The _most_ boring thing in the world is paperwork.

Omi is chewing on his lip again, staring intently at the screen as the numbingly dull text flickers by. The folders from last night held addresses which pointed him to some databases which - I don't know. Manx did not hire me for my brain, that's for sure. "Hey, what do you think of this, Youji-kun?"

Why is he asking me? I lean down and put my head next to his, trying to see where his eyes are looking. "Uh...which part?"

"That part right there!" Thanks, kid. The letters seem to dance in front of my eyes; I squint, willing them still. It looks like a complicated schedule of some kind. "Distribution plans?"

Omi nods, impatient with my slowness. "All of the unusual shipments end up at this branch. Which is strange, because it's in the Ginza. They really are selling this to their best customers. And..." His fingers caress the keyboard. Che, he really does love this stuff. It never ceases to amaze me.

"And _that_ will be Aya-kun's beat." He points.

"It's still hard to think of him doing that. How is he going to manage?" I shake my head and straighten up. "Ah, probably he'll just give them the Shi-ne Death Glare and everyone will flee." The image makes me chuckle despite a tinge of worry.

The computer hums to a stop, going dark, and Omi yawns. "Where _is_ Ken-kun, anyway?" Usually the two of them tackle this stuff together, but today when the shop closed there was an instant lack of soccer player. Which meant _I_ had to move all the heavy pots.

Hiding from you, Omi. "He probably had a date."

"Ken-kun doesn't have dates!" The boy scowls. "If you're not going to be any help, Youji-kun, go to bed. " Moodily, he kicks the computer chair a few times. "I'm going to my room."

Exit one bishounen, sulking. I feel sorry for him. Love is a heartless bitch who makes all of us roll over and beg at least once, and that's the kind of thing I usually say. But it wouldn't exactly make Omi feel better. Neither would pointing out the fact that we're all straight guys, or we _ought_ to be. Possibly being raised in an assassin group has not been good for his development.

On second thought, that's a really silly observation.

You can't fix him, Youji. But you _can_ have another cigarette.

* * *

Dekakeru's branch office looks infinitely more respectable than it is. Back when I was doing drugs, before Asuka made me stop, one got them in abandoned warehouses, in the back of nightclubs, in the bathroom at school. One did not make an appointment with a pretty receptionist and wait in the lobby to buy smack. This is weird.

My reflection in the mirrored elevator thinks so too. I smirk at the handsome guy. Hair the color of wildflower honey pulled back in a neat ponytail, slick with gel (ugh, the things I do for missions); cool assessing green eyes; the perfect tan. The jade teardrop hanging from my right ear marks me as someone who sells things to people who buy things. The suit is expensive but not quite tasteful.

Does the elevator girl appreciate me? I catch her sneaking little peeks all the way up to floor 17. Oh, yes. As she bows and opens the door, I tell her, "You're cute," and slip a small cattelya bloom into her hand.

Her blush is worth the trouble. Omi yells regularly about my "borrowing" orchids out of the stock, but I just tell him to take it out of my pay. What does he want me to do, hand out roses like some manga Romeo? Roses are passe. Orchids are glorious. Especially cattelyas; the petals are -

"Yamada-san, a pleasure to meet you."

The man waiting for me bows and then shakes my hand. We go through all the rituals of businessmen about to establish a profitable relationship, right down to beaming our business cards at each other. It would be deeply funny if I didn't have to kill him.

"Your company's goods have the highest reputation, Biji-san. I am certain..."

"An unusual opportunity is before us both. Some new and highly interesting products..."

"...a pleasure to..."

It drags on. And on and on. At last, four hours and tea later, we have a deal. Tonight Yamada-san will receive some very good heroin for his clients; tomorrow, he'll come back to buy the interesting stuff.

_Finally_. How does anyone put up with this shit for a living? No amount of money could possibly be worth the boredom. I stroll through the lobby and out the door slowly, instead of running the way I want to. The air outside tastes wonderful.

Seven is wonderful too, and nicotine is wonderful, and not having to be Yamada-san for a few hours is just great. Even Tokyo evening traffic can't annoy me as I head across town to pick up Aya.

Aya...

"Hit me again," I'd whispered to him, with my best bedroom voice and eyes. It seemed like a good way to unsettle him at the time, to break that cold indifference.

Well, it sure worked, didn't it? Now he thinks I'm some kind of masochist and oh god, probably gay.

Which I'm not. This is absolutely certain. Just because I've been trying to get the man to hit me for six months doesn't mean I like it when he does.

Just because getting Aya's attention has become the point of my life lately doesn't mean I _want_ his attention.

I don't want him to pin me with that violet gaze as though I were something disgusting with too many legs that he found in the potting soil.

So what do I do about it? Apologize? Tell him I didn't mean it?

Right. Drive the car, find Aya (on the street corner), pick him up (like a whore), take him back (home), and tell him I'm sorry and everything is perfectly normal.

And then I'm going to go find a girl right away.

* * *
On to Part Six
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