for zippers and buckles, as long as they actually opened.
Aya-chan was still chattering, Yohji caught her eye and glanced at the box. The shirt wasn’t all. She caught the hint and poked her brother.
“Hayaku, Oniisan, there’s more!”
Okay, Yohji might have pushed things a little. Aya stared at the vinyl pants, and so did Aya-chan. Omi choked, Ken came back to splutter. Black. Low-cut. Zippered. All the way up both sides. They’d fit, Yohji was sure, Hiroshi didn’t need to measure any more than Yohji needed dance lessons, but–
“On second thought,” Yohji slid the chocolates away from Aya, “better not eat these.”
“Aya-chan,” the redhead said softly, “why?”
“Because!” Aya-chan rallied. “Because I want you to have fun, Ran-niisan!” She leaned to stroke her brother’s face. “You have been too long in the dark,” she said softly. “I want people to see you. Will you have fun? For me?”
“I–will get the cake,” Omi said, pushing to his feet. “Help me, Ken-kun?”
“Aa.”
“I’ll get the plates,” Yohji volunteered, wanting to be behind Ken and anything he was carrying. And to get out of the room before Aya-chan blew, whether it was laughter or anger she was holding in. Aya hadn’t noticed yet, he was still in shock.
Or maybe not. “I won’t forget,” that deep voice was rich with promise, “to thank you for helping Aya-chan, Kudou.”
Aya-chan assured her brother just how much help Yohji-kun had been. Yohji wondered if he’d mistaken Aya-chan’s intentions, if instead of trying to help, the girl was angling to get dear sweet Yohji-kun sliced into sashimi.
***
“No, damn it, Farf, use the tongs!” Schuldig gave the pie crust another despairing thump, it didn’t go any flatter than it had with the last thirty or so. If Nagi had done it like he asked, damn it– “Scheisse!”
“Why?” Farfarello picked up the tongs, though, and fished the remainder of the rubber spatula out. Then he pulled out a perfectly-done fried chicken breast, with a lovely trail of melted rubber twined around it. “White,” he said. “Where are the red and blue ones?”
“Farf, we are not decorating the fried chicken!”
Nagi’s laughter sounded from the door, Schuldig reminded himself throwing things at a telekinetic was an exercise in futility. Although Bombay had gotten through with the mister…
“Apples peeled and sliced,” Nagi reported. “Shouldn’t you have that crust ready?”
Don’t scream, Schuldig told himself, don’t growl, don’t snarl, don’t swear. “Nagi, I will get you tickets and chaperone you to that concert, if you will just get this crust to work.”
“It’s sold out, Schuldig.”
Schu turned, flour-covered hands on hips, and smirked at his teammate. Nagi grinned.
“Okay, Mastermind, you got yourself a deal. Get the filling ready.”
Finally! Schu got out of the way, confiscating the rubber spatulas as he did. “Farf, you could get the hibachi ready.” Since he’d destroyed half the fried chicken, damn it! “Don’t set fire to yourself, Brad won’t be happy.”
“Brad-chan,” Nagi mocked, and fluttered his eyelashes. “Don’t you ever get enough rejection, Schuldig?”
Don’t scream, don’t growl, don’t snarl, don’t swear. Don’t taunt back, tomorrow was soon enough to make the little whelp pay. Schuldig counted ways until the urge to do it now passed. Then he went back to the recipe. “This is easy,” he muttered over the cookbook. “Can it be this easy?”
“Maybe they thought the crust was bad enough.” The pastry dough floated past Schuldig’s elbow, to arrange itself perfectly in the pie pan. “Let me know when you’re ready for the top,” Nagi said, floating a soda on his way out. “It’s too hot in here.”
He was right, it was. Farfarello had left too, hopefully not to douse the hibachi with lighter fluid. Brad had only been willing to help by buying beer, an absolute necessity, Schuldig had insisted. So, of course, Brad had said he would get that American swill…the telepath pulled his hair up and stuck a chopstick through it. Gott in der Holle, Brad Crawford had better start warming up soon, or all of Tokyo was going to be killing each other from the resonance of his frustration. Not that he cared, but Brad would, if it interfered with his plans.
Why on earth had he decided to try to cook, anyway? Sure, celebrating the American holiday was a good plan, but why try to do it home-made? Fried chicken was easy to come by, after all, and apple pies had to be available, there were enough Americans in Tokyo…
Because the harder he worked, the more romantic it was, that was why. Schu sighed and stole a peek at the potato salad, done and delicious in the refrigerator, before he fished out the now-burned batch of chicken. It wasn’t safe after Farf melted who-knew-what in there anyway. He put another pan of oil on to heat, and turned back to the pie. This, this and that, and the filling was made, and, “Nagi!”
“Gotcha.” The telekinetic leaned in the window, fanning himself as he stared at the pie crust. Lattice-work, exactly like the picture, sometimes the kid was actually worth knowing. “Done. Farf said the hibachi is going, bring out the rubber spatulas when you come.”
“As if.” Schuldig grabbed a popsicle from the freezer, tossed it to the boy. “Thanks, Nags. Don’t ruin your dinner.”
“Between you and Farfarello, I won’t have a chance to.” Nagi stuck the treat in his mouth and rolled his eyes. ::Yum,:: he thought at Schuldig. ::Sorry I teased you. If chasing Brad-chan makes you this nice, I’m all for it.::
::Don’t get used to it, Prodigy,:: Schuldig warned. ::I’ll be my usual asshole self just as soon as I nail him.::
A spurt of mind-laughter, and Nagi disappeared. ::Then I’ll start packing ice in his boxers, Schu-Schu,:: his thought floated back.
Schuldig managed to salvage half the chicken, Farfarello charred American hot dogs and not himself, the potato salad had pride of place, the lemonade was only a little too sweet, and the pie looked not too bad. Schu surveyed the table with satisfaction. Now if Brad would show up with the beer, and Nagi would get off the damn laptop and Farfarello–
Where was Farfarello?
“Crawford!” Nagi yelled. “In five, four–
“Nagi, what–“
”Three, two–“
Oh Scheisse…
“One! Liftoff!”
Schuldig saw it go up, definitely larger than any of the fireworks he had bought. Brad came around the house, empty-handed. Schu tried to smile at him anyway, but that damn rocket was–coming down. Aimed straight at–
“Nagi!”
Assassin that he was, the boy moved in a blink, throwing himself one way as he shoved the other.
“No!” Schuldig yelped. But not even Nagi could stop it, there wasn’t time. The rocket passed the lemonade, fizzled over the potato salad, and just when Schu dared to breathe, Brad tackled him. Amazingly enough Schu wasn’t in the mood.
“Brad, the–“
The damn thing exploded. Schu threw an arm across his eyes, partially to protect them from potato salad, mostly to avoid looking at Brad.
Weight lifted off Schuldig, the telepath was pulled to his feet. Schu stared at the remains of hours of hot, messy work. Nagi and Farfarello shared looks, and turned to slink away. Schu took a deep breath. He could kill them both. It would be quicker than he wanted, but–
Brad was laughing. Okay, he could kill all three of them.
But–Brad was laughing. The brunette scraped a spot of potato salad off Schuldig’s cheek and tasted it.
“Very…” he gasped out, “very good, Schu…this was…”
“You should have tried the pie,” Schuldig lied. Probably. Nagi knew it, he laughed. Brad and Nagi laughing? Farfarello joined in, with howls that started the neighbor’s dog going. He could kill all of them, including the dog–
But Brad, who had subsided into chuckles, winked at him. Winked! “It’s the thought that counts,” he said. “Ne, Mastermind?”
Schu shook his head and pulled himself together. “At least there’s beer,” he sighed. It was the best he could do, he had worked harder on that meal than he’d worked at anything in years.
“Yes,” Brad said, pulling the forgotten chopstick from Schu’s hair, to let it fall around his face. “There’s beer.” He raised his voice. “Nagi, Farfarello, please bring the bags from the car.”
“You bastard,” Schuldig hissed. “You saw this!”
“Of course I did, Schu-Schu.” Brad picked something off Schu’s shoulder. “But you wanted to blow something up. And you have been such a good little assassin lately.” He popped the something in his mouth. “Mmm. Apple pie. Not bad.”
“Really?” Schu asked before he could stop himself.
“Really.”
There was more fried chicken. And lemonade, and apple pie, and German beer. Good German beer. And there was something called a Super Soaker 3000, that Schu found in his room when he went to change out of his food-and-grass-stained clothes. Of course while he was gone Oracle armed Prodigy and Berserker, too.
But they only had little water guns.
And hiding from Mastermind was an exercise in futility.