I like to think of myself as a fairly easygoing person. Not hard to please. And the three essential ingredients for a Kudou Happy Evening - alcohol, women, and a place to savor both while choosing just the right ones to take home - are all here and beckoning.
Nevertheless I am not a happy camper.
Maybe it's the eyes of the girl I'm flirting with. She's cute enough, and unlike her friend she understood when to stop applying mascara, but something in the back of those eyes is saying size does matter - mostly the size of my wallet.
Not that I'm a cheap date. There's nothing I like better than to wine and dine a girl, sweep her off her feet with orchids and the whole delicious dance of getting-closer, but if she's not going to enjoy the sex after, then what is the point?
A casual glance down the length of the bar confirms that the rest of the crowd is much the same. Salarymen and pretty predators, _not_ my scene. And I can't go somewhere else because my most irritating uptight teammate had to choose tonight to lose his cherry, and it's going to take him forever.
With a last smile at the girl in front of me, I interrupt her non-stop chatter by handing her my untouched drink and stand up. Maybe I'll just take a walk.
* * *
The main street of the Kabukicho district is the kind of place you take tourists (in daylight) to see their mouths fall open. Gaudy neon signs advertise a range of shows and fetish clubs that make San Francisco look like Iowa, and while you're staring at those several street hawkers are tugging at your sleeves and urging you just down this way to see things I sincerely hope Omi has never heard of.
Okay, that's not really fair. I admit it. We're all hired killers and that ages you fast, and the way things are going odds are we'll soon just be dead killers. But there's something about the kid that makes you want to keep him young as long as possible. The other day he was talking to me about Sakura-chan, worrying about her and Aya. As if he didn't have his own broken heart and his family on top of the daily hell we deal with, he truly thinks about the rest of us too. Christ - it's as much as I can do some days to force myself to share the bathroom.
I kick at one of the street hawkers, fending him off, and walk on with the familiar dark thoughts. How long will we last? Who will go first? I honestly hope it's me. At least once a week I have nightmares of finding the others dead, sprawled in a bloody pile of mission failure. Or worse, long buried in a neat cemetery plot of three, with nice inscriptions and flowers and no room for me anywhere. It wakes me screaming.
When I do go, if Kritiker is still alive Manx gets to take care of my will. Everything to the guys, of course, and letters and particular things for each of them. And then there's the other arrangement nobody knows about. If I stop depositing funds and cease contact, the sum will be delivered to Meya. By now it's enough to help her start her second career.
Wait. This is morbid, isn't it. I promised myself to cut that out.
It's Aya's fault for asking me that damn favor.
I could have dragged him to the club I wanted to go to, of course...but the women there have certain expectations. Meya, right choice, definitely.
Time to go back. If I stay out here I'll only start brooding again. And who knows, maybe Aya will wander out with a blissful little smile on his face and I can tease him all the way home.
* * *
Instead, the first person to find me in the flickering dim noise is Meya. She grabs me by the elbow almost as soon as I walk back in the door. "Youji."
"Hey, already? It's only been -" My protests trail off as she drags me into a corner. "What?"
"What is with that guy?" Meya hisses, in an undertone to cut through the din. Her eyes are flashing in the way that means she's truly angry. Uh-oh...
"Shit." I put a hand on her arm. "Meya, are you okay? Did he -"
She slaps me.
"He," she enunciates carefully, "did nothing at all. What did _you_ do? Did you make him come here? On a bet or something? I swear I'm going to kill you."
"What?" I look around for Aya, vainly. "Look, it was his idea! Maybe he changed his mind out of nerves, I don't know." How is this _my_ fault?
Meya sighs. "He acted like someone was holding a gun to his head. I've never seen anyone like that before. It was creepy." She leans her head on my shoulder.
This from Meya the seasoned professional is disturbing. I hug her close. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I really didn't know. We'll go now."
She hugs me back. "Talk to him, all right?"
"Definitely."
I finally find Aya at the bar. He's hunched over his elbows, ignoring the drink in front of him out of melancholy or possibly simple good taste. The expression on his face is bleak.
He doesn't even twitch when I put a hand on his shoulder. "Eh," I'm good at sounding casual, "ready to go home now? This place isn't doing much for me."
Aya slides off of the barstool without answering. Neither of us says a thing all the way home.
* * *
So much for _my_ exciting evening. Driving back, I think and smoke and avoid looking at Aya, who probably just wants to go drown himself, and think some more.
What are the reasons why a guy fails his first go at the male driving test? Here and now, I can think of two likely ones. First, Aya might have just plain freaked out. Had a combat flashback, or been triggered by something that reminded him of what happened to his family. Hell, maybe Meya looks like his sister - I've never seen her.
Second, maybe he's queer.
The first one is a whole lot easier to deal with. We all have things that set us off; Aya was there the day Omi flipped out in the mall and tore apart that odd Christian missionary booth. It took the whole day to sort the mess out, and it was Ken who ended up holding the kid while he cried.
And then there's me. Look, Aya, which one of us just made a spectacular gullible fool of himself and almost got us all killed? You can always feel superior to Kudou.
But if tonight was about denial and gay issues and all that... hell, he would have been better off talking to Meya. All I can do is gingerly pat him on the back and assure him we're still friends. _Not_ my area of expertise.
The second I park the car Aya climbs out and heads for the shop. I follow at a distance, plotting strategy. He's going to lock himself in his room and brood; I'm going to pry him out with a six-pack of beer and persistence. Oh, and guilt.
"Oy, Aya!" I bang on his door ten minutes later. "Let me in!"
Silence.
"I'm not going away," I warn. "You might as well. C'mon, I brought beer."
Silence.
"Aya, that was a week of my salary you just blew tonight. I'm not mad, but you have to tell me why. You _owe_ me."
Silence.
Huh. I thought for sure that last one would work. On a sudden hunch I try the knob, and it turns. Sneaky bastard.
The desk lamp is on inside. By its light I can see Aya kneeling on the floor, katana across his knees. The cut he's slowly making in his arm has reached halfway to the elbow.
"Shit!" I tackle him.
* * *
Part Three
Tell Marith how you liked it