(Little bit of reverb here, in case you didn’t just come from the last chapter.)
“I’ll go out,” Yohji offered. “If you go with me.”
“Are you insane?” Aya demanded.
“No more than you.” Yohji grinned at him. “But that’s the deal. You go with me, and actually attempt to have a good time, and I’ll stay out the whole night, bring you home drunk,” and hopefully smelling of Yohji, “and your sister will hate me for being a bad influence on you. Not to mention how she’ll have to help Ken and Omi all day, neither of us will be in any shape to work.”
“I do not get drunk, Kudou.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Ayan.”
“No deal.”
“Even if I let you help me pick out some clothes to un-wow your sister? For wear around the house, I mean, you’re not touching my club clothes.”
And so it was that Aya–codename Abyssinian, expert swordsman, ruthless assassin, icy leader of Kritiker’s finest team ever–spent the afternoon trying not to watch his playboy teammate root through his closet, searching for anything that would meet Aya’s sense of decency. Yohji had to try half his things on, since the redhead quickly realized that modest on the hanger suddenly became risque, when painted onto a body three sizes larger than it was made for. Yohji took full advantage by spending most of the time in his underwear.
“Mou, Ayan!” Yohji surveyed himself in the mirror, when he finally came across something Aya didn’t object to. “It’s–plaid! I think it’s Ken’s! And I look…Aya, I look frumpy!”
“That’s the idea, Kudou.”
“You didn’t say you’d make me look stupid!” Yohji complained.
“Stupid, frumpy–anything that lets Aya-chan see the real you.”
“Hidoi…” Yohji muttered. And yanked the clothes back off.
“What are you doing?”
“That’s one outfit.” Yohji tossed Aya a grin, though he wasn’t looking again. “I can’t wear the same outfit every day, Aya, and I’m not wearing that out of the house. We have to go shopping.”
“Shopping?” Aya repeated. “We?” He really hadn’t thought this through, had he? Yohji held his breath, closed one eye and thought skinny thoughts, and maneuvered his way into the could-read-his-credit-card jeans, then a blue crop top that brought out his eyes.
“Shopping,” he confirmed. “We. Unless you trust me to buy decent clothes on my own?”
“Fine,” Aya snapped, his arms folded and the glare back. “But you’re buying me dinner.”
“Mou, Ayan! This is all your fault!”
*****
Bungee-jumpers, Yohji had always thought, were idiots. Bungee-jumpers, skydivers, extreme sports enthusiasts, that crocodile guy from Australia…idiots, all of them. Life held more than enough danger, without going looking for that “I’m gonna die!” thrill. An odd attitude for someone in his line of work, maybe, but he did what he did for reasons that had nothing to do with adrenaline.
Yet apparently, Yohji was still an idiot. Because he’d found something more dangerous than all of that, he’d discovered…teasing Abyssinian. Oh, he’d always known the sport, from the day he met Aya. But it had been just something to do, when Aya got a little too stone-faced, and Yohji was feeling maybe a little suicidal. Now, though, he was as hooked as the most wired adrenaline-junkie. That guy who jumped America’s Grand Canyon had nothing on Kudou Yohji.
Fortunately it was something the blonde was very good at. He ought to be, he’d been practicing pushing his luck his entire life, and nearly died for it more than once. So though they started out in respectable stores–Yohji knew where they were, if only to avoid them–he still went for the clingiest, most revealing clothes he could find. And everything Aya rejected, Yohji made him explain exactly why.
“What’s wrong with my navel, Aya?”
“Lace is not just for women.”
“It’s not that tight, I can still breathe.”
“So we’re in the kids’ department. Don’t you always say I’m childish?”
“Leather does not scream ‘fuck me now.’ It whispers.”
Only Aya could say such complimentary things with such a deadly glare.
When Aya–who was carrying because Yohji kept walking off without his new wardrobe–was loaded down enough to slow his really-deadly-assassin reflexes, Yohji led him into a different kind of store. He’d worn Aya down, it took a moment for him to register where they were.
“Kudou, you are not buying anything here.”
“Not for me, Aya. For you.”
“You are insane.”
“Mou, Ayan!” Yohji took down a black PVC vest, much like the sleeveless shirt Aya often wore under his work trench. Only lots shinier, and with zippers. “You said you would try to have fun, and you can’t have fun if you don’t get noticed!” Like that would be a problem. Aya could wear that hideous orange sweater and a pair of plaid bell-bottoms, and not only would he get into any club in Tokyo, he’d set a new fashion trend. But Aya didn’t know that.
“Kudou, you will not pick out my clothes for me.”
“You’re no fun, Ayan.” Yohji hung the vest back up with a sigh. “Hiroshi! Hiroshi-kun, are you here?”
“Do I hear the bellow of the great Kudou Yohji?” Hiroshi came around a rack of clothes, clutched his chest and staggered back. “Wow, Kudou-sama, who is your friend and do you share?”
“Never,” Yohji snapped, while Aya simply glared. Hiroshi gulped and straightened, adopting a more business-like attitude.
“Maa, maa, Kudou-sama, and–?” He trailed off expectantly, and Yohji cursed himself for forgetting what a slut Hiroshi was. But he was the best, too, so–
“Fujimiya-sama,” he answered. “Hiroshi-kun, Fujimiya-sama needs some help.”
“I do not, Kudou!”
“Aya, there are two ways I’ll wear those new clothes. One is you cooperating. The other is you dressing me.” He sighed happily. “You’d have to tie me up to do that.”
Wow. That shi-ne glare was impressive, even for Aya.
“Well,” Hiroshi licked his lips, “I’d need to measure him–“ The glare turned to him, he paled. “To get you the right fit,” he protested. “You can’t just try things on, it’s not hygienic. It’s business, Fujimiya-sama!”
“You may measure me,” Aya said in that deep voice, “just as soon as you tell me which fingers you no longer want.”
Oh to hell with it. Yohji wished a cowering Hiroshi a good day and led Aya out, deciding it was time to take pity on the redhead. Not only because Kritiker would frown on one of their best assassins killing one of their other best assassins right in front of a whole mob of afternoon shoppers, but because he was hungry, too.
There was no truth whatsoever to Aya’s charge that he chose the noodle place because it was cheap. It was just there, and Yohji was really hungry. Somehow risking his life gave Yohji an incredible appetite.
Besides, he’d spent more than enough today, on clothes he’d never wear again as soon as he was done courting the redhead.
***
“Schuldig, what the hell are you doing?”
The telepath remained bent over the thick book, but he glanced up, then rolled his eyes to look at Nagi watching TV while he squeezed lemons with his mind, and Farfarello muttering over a fireworks catalog. “Reading,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Which, he rather thought it was.
“You’re reading a cookbook.”
“And?”
“You cook eggs, Schuldig. And you don’t do it out of a book. What are you up to?”
“Told you,” Nagi said, without looking. Schuldig tossed a pillow, it came winging back. Schu knocked it towards Farf, who flung a knife and pinned it to the fake palm tree. So much for that.
“Fourth of July,” Schuldig finally answered. “Any excuse for a party, ne?”
“You’re a German living in Japan and you want to celebrate the American Independence Day?”
“Farf,” Schuldig said, “why are we doing this?”
“Boom,” Farfarello answered. “Boom, phhhssssstt! BOOM!!!” He stabbed a finger at a picture. “This one goes takkita-takkita-tak-tak-BOO–OOM!!”
“There you go.” Schu smirked up at his leader. “Takkita-takkita-tak-tak-BOO-OOM. What more could you want?” The American shivered, probably at the idea of Farfarello with any sort of explosives. Schuldig hoped he didn’t ‘see’ that they were already bought, Farf was only looking at the catalog to plan them out. “Maa, maa, Brad. Haven’t we been good little assassins? Farf hasn’t shredded a carpet in days, and Nagi came in top in his class again this week. Even I’ve been hideously nice.” He’d have been a lot nicer, if Farfarello hadn’t come charging in yesterday morning, begging Brad for the newest espresso machine with a bean grinder built-in. Like they wanted him anywhere near something involving pressurized hot water, steam, or euphoria-inducing amounts of caffeine. Before Schu could run him off to investigate sausage grinders instead, Brad had finished the tray and was picking out a tie. Damn it.
“You’re up to something,” Brad accused. What, he hadn’t seen any of this? Now that was a surprise. Another surprise was Nagi speaking up.
“Ne, Crawford-san, it will be fun. Schuldig hasn’t even suggested hiring strippers.” Well, he had, but only as a joke, and Nagi hadn’t bothered to argue with him.
Brad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All right, all right. Have your fun. Just don’t let any of the takitta-booms get too close to the house.”
“You’ll have to supervise, of course,” Schu said quickly. “How will we know if we’re getting it wrong?” He gave Brad an exaggerated wink, a gesture usually followed by some sort of proposition. The American braced himself, Schu grinned. “We got pistachio ice cream…” he sang. Brad made a face.
“Not for on top of the apple pie, I hope. That has to be vanilla.” He frowned. “Is there going to be apple pie?”
Schu held up the cookbook. “Schwarz willing.”