Big Trouble in Little Florists
Please Note- This fic has been rated Mature for a reason! It contains graphic homosexual sex and loads of swearing, possibly violence and generally grown up situations. Please adhere to the age of consent for your country. I take no responsibility for those who don't.
I do not own the copyright for these characters. I get no money for writing about them. It is entirely an act of worship (and partly lust) so don't sue me. I don't have any money anyway...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“What? Again?”
“Hey!” Omi was hurt by Yohji’s refusal to take him seriously. He knew that he said it a lot but he really was in love this time and, consequently, needed Yohji’s advice seeing as how the man was Tokyo’s greatest lover.
Yohji sighed and shifted uneasily on his chair while simultaneously lighting a cigarette and texting one of his girlfriends.
Yohji was a multi-tasker as many women had discovered.
“Alright,” Yohji said, smiling at Omi in a conciliatory fashion, “What do you need to know?”
“Well...” Omi gazed up at the ceiling, a trifle self conscious and a lot intense, “I’m not sure that she knows that I am alive.”
“Give her a chance, Omi, you’ve been at university all of ten minutes.” Yohji fidgeted again uncomfortably.
“But the cool, popular people are already running the place!” Omi complained.
It was true. The bastards. It was like a handful of freshers had walked into the building on the first day, took one look around and promptly shed all self doubt. Whereupon everyone else, like Omi, became invisible. Admittedly to some extent it was Omi’s job to be invisible. He could hardly run about crying, ‘I’m an assassin, worship my bad boy vibe!’ But there was invisible and then there was invisible.
“Hmm...” Yohji considered the problem. “So, you need to be noticed so that you can get laid,”
Omi glared.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yohji backed up with a cynical screeching of gears, “So that you can win the love of your life but NOT so noticed that one of our many enemies and targets will start wondering why you are so familiar. And why you have crossbow calluses on your hands.”
“Yes,” said Omi, “Alright, I have to ask. Why can’t you sit still?”
Yohji’s brow darkened. “I met a girl last night. She seemed normal enough until we got back to her flat which looked like something out of Hellraiser.” Yohji winced.
“And?” Omi prompted, horribly curious. He had to know now.
“And then there was an incident,” Yohji replied, “Involving something that probably over loads the Tokyo electricity grid every time she plugs it in. I don’t want to talk about it.”
It was too late. Omi’s head was suddenly full of twisted mental images. It must have been pretty deviant for Yohji to not be into it. Omi’s mind boggled.
“Have you tried wearing a long coat?” Yohji inquired.
“Huh?” Omi dragged his thoughts away from things that go buzz in the night, “What?”
“Have you tried wearing a long coat? I remember a lot of those about when I was at university age and it certainly works for Aya.”
“I’m too short. I would just look weird.”
“You’re not that short Omi.”
Omi grit his teeth. It was a sore point. Maybe he wasn’t under height by most standards but living with long legged gods like Aya and Yohji hadn’t done anything for his self esteem. And unlike Ken, Omi couldn’t compensate by being super athletic due to the fact that, as far as he was concerned, watching sport or playing sport was about as interesting as triple algebra.
“How do you get so many women?” Omi asked, grudgingly.
Yohji smirked, “Because I am confident and because I make each one feel like she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“Well, Kagura is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.” Omi declared.
“Since the last one.” Yohji muttered. “You know Omi, I have to say, is there any point my helping you get this girl? Because nothing ever seems to come of it. You fall desperately in love, lose the ability to speak, have to be encouraged to even make eye contact with her, then finally after weeks of work she shows an interest in you, at which point it always seems to fizzle out.”
Omi didn’t speak. He didn’t want to have to say it.
“Is it,” Yohji began, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant, but he was cut off by Aya striding in to make tea which he proceeded to do with the same intensity with which he did everything. Omi glanced at Yohji and, yes, he was staring at Aya.
He was always staring at Aya.
Aya made his tea with admirable efficiency and turned around with his fingers wrapped round the cup to warm them. Aya seemed perpetually cold, even at the height of summer. Sometimes his pale skin looked almost blue. Yohji, rather unkindly, said that it was because Aya’s heart barely beat. Presuming that he had one.
Aya observed them both for a moment, forensically.
“Why are you twitching?” he asked Yohji.
“Because,” Omi began.
“Shut up, Omi,” Yohji interrupted swiftly, “I’m still recovering from that little bastard Nagi and what he did to me last week.”
“Yes,” Aya stated, deadpan, “Telekinetic powers seem to be very useful.”
“Especially where there are filing cabinets around.” Omi murmured, sniggering, a bit put out at being told to shut up and therefore keen to dwell on Yohji’s being hit in the backside by an airborne piece of office furniture during their last encounter with Schwartz.
Schuldig in particular had laughed his arse off.
“Little freak.” Yohji grumbled.
“They are all freaks,” Aya pointed out, “Why is that Nagi bothers you so much?”
Yohji hesitated, his eyes moving to Omi for a breath of a second, “Because he is so young. He could be anything and yet he is...”
Omi felt a surge of sickness.
Yohji stopped talking.
Aya left.
Yohji coughed nervously and Omi took pity. “Well, that was typical Aya.” He said, forcing cheerfulness into his tone, “Unfunny and brief.”
Yohji looked to the door as though he could still see Aya through it. Then he sucked on his cigarette as if he would find a clean soul at the end of it.
Later that evening Omi was trying to concentrate on his first university essay but Kagura kept popping into his head. He couldn’t stop himself. He kept obsessing about the way her hair swung from side to side as she walked. He was desperate for her to see him, to want him, but he couldn’t get Yohji’s words out of his head.
“Why does it always fizzle out?”
Yohji could be bloody stupid sometimes. He also seemed to have the memory span of a fruit fly.
Omi drummed his fingers miserably on his keyboard. Lines of gibberish scrolled across the screen. Why did he persist in regarding Yohji as the oracle of love when the man himself was in such a mess? Yohji could get anyone but the one person that he actually wanted.
Omi sometimes wondered if all four of them would end up alone, hanging out in the old assassins home talking of their glory days in that way elderly people have where they edit out all the shit bits.
It would take a lot of editing.
Downstairs there was a knock on the door followed by a flurry of movement and the unmistakable sound of Aya trying to damage someone. Omi's training kicked in. He tooled up and ran down the stairs.
The sight that greeted him made him frown with confusion. Nagi was standing in the hallway, Aya’s sword razor sharp and an inch from his jugular while Yohji advanced on him threateningly.
“Where are the others?” Yohji hissed, flexing his hands in readiness.
Omi’s heart started to pound. It looked like it was going to be a violent night. Damn Ken for being at football practice just when the whole of Schwartz was about to descend upon them.
“They aren’t coming.” Nagi said, calmly. As always the supernatural stillness of him fascinated Omi. How could Nagi just stand there in the midst of death as though he was at peace with the universe?
“Why not? Are you stupid enough to try and take us all on by yourself?” Yohji sounded incredulous.
“I’m not here to fight,” Nagi informed them, “I’m here to defect.”
I do not own the copyright for these characters. I get no money for writing about them. It is entirely an act of worship (and partly lust) so don't sue me. I don't have any money anyway...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“What? Again?”
“Hey!” Omi was hurt by Yohji’s refusal to take him seriously. He knew that he said it a lot but he really was in love this time and, consequently, needed Yohji’s advice seeing as how the man was Tokyo’s greatest lover.
Yohji sighed and shifted uneasily on his chair while simultaneously lighting a cigarette and texting one of his girlfriends.
Yohji was a multi-tasker as many women had discovered.
“Alright,” Yohji said, smiling at Omi in a conciliatory fashion, “What do you need to know?”
“Well...” Omi gazed up at the ceiling, a trifle self conscious and a lot intense, “I’m not sure that she knows that I am alive.”
“Give her a chance, Omi, you’ve been at university all of ten minutes.” Yohji fidgeted again uncomfortably.
“But the cool, popular people are already running the place!” Omi complained.
It was true. The bastards. It was like a handful of freshers had walked into the building on the first day, took one look around and promptly shed all self doubt. Whereupon everyone else, like Omi, became invisible. Admittedly to some extent it was Omi’s job to be invisible. He could hardly run about crying, ‘I’m an assassin, worship my bad boy vibe!’ But there was invisible and then there was invisible.
“Hmm...” Yohji considered the problem. “So, you need to be noticed so that you can get laid,”
Omi glared.
“Sorry, sorry,” Yohji backed up with a cynical screeching of gears, “So that you can win the love of your life but NOT so noticed that one of our many enemies and targets will start wondering why you are so familiar. And why you have crossbow calluses on your hands.”
“Yes,” said Omi, “Alright, I have to ask. Why can’t you sit still?”
Yohji’s brow darkened. “I met a girl last night. She seemed normal enough until we got back to her flat which looked like something out of Hellraiser.” Yohji winced.
“And?” Omi prompted, horribly curious. He had to know now.
“And then there was an incident,” Yohji replied, “Involving something that probably over loads the Tokyo electricity grid every time she plugs it in. I don’t want to talk about it.”
It was too late. Omi’s head was suddenly full of twisted mental images. It must have been pretty deviant for Yohji to not be into it. Omi’s mind boggled.
“Have you tried wearing a long coat?” Yohji inquired.
“Huh?” Omi dragged his thoughts away from things that go buzz in the night, “What?”
“Have you tried wearing a long coat? I remember a lot of those about when I was at university age and it certainly works for Aya.”
“I’m too short. I would just look weird.”
“You’re not that short Omi.”
Omi grit his teeth. It was a sore point. Maybe he wasn’t under height by most standards but living with long legged gods like Aya and Yohji hadn’t done anything for his self esteem. And unlike Ken, Omi couldn’t compensate by being super athletic due to the fact that, as far as he was concerned, watching sport or playing sport was about as interesting as triple algebra.
“How do you get so many women?” Omi asked, grudgingly.
Yohji smirked, “Because I am confident and because I make each one feel like she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
“Well, Kagura is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen.” Omi declared.
“Since the last one.” Yohji muttered. “You know Omi, I have to say, is there any point my helping you get this girl? Because nothing ever seems to come of it. You fall desperately in love, lose the ability to speak, have to be encouraged to even make eye contact with her, then finally after weeks of work she shows an interest in you, at which point it always seems to fizzle out.”
Omi didn’t speak. He didn’t want to have to say it.
“Is it,” Yohji began, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant, but he was cut off by Aya striding in to make tea which he proceeded to do with the same intensity with which he did everything. Omi glanced at Yohji and, yes, he was staring at Aya.
He was always staring at Aya.
Aya made his tea with admirable efficiency and turned around with his fingers wrapped round the cup to warm them. Aya seemed perpetually cold, even at the height of summer. Sometimes his pale skin looked almost blue. Yohji, rather unkindly, said that it was because Aya’s heart barely beat. Presuming that he had one.
Aya observed them both for a moment, forensically.
“Why are you twitching?” he asked Yohji.
“Because,” Omi began.
“Shut up, Omi,” Yohji interrupted swiftly, “I’m still recovering from that little bastard Nagi and what he did to me last week.”
“Yes,” Aya stated, deadpan, “Telekinetic powers seem to be very useful.”
“Especially where there are filing cabinets around.” Omi murmured, sniggering, a bit put out at being told to shut up and therefore keen to dwell on Yohji’s being hit in the backside by an airborne piece of office furniture during their last encounter with Schwartz.
Schuldig in particular had laughed his arse off.
“Little freak.” Yohji grumbled.
“They are all freaks,” Aya pointed out, “Why is that Nagi bothers you so much?”
Yohji hesitated, his eyes moving to Omi for a breath of a second, “Because he is so young. He could be anything and yet he is...”
Omi felt a surge of sickness.
Yohji stopped talking.
Aya left.
Yohji coughed nervously and Omi took pity. “Well, that was typical Aya.” He said, forcing cheerfulness into his tone, “Unfunny and brief.”
Yohji looked to the door as though he could still see Aya through it. Then he sucked on his cigarette as if he would find a clean soul at the end of it.
Later that evening Omi was trying to concentrate on his first university essay but Kagura kept popping into his head. He couldn’t stop himself. He kept obsessing about the way her hair swung from side to side as she walked. He was desperate for her to see him, to want him, but he couldn’t get Yohji’s words out of his head.
“Why does it always fizzle out?”
Yohji could be bloody stupid sometimes. He also seemed to have the memory span of a fruit fly.
Omi drummed his fingers miserably on his keyboard. Lines of gibberish scrolled across the screen. Why did he persist in regarding Yohji as the oracle of love when the man himself was in such a mess? Yohji could get anyone but the one person that he actually wanted.
Omi sometimes wondered if all four of them would end up alone, hanging out in the old assassins home talking of their glory days in that way elderly people have where they edit out all the shit bits.
It would take a lot of editing.
Downstairs there was a knock on the door followed by a flurry of movement and the unmistakable sound of Aya trying to damage someone. Omi's training kicked in. He tooled up and ran down the stairs.
The sight that greeted him made him frown with confusion. Nagi was standing in the hallway, Aya’s sword razor sharp and an inch from his jugular while Yohji advanced on him threateningly.
“Where are the others?” Yohji hissed, flexing his hands in readiness.
Omi’s heart started to pound. It looked like it was going to be a violent night. Damn Ken for being at football practice just when the whole of Schwartz was about to descend upon them.
“They aren’t coming.” Nagi said, calmly. As always the supernatural stillness of him fascinated Omi. How could Nagi just stand there in the midst of death as though he was at peace with the universe?
“Why not? Are you stupid enough to try and take us all on by yourself?” Yohji sounded incredulous.
“I’m not here to fight,” Nagi informed them, “I’m here to defect.”
