The Perfect Gift
I might miss everyone else’s—but by gum, Aya’s birthday gets noticed.
Artificially divided into two chapters only because I’m evil.
My beloved Aya and all things Weiss are the delightful creations of Koyasu Takehito and Project Weiss. They belong to him, not me. *sob*
*****
The day started as irritating as any other, with Aya opening the shop. Alone, as was usual when he shared a shift with Kudou. His teammates had tried to give Aya the day off but he had, of course, refused to shirk his duty. Now he set about the morning work and wondered when that lazy Balinese would make an appearance. Before business hours, when he could lounge about and complain and scratch himself while he watched Aya work, or after, when there was enough of an audience he could make a proper Entrance?
Aya hadn’t heard the blonde come in last night, so he didn’t know which was more likely. It was an odd fact that the later he came home, the more likely Kudou was to show up before opening. A true Entrance took effort, apparently, and after a really late night Kudou just wasn’t up to it.
Kudou hadn’t come home at all, Aya decided three minutes later. He’d been kidnapped while drunk somewhere, and some weird look-alike was trying to take his place.
“Ohayou!” the look-alike said again, as if Aya could have missed it the first time. “I made tea, Aya, would you like some?”
Aya blinked. Who was this person, and what had he done with Kudou Yohji, and should he get his sword to deal with the intruder quickly, or should he beat the location of his real teammate out of him first?
The Kudou look-alike was wearing clothes. Real clothes. The impostor should have known that was a dead giveaway, even without the tea and the smiling before noon. Kudou not-really Yohji wore a deep green sweater exactly like Aya’s orange one. It covered his graceful neck, it covered his muscular shoulders and well-defined arms, it covered every centimeter of his beautifully cut abs. And it wasn’t tight. It did, however, bring out the color of the impostor’s eyes. Exactly the same shade as Kudou’s; at least the enemy had got that much right. Except they weren’t hidden behind the ubiquitous shades, and the blonde’s smile reached all the way to warm those emerald eyes. With the sweater and the not-skin-tight jeans—finished off with sensible black shoes!—Aya couldn’t see his supposed-teammate’s body at all. That was, he reminded himself, the way he wanted it.
The smile flickered, Aya realized he’d been staring several minutes. Swiftly he made a decision. He would wait and see. If the look-alike had all the talents of Balinese—he was wearing Kudou’s watch—Weiss might be better off with this version of the blonde.
“Arigatou,” he said, and the smile brightened. First test—could the impostor make decent tea? The real Kudou was of the opinion that if hot tea was good, boiled tea must be better.
The impostor made excellent tea. And while Aya drank it, the man set to work opening the shop. Aya watched over the rim of his cup and gave the intruder a few more points in his secret competition. False-Kudou even swept the sidewalk before he carried the display plants outside, not leaving any for Aya to take. Then he arranged the pots as carefully as the real Kudou did his hair, resulting in an arrangement almost as pleasing. The false Kudou was as built as the original, too, watching him move Aya could see that, despite the bulky—decent!—clothes he wore.
False-Kudou came back with another pre-noon smile and poured Aya more tea. Then he set a box of American ‘donuts’ on the counter before disappearing into the back room. Aya blinked some more while helping himself to one of the chocolate-iced custard-filled kind.
Not-Yohji came from the back room with an assortment of cut flowers. He set the bucket on the workbench and grabbed a donut, ate while he looked over the list of arrangements for the morning deliveries. The real Kudou would have complained that Aya had taken the best donut, possibly leered while offering to share, then scanned quickly for the easiest arrangement to start before Aya got to the list. Kudou, Version Two, selected yellow roses and orange carnations to begin what Aya already knew to be the most difficult and potentially ugly of the ordered pieces. He did not turn on the CD of that over-played American TV show singer as he’d been doing every day for a week. Kudou, V2, turned the radio to a classical music station.
Definitely looked like they’d be keeping this Kudou. The other one could rot in whatever cell his hungover, half-covered ass woke up in.
Aya dismissed thoughts of that half-covered ass and started counting the till. Having no real fear of robbery, Weiss did not worry about trying to make an evening bank-run, so whoever opened dealt with the previous day’s totals. The system worked well, especially when they frequently needed to be out of the shop and on their other job early.
When he reached sixty-nine, Aya paused to let Kudou make his usual disgusting comment about what that meant in American. It was habit to wait for it since sometimes when the blonde made the comment, Aya lost count. V2, however, was engrossed in the arrangements and didn’t even peer at Aya over the sunglasses he wasn’t wearing anyway. Aya shrugged away irritation and went on.
V2 didn’t make a comment about spectators when Aya paused at one sixty-nine, either. And he didn’t go for his “I’ve been working forever” smoke break an hour after stumbling in.
Fangirls came in as soon as Aya turned the sign, of course. But V2 didn’t flirt with them; he was quiet and polite and tried to sell them flowers. He didn’t make a single comment about “only persons over eighteen” while leering at Aya over the sunglasses he still wasn’t wearing, either. Disappointed and soon bored, the girls left. V2 took the list and the arrangements and left also, without even trying to barter Aya doing the deliveries for ‘something really nice’ he’d give Aya ‘later.’ When they were ‘somewhere more private.’ Standing too close and smiling as he said it. Aya unaccountably found the disruption of the routine disturbing.
But when the Seven peeled out of the garage, sunglasses had re-appeared and the ubiquitous singer was blasting from the car stereo and a cigarette dangled from that pretty mouth. Aya took the last chocolate-iced custard-filled donut and decided, as sad as it was, V2 really was Kudou, and tomorrow he would be back to his annoying self. This was just his way of getting out of buying Aya a birthday present. Not that he wanted anything the playboy would buy him anyway. Probably something disgusting, to ‘loosen him up a bit.’ Like a—
Aya shook his head and went around the shop, checking water levels and turning plants so they didn’t grow unevenly.
The mighty Yotan was back in, for him, record time, making Aya wonder again if this wasn’t really an impostor. If Kudou hadn’t taken the time to flirt and shop and get his hair done when Aya couldn’t see what he was up to—Aya shook his head at the pleasant dream and turned his attention back to the inventory. It was Kudou, and pretending otherwise was just setting himself up for disappointment when the real Yohji wore through this civilized mask he had decided to wear.
V2 set something next to Aya’s elbow. It smelled like—tempura? Aya stole a glance, and blinked. A string-tied box from one of the best restaurants in the area firmly disposed of the idea Kudou was trying to save himself money. Now what? Rejecting it would be rude. Kudou couldn’t return the food, as Aya had planned yesterday to suggest for whatever stupid gift the man came up with. Letting it grow cold would be a shame. And Yohji had his own box, he couldn’t eat both.
Eating it would be the best thing to do. “Arigatou,” he said over his shoulder, and opened the box.
“You’re welcome, Ayan. I mean, Aya.”
Slipping already. He’d forgotten to take his sunglasses off, too. Aya snorted and ate the best tempura he’d had in at least a year.
After lunch Aya washed the windows. V2 did not say a word, disgusting or otherwise. When Aya glanced, the blonde was working steadily through the list of orders for the afternoon delivery and didn’t seem aware Aya even existed.
Good. That was how he wanted it.
The afternoon was as peaceful as the morning had been. Ken came in, then left with the afternoon deliveries. Fangirls came and stared and drooled and left. Kudou swept the shop floor. Aya went to plant seedlings and Kudou didn’t come back to make suggestions on what they should do to ‘liven up’ the afternoon. Aya found himself stabbing holes in the dirt.
It was just that he wasn’t used to quiet anymore, he decided. He still liked it, he just wasn’t used to it. Quiet was abnormal in the Koneko, so it set him on edge.
When Omi came in, Aya escaped. Though that wasn’t what he was doing.
Before his door were two presents: a fine Japanese-English dictionary from Omi and a samurai woodcut from Ken. He’d already received Kudou’s present, of course. Presents at his door meant they weren’t going to do anything annoying like have a party or sing to him. Aya sighed relief the nonsense was over and sat on his bed with the next book of A Brief History of Japan in Twelve Volumes.
He gave up when he realized he’d been reading the same page for at least ten minutes.
Exercise was what he needed. With V2 doing all the work today, Aya hadn’t gotten enough exercise. That was what was making him restless. Aya changed into workout clothes and trotted down the stairs. A long jog would—he walked into the kitchen and froze. Kudou stared back wide-eyed.
The blonde had changed into a yukata patterned in sea-green waves and foam. His sunglasses teetered precariously on the end of his nose, and a cigarette—never allowed in the house, though the younger assassins ignored him smoking in his room, but not the kitchen—hung from his lower lip. He’d been making something, some citrus-smelling batter that was now spattered about the room. As Aya stared, a glob slid off the blonde’s chin and fell to splat on the table. More batter speckled his face and hair, sloshed across his hand as he held a bowl and a mixer.
Cake, Aya realized, noticing the batter-blotched box on the counter next to eggs and vegetable oil. Kudou was wearing traditional clothing and trying to make a birthday cake. There were candles and a can of spray frosting and a shaker of candy sprinkles, too.
Kami-sama, the blonde was taking the birthday thing too damned far!
Before Aya could draw breath to tell him so, the ash of Kudou’s cigarette fell. Aya watched it land on the table. The one he ate at, every day. Movement drew his eyes back up, the blonde had winced, half-closing his eyes as he turned his head from his teammate’s anger. Aya found himself staring at a blob of batter on the playboy’s neck, seeming to pulse with his heartbeat. It was yellow, but with a bright red speck—he scooped it with a finger, tasted it.
“Umm…Aya?” Yohji asked softly.
“What flavor?”
“Lemonetti. It has strawberry candy pieces.”
“It’s good.” Aya swiped another glob, from Yohji’s cheek. The blonde blinked, then grinned. That seductive, obnoxious flirting grin Aya hadn’t seen all day.
“Want some more?” he asked, holding out his batter-covered hand.
********
Since it finally sank in that there exist 1) people who know less Japanese than I (neophytes to anime, no doubt, you’ll pass me by soon) and 2) people too discriminating to just skim over a word they don’t know, here is a brief glossary of everything my spellcheck doesn’t like.
Ohayou—good morning
Arigatou—thank you
yukata—light version of a kimono
kami-sama—god
fangirls—us
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