From Sailor Moon Flash!
| Featuring: | Tsurian, Kenrou, Toshiro, Oki, Misao, Atarimae |
| IC Date: | March 2002 |
| Status: | Completed |
| Summary: | You should never irritate your big sister, especially when your big sister is Giou Ayame, close personal friend of Yoshinaga Tsurian. In short: everyone thinks Toshiro is gay, Kenrou is much-beleaguered, and Oki throws coffee. |
Yoshinaga Tsurian walked into Studio Amakusa at nine-fifty-seven and three seconds, which was fifty-seven minutes and three seconds later than she was used to arriving.
She had been hoping she'd be able to SNEAK in, but no such luck; Boss was sitting right there, facing the door, and ohkamisaveus, he was smiling.
At least, his mouth was. She wasn't sure if such a thing existed as an anti-smile, on the other side of "frown," but if there was, an anti-smile was making Kenrou's eyes go the color of disappointed annoyance.
He raised his head and glanced at her. Tsurian could feel the inventory: two legs, two arms, both eyes, mouth and vocal chords and, apparently, brain between ears. Just after he'd tallied in the clean and decent underwear and the fact that she'd washed her face that morning, her cell phone began to ring, sealing her fate as having been ABLE to let him know about lateness, but merely CHOOSING NOT TO and thereby LETTING HIM DOWN.
"You had better answer that, Tsurian-kun," Kenrou said mildly. "You wouldn't want to worry people."
Oh, OUCH. Real good, Boss. Cue the guilt. All she said was, "Ah, um, ...sure, boss. I'm right on that."
Kenrou nodded, and dropped his eyes to what he had been doing when she'd stealthily opened the door, which appeared to be staring right THROUGH a blank sheet of washi.
Tsurian snapped out her phone, beeped the beepy-GO button, and said, "Hi, yes, it's me, I gotta call you back after work," and hung up, all within five seconds. She turned the damned traitorous little thing off, bundled it into her purse, and slid on her best "I am really really indispensable as an office manager and adminassist" face.
"So, what's up this morning, Boss?"
"Tsurian-kun. We appreciate that it takes a very long time to walk from your apartment all the way here, and we are extremely pleased to find that you are sufficiently dedicated to your work that you would come anyway, regardless of lack of subway fare."
Tsurian blinked, then glared at him. "I took the subway - ..." She abruptly reconsidered, and bit back her retort with an effort. "Um. Yes. I'm very sorry I was late, Boss. I'll be punctual tomorrow."
"Thank you, Tsurian-kun. You may begin the calls; the list is by your desk."
She glared at him again. She'd said she was sorry and promised to be on time forever, and now he was just going to pretend that it was OVER? That nothing had happened? Oooooh, the fink. He could at least ask why she was late. He could at least pretend to be interested that she'd had a date. But no! He had forgiven her! She was clearly in the wrong, and he'd said forget it! And she was going to GET him for it. Jerk.
She ran a hand through her hair (sapphire-blue, with a pale sky-blue stripe, no longer than an inch on any part of her head), and got to work.
"Yo, Ayame."
"Yoshinaga, hello. I'm sorry I called at an inconvenient time this morning."
"Believe me, any earlier would've been a lot more inconvenient. I had a date last night that turned into a date late this morning, too, and if it comes to it, I'd rather Boss be gracious at me than Date-chan get to feeling neglected, see?"
"Yoshinaga, that's ... ... well, good for you. I haven't gone on a date for quite some time, myself. I'm getting to feel as if Toshiro-otouto is contagious."
"... Sorry, don't follow."
"Toshiro-otouto hasn't been on a date... well, ever. I'm not quite as bad as that, but then I get to hear about you -"
"Ever? This is the same brother you said bought a pair of tight red leather pants the other day?"
"My only brother. Yes."
"Never been on a date? With pants like those?"
"Never."
"... Son of a gun. He's as bad as Boss."
"The August Kenrou has never been on a date?"
"BOSS? DATE? You're kidding. 'Dating' is not a Japanese activity, you know. It's a Gaijin Invention, and it Runs Counter To Our Culture. Nightclubs are Japanese, but taking a girl with you to one isn't. Meeting a girl there isn't either. I swear the man doesn't know that it's Heisei yet. Banzai Nippon."
"Really? Is he going to have an arranged marriage?"
"No, he'd have to marry someone who's never heard of how weird he is, which means Okinawa or something, and Amakusa-haha-ue is NOT hearing of her son marrying an Okinawan. Reactionary old witch."
"I'm still not sure I believe your stories of Amakusa-san's mother. - Neither of our brothers have ever had dates. This is so very sad; you had fun last night, and I had a lot of fun on my last date. I wish they'd -"
"AYAME! IDEA!"
It helps, at this point, to imagine Giou Ayame wincing and holding the phone away from her ear with an expression of mild pain.
She replaced the phone calmly, and said, "Yes, Yoshinaga?"
It would vastly help at this point to see Tsurian's expression of mad, gleeful delight at her own cleverness, complete with scrunching up of mouth to stifle giggles of pride.
"Ayame, we are going to set them up on a blind date."
"With each other? ... That is a sick, twisted idea, Yoshinaga. I love it. What time, and where?"
"Thursday afternoon, late afternoon, at that Starbucks down the block from Chuo Gakuen. I can palm it off on Boss as an appointment -- he never asks who or why. HA! Can you get Toshiro in on it?"
"I think so. I'll have to wheedle a little. Can you get Amakusa-san to wear Western-wear, please? And have him wear a red tie."
"... red tie, NO. Won't by any stretch of the imagination match. I'll make him wear the dark gray one. Sort of iron-glinty. This is going to rule, so much. Do you know anyone who'd be willing to sit by them and give us a live feed via cell phone?"
"I think I can work that up, yes."
"Awesome. Ayame, it's been great doing business with you. Ja."
"As always, Yoshinaga. Ja."
"Hey, boss."
For a moment, Kenrou didn't answer. Reaching out to the silk, he carefully set the tip of the brush up at the upper right-hand corner, and slashed down, slight curve, lessen the pressure, come straight, press down hard, curve again for the upstroke, ... done.
"Honki," he explained, turning to face her. He replaced the brush in its stand and waited for her to "hey" at him again.
"Truth," Tsurian repeated, looking for just a minute as if she'd bitten a sour mikan. "Um. It's nice. Say, boss, listen. Tomorrow afternoon, you need to meet someone in the Starbucks by Chuo Gakuen. Wear the dark gray tie, and I think you should have the dark purple suit."
Kenrou considered this. "I do not like coffee, Tsurian-kun."
"They have tea and water, boss. I checked. And you have to eat something when you're there, too. Preferably something fattening. It'll be expected of you."
"By whom?"
"By everyone. People eat fattening things in Starbucks. It's a rule. They drink coffee, too, but it's okay to drink tea. Even green tea. Boss, do you really like that stuff? I mean, it's okay that you do. It's something my mother would drink."
"I am pleased that your respected mother's tastes are so refined."
"Yes, boss. So, tomorrow afternoon, five-thirty, Starbucks, dark suit and tie. It's important to me, boss."
"How shall I know this person, Tsurian-kun, and for what purpose am I to meet with ... him?"
Tsurian did what she considered a very neat sidestep of the gender question, and focused on "recognition." "Well, Giou-san will probably recognize you and approach you, boss. It was Giou-san's whole idea, really. Giou-san has something to discuss with you, and by the way, Giou-san likes coffee so you should probably buy Giou-san a very tall ... um, mocha latte. And some cake. Get some cake. You haven't had cake for forever. It'll be good for you."
Kenrou did not frown, because Kenrou never frowned. "We have a column to finish by this Sunday, Tsurian-kun. Do We have time for unimportant meetings? Is this something that possibly you might see through?"
"No, boss, this is IMPORTANT, to me AND to you, and you really need to get some cake."
Kenrou did not frown, again, but this time it was because he was really smiling, instead. That's the way to get around boss, of course; appeal to his sense of doing something for the sake of indulging the lesser folk.
"Very well, Tsurian-kun. Tomorrow afternoon. Five-thirty. The Starbucks near Chuo Gakuen. Dark purple suit. Dark gray tie."
"You rule, boss. I will now feed the cat, because I, too, rule."
Kenrou decided not to inquire further; it was best not to interfere with Tsurian-kun when she began crowing like this.
He set down his appointment in his mind, and returned his attention to his work.
His cell phone was ringing. "Hallo." This being Toshiro, and the call coming during some free time, it was said around a spoon.
"Otouto, take the spoon out of your mouth." This being Ayame, she'd had considerable experience understanding spoon-talk. "Are you done for the day?"
Toshiro did take the spoon out of his mouth, but only to put more cashew-caramel ice cream on it and put it back. "It's not even noon, 'Yame. Of course not. I'm looking at set sketches, and this afternoon I get to make sure my minions did costume fittings right. Why?" The spoon made another round trip.
"Because you sound like you have your feet on the table, a comic book in your lap, and a pint of ice cream next to you. I was curious."
Ayame was close. Toshiro did indeed have ice cream at his side, but it was a half-eaten gallon container left over from earlier that week, he was stretched out on the floor leaning against piles of fabric, and despite temptation, his lap held the aforementioned set sketches instead of the comic books. It was an interesting tableau, given that he was wearing slightly worn, paint-spattered jeans, gold earrings, a plastic pink "jade" bracelet, an immaculate black T-shirt, and a LOT of burgundy mascara.
Toshiro made a noncommittal noise around his spoon. "Mmph. What's going on?"
"Not too much. I wondered if you wanted to have lunch with me?"
"..." Juggling the cell phone, eating his ice cream, and tweaking his sketches momentarily became too much.
"Toshiro?"
"Mmth?"
"Swallow, Otouto, and take the spoon out of your mouth."
"Fine. Sure, lunch."
"Wonderful. Should I bring takeout to your place, or is there no room for me in the apartment?"
Toshiro looked around a moment. Sketchbooks and reference materials piled all over the table and most of the chairs, piles of fabric samples occupying everything else that could possibly be defined as "furniture," pattern pieces laid out over most of the floor.... plus all the usual clutter of comic books, power tools, and sale-bought fabric. He took the spoon out of his mouth. "Define 'room.'"
"...I'll meet you somewhere. Is the cafe near the subway station okay?"
He pouted, even though his sister couldn't see it. "Ayame, you're going to make me put shoes on?"
"Yes. And socks too, if you don't already have them. I'm a mean sister."
"And I suppose I should brush my hair, too."
"If you like. Don't pout at me, Toshiro. I can hear it."
"..."
"I'll buy you a sundae. Twelve-thirty?"
"Sure. But only because you're buying me ice cream."
"Of course not." Along with being able to understand her brother with a spoon in his mouth, Ayame also had a very subtle brand of sarcasm.
"Really. Not because you're my favorite sister or anything."
"Goodbye, Toshiro. I'll see you in forty-five minutes."
"Bye."
An hour later Toshiro, wearing shoes and with his hair brushed back into a ponytail, was working his way through a very impressive sandwich while Ayame picked at a less glorious example of sandwichdom and watched her brother thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Not much." Ayame smiled. "Mostly I was wondering how I got such an odd and wonderful little brother." He grinned back at her and resumed his attack on his sandwich.
Did he have a clue? Ayame smiled to herself. No, not yet. Doubtless he would, and soon, but just now she had the rare luxury of knowing something he didn't.
How delicious.
"Ne, Otouto..."
"Yes?"
"How busy are you this week?"
Toshiro blinked. "Why?"
"I'm curious. I'm your sister. It's what I do." He didn't look convinced. "I want to know how soon you're going to work yourself to death so Mother and I can get a good deal on an urn."
He laughed. "Fine, fine... The last performance for that play I did everything for is this weekend, so I won't die until at least next month."
Ayame gave him A Look. "Toshiro, you didn't do everything for it."
"I did!"
"You didn't have to." He gave her a sulky look and muttered something, and Ayame laughed. "And you're not taking on another production until these two are over, right?"
"Ayame-"
"Right?"
"Fine, right. Witch. That had better be one heck of a sundae."
Ayame smiled smugly and serenely. Toshiro ought to know that smile, as he'd worn it himself many times. An alarm bell, a tiny one, was probably going off in his head- or it would, if he weren't too busy sulking. He really ought to stop that.
"All right, but before your ice cream; are you busy on Thursday afternoon?"
"Tomorrow Thursday?"
"Yes."
"No."
"Wonderful! Would you do me a favor?"
"What?"
"I want you to go to the Starbucks by Chuo Gakuen and meet somebody for me. His name is Amakusa Kenrou, and he'll be wearing a purple suit and a dark gray tie." She didn't miss that Toshiro now looked extremely suspicious; the jig, while not up, was certainly rising.
"What for? You don't work with anyone with that name."
"You're right, I don't. My friend Yoshinaga does, though."
"Yoshinaga?"
"You never met her, but you'd probably like each other. This is her boss."
He gave her a flat look through his mascara. Ayame contrived to look as innocent as possible, and if it were anyone other than Toshiro, it might have worked.
"You're setting me up for something." Ayame maintained her sweetly innocent smile while her brother searched her face. "This is a date, isn't it."
"I don't believe that was a question, Otouto."
"It wasn't. You've never done this before."
"I know." Ayame nailed Toshiro with a look that spoke volumes, volume one entitled I Am Your Older Sister, and volume two called You Are Going To Listen To Me. Toshiro was probably remembering why he usually did what Ayame asked on those rare occasions she asked for favors. He might be stubborn, but she had a stainless steel spine.
And she was staring him down.
"Toshiro. It would mean the world to me if you went to meet with this man, and I would be extremely disappointed with you if you weren't on what I would term your best behavior while you did it."
Caught like a deer in truck headlights, Toshiro blinked. "Um..."
"I want you to be as much yourself as reasonably feasible while you are with this man, Toshiro, and you will not disappoint me."
"..."
Ayame blinked, and smiled. Her eyes (blood-amber to Toshiro's gold) softened back to their usual state. "I understand you're very afraid to be yourself and not play a role-"
Toshiro scowled. She had him. "I am not afraid."
"You're not?"
"No. I just don't like it."
Ayame smiled wider. "Of course." She tilted her head to one side. "So. How badly do you want your ice cream, Toshiro? There's a new place by my workplace. They have mango puree to put on their ice cream." Inwardly, Ayame cackled. She had him good.
"...Fine."
"And you'll go as yourself?"
"...yes." He sulked.
"Five-thirty, Toshiro."
"Yes, five-thirty... tomorrow, Starbucks."
"Thank you, Otouto." Ayame smiled.
A new terror had awakened in the heart of Kourakuen.
Rumor had spread quickly. From businessman to businessman, student to student, the word spread. It was hazy, exaggerated, and many took it for falsehood; only a few testified to having encounter it themselves. They spoke of a strange experience, of wisdom hidden under harsh gibes. They also spoke of their recent plans to invest in a cappuccino machine.
At precisely 5:20, Mokushi Oki took her place behind the counter at Starbucks, apron neatly tied and name tag in place.
The first customer of the evening was a middle-aged woman, small and dignified. It was true that her blouse probably oughtn't have been QUITE that unfortunate shade of prune, but nevertheless she did not deserve what was about to happen to her.
"A small decaf, please."
Oki glanced up from the mystery novel she had smuggled in, expression blank. ". . . A small decaf."
"Please."
". . ."
"I'm sorry, is there a problem?" The middle-aged woman flicked a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
". . . I beg your pardon, I was thinking." There was nothing in the teenage countergirl's voice or expression that one could legitimately take offense to, yet somehow what she had been thinking was clear: she was speaking to the stupidest woman in the known universe. The unfortunate customer began to wish she had just stopped at McDonalds.
And then Oki sighed, and continued. "What KIND of decaf? The house roast?" Her fingers tapped idly on the countertop, the flat tone of her voice suggesting that one wrong move and the customer would not survive to drink another cup of Coffea arabica. The middle-aged woman began to wonder whether she was about to be asked to complete three impossible tasks to prove her worthiness.
"Y-y-ye-yes. Please."
Another moment passed. Finally, the silence was broken by a deep, disgusted sigh, and a slight nod; Mokushi Oki chose to confer a favor upon a lesser being. "Very well. One moment." In a perfect world she would have added "please," as instructed on page 14 of the Starbucks Employee Manual. Any world with Mokushi Oki in it was, however, far from perfect, and her unfortunate customer was too relieved to complain.
"Here." The cup was placed on the countertop, and the price was stated in the world-weary tones of a long-suffering artist who didn't expect to be appreciated in her own time. The customer handed Oki the money, backing away slowly; wasn't that what the crazy men on the nature programs did with angry crocodiles?
Oki rolled her eyes, a very slight movement that nevertheless managed to convey very clearly just how much better than you she was, with mathematical proofs and elegant Powerpoint slides to prove it. She sighed the sigh of a martyr and cleared her throat.
"Next?"
It wasn't fair, really. Misao couldn't help that she was the most junior of junior employees at the bookshop. Nor could she help that her shift started halfway through everybody else's. And she definitely couldn't help it that her fellow employees and her boss had taken her cheery "Good afternoon! Does anybody need me to help them?" as a signal that she was perfectly willing to walk THREE BLOCKS in STACKED HEELS to the nearest Starbucks to fetch coffee for everyone.
Misao's head snapped up to look at the clerk when she snapped 'NEXT' as if it were an accusation, discovering herself at the front of the line. "Twoiceteasonenosugaronetwosugarsonegreenteaonedoublecappucinonofoamonecoffeewithmilkplease," she babbled, gasping for breath at the end.
The clerk did not look pleased. Misao wondered, in the back of her brain, if she had somehow managed to offend the clerk. Mostly, though, she was concerned with whether she had remembered everyone's order correctly.
"Oh! And a large mocha with peach flavouring, please," she added. Best not to forget the boss's drink, that was just a bad idea.
The clerk leaned forward. Her expression was one rarely found in busy Japanese coffee shops, or indeed on human faces at all; it was the predatory gleam of a lioness about to leap onto a zebra's hindquarters and drag the unfortunate herbivore down into the dry earth to be MESSILY KILLED AND EATEN.
"I am afraid," remarked Mokushi Oki, in a falsely sweet voice that suggested equal parts disgust, amusement and sheer distain, "that I didn't understand you. Would you be so kind as to repeat that?" Her plastered-on smile suggested a deep hope Misao's own drink would be a triple-shot getaclue with whipped cream.
"Uh."
With that one syllable, Misao's mental processes came to a screeching halt, flinging any knowledge of who she was, where she was, and what she was doing right out of the metaphorical car. All she knew was that this countergirl looked like she was about to leap over the counter and beat her with a mug till she begged for mercy or committed hara-kiri with a coffee stirrer.
Pausing to try and remember what exactly she'd come for, Misao could feel her entire face turning an unattractive shade of beet red. The countergirl just looked steadily at her as she began to try and piece together the order.
"Um. Uh. One mocha, with peach flavor... a large? And, uh, an iced tea - no, wait, TWO ice teas, and sugar in one of them. Actually, two sugars. And, uh... um..." She paused, brows drawing together in puzzlement. Oh, why hadn't they just let her wait long enough to write it all down?
"And?" Never before in the history of the world had one syllable been so deeply entrenched in polite contempt. Oki, curse her black little heart, looked like she was enjoying this . . . well, in the same sort of way that a lioness enjoys bringing down a SCREAMING, FLAILING ZEBRA.
"Ahem."
The sheer stopping power of the throat-clearing of Amakusa Kenrou has been compared to that of a nuclear warhead. It has the peculiar quality of leaping straight to the action-centers of one's brain, grabbing the vestigial reptilian brainstem, and screaming "STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING YOUR VERY SOUL MAY DEPEND UPON IT!"
An Amakusa Kenrou throat-clearing usually follows a display of amazing silliness on the part of others, and usually precedes the benevolent righteousness of said Amakusa Kenrou in clearing up the regrettable nonsense.
This particular throat-clearing was no different.
"A thousand pardons, miss," said Kenrou, into the small silence that had sprung up between barista and young lady customer. He smiled, dripping graciousness and benevolence with every syllable. "What the young lady had first ordered was two iced teas - one to have no sugar, the other with two portions of sugar. There is to be one green tea. A double cappuccino, with no foam. A coffee with milk - I assume the house blend? Good. And a large mocha with peach flavoring."
Kenrou paused and looked with great solicitude at the pretty clerk. "Miss, did you get all of that?"
She ought to have, thought Kenrou, but if not, he could repeat it again for her.
And then, finally, he might be able to step up to place his own order, and he would not then commit the near-cardinal sin of lateness for his appointment with Tsurian-kun's mysterious Giou-san.
He had no idea what a quagmire he had just set foot in.
The barista did not quall, nor start, nor even have the grace to look slightly guilty; her expression remained stoically blank through throat-clearing and eminently reasonable words, with the added impudence of gently tapping fingernails on the counter. If Amakusa Kenrou's 'ahem' could be compared to nuclear warheads, Mokushi Oki, clearly, was a concrete bunker six miles below the surface of the earth.
As the man finished talking, she gave him one long, steady glance -- SURELY she blinked, but few could swear to it in court -- a faint smile on her lips. It was, in one sense, a polite customer-service smile, but in another and rather more accurate sense, it was the facial equivalent of a shot across the bow.
"Sir," she said, meticulously keeping her voice light, airy, and terribly terribly dismissive, "Please wait your turn."
Kenrou blinked, for just one second thoroughly taken aback.
And then he smiled forgivingly.
The poor thing. He had shamed her in public by pointing out her obvious inability to parse the ... somewhat frantic... order of the pretty girl with greenish hair. She must be writhing with humiliation; her snappish reply had to be one of the most desperate pleas for him to ignore her deficiencies he had ever heard.
Of course it had been out of line for him to shame her.
"Of course, miss. Apologies are tendered; please take your time. We would not wish you to become bogged down with the complexity of the order. - Miss, I had interrupted you?"
He gave a slight bow to the young lady with the green hair, and stepped back slightly to await his rightful turn. His assistance here was clearly needed, but not at the expense of the poor clerk's dignity.
Misao could feel the blush creeping slowly up her face; she thought she looked like one of those Kurisumasu trees, or whatever they were called, with the red and the green. And in front of this pleasant, polite, imperious, handsome, impeccably dressed --
-- she realized abruptly that the (amazinglywonderfulprinceinshiningbusinesssuit) young man and the scary girl behind the counter were BOTH staring at her. Misao swallowed audibly, then gave her order again, having caught it and remembered it when her hero behind her had repeated it. Rummaging in her purse and extracting a fistful of crumpled bills and coins earned her another glare of death from the counter-girl, but she meekly nodded, accepted her change, and moved aside to wait for her order, murmuring an indistinct thanks and willing her face to calm down and stop glowing.
The sutra of the day was uttered thusly:
"Shujo mu hen sei gan do The many beings are numberless, I vow to save them; Bonno mu jin sei gan dan Greed, hatred, and ignorance rise endlessly, I vow to abandon them; Ho mon mu ryo sei gan gaku Dharma gates are countless, I vow to wake to them; Butsu do mu jo sei gan jo The Buddha's way is unsurpassed, I vow to embody it fully."
In layman's terms: Be nice to idiots. Or: patience is a virtue.
It was Dry Cleaning Day. This particular day to most people is no hassle at all. They simply pick up their dry cleaning and go on their merry way. Unfortunately for Mae, this isn't the case. Her dry cleaning consists of a white kimono that most of the masses around her mistake for a bridal dress. She couldn't quite fault them for it, since it was a bridal kimono of sorts, but she thought the red obi would make them pause to reconsider the idea she was getting married soon. They never did.
For this reason, Dry Cleaning Day was torture for Mae, seeing as every five seconds she was stopped and congratulated for a wedding that would never happen. Once upon a time, she would go out of her way to correct them; that, no, she was an itako and was 'married' to her profession. This usually earned her arched eyebrows, glazed over looks, and about fifty different variations of 'Bwuh?.' She later realized it would benefit everyone more if she left them delusional, much as she hated to do it. It was technically a disservice to them, but it was more trouble than it was worth trying to explain itako, while they were trying to give her tips on how to wear her hair. So, Mae stopped trying and, silently frustrated to no end, endured the silly gushing.
However, there was one perk to Dry Cleaning Day and that was the Coffee Stop. Mae always looked forward to getting her raspberry mocha (and a box of green tea for her grandmother) after picking up her itako ensemble. The rest of the walk home was a bit more bearable if she could drown her frustration in berry-chocolate-coffee goodness. Yet even the Coffee Stop was trying her patience today. For some reason, the barista had a rather large stick up a certain orifice and she was taking it out on the patrons. Mae was shocked the barista would do such a disservice to her clients. Bad day or not, you never offend those you're supposed to be helping. (At this point she silently thanked Fudo for the man in front of her, who saved the young lady in front of him from further embarrassment).
The line shuffled up a step or two as the young woman with green hair moved to the pick up area. Soon it would be Mae's turn to face the barista. Not that she minded. Quite on the contrary, she was looking forward to it. She just had to get there first.
She chanted softly, dry cleaning in hand:
"Shujo mu hen sei gan do Bonno mu jin sei gan dan Ho mon mu ryo sei gan gaku Butsu do mu jo sei gan jo."
Patience is a virtue.
The girl behind the counter -- the Barista of the Apocalypse, we might say -- busied herself with assisting in the preparation of the order. Whatever else could said for the girl, certainly one could not doubt that she had a certain gift with coffee; the delicacy of an artist at the easel, the deftness of a scientist with a test tube full of dangerous chemicals.
The fact that the majority of the clientele did not recognize the elegance of a perfect layering of cream and coffee was, of course, part of the reason she considered it her sworn duty to educate them. By any means necessary. It was a hard and lonely position to fill, but, by god, she would do it. They would thank her eventually. Doubtless the green-haired girl would, for example, be more precise in placing orders in the future, thereby showing proper respect, thereby making the world just a little better place. It was worth a little bit of fear and terror.
Still, Mokushi Oki had her pride. Spades of it, to be precise. And the implicit suggestion that she was incompetent . . . well, now. Sliding the completed tray towards one of her coworkers, she turned back towards the counter, drawing herself up in a mild, proper stance that nevertheless carried with it a faint hint of malice. (A stance that she had, in fact, learnt by observation; the older wives who silently graced political dinners were a rich mine of gestures, and there had been one in particular at a long-past foreign ministry affair who had filled Oki with a certain awe.)
If she had her way, the gentleman in the plum-colored suit was about to receive a very thorough reminder that the nail which sticks up is the nail that gets hammered all to hell.
"Next, please."
In a room notable for its wabi, sabi, and shibumi - its quiet and acerb good taste - there were two twenty-something girls sitting more-or-less with dignity amidst the neatly arranged stacks of books, paper, and various sundries of the calligrapher's trade. One of the girls was a credit to her surroundings in decorum and style; the other one had blue stripey hair and was screaming "What do you MEAN he's not THERE yet?"
We make no judgment.
Giou Ayame was noble, and refrained from rolling her eyes. She continued listening to the person on the other end of her cell phone, and made a "shush" gesture at Yoshinaga Tsurian.
Tsurian flung herself down on a cushion and muttered to herself. After a few minutes, she glanced up and demanded, "So is Boss there? Is this still salvageable even if Toshiro decides he can take his sweet time about getting there?"
Ayame made a great show of not listening to her co-conspirator. Instead she listened to the person on the other end with admirable focus, only slightly spoiled by her eyes suddenly bugging out.
She covered the mouthpiece and hissed, "Yoshinaga!"
"What?"
"The new barista's on duty now. You know."
Yoshinaga Tsurian scowled, deeply and ferociously. "Oh, her. I hope Boss makes her cry. I really do. She told me last week when I was minding my own business and just trying to get a caramel mochaccino that she thought it was adorable that I could manage to make the rebelliousness of dying my hair purple into something admirably and traditionally conformist." She sulked. It was clear that Mokushi Oki had made a very large impression on her.
"I'm so sorry," Ayame said. "I, um, don't think that Amakusa-san is going to make the barista cry, no."
"Really? I think he could do it standing on his head," Tsurian said. "See if you can get Suzuko to get a picture of the situation. Should I call Toshiro -"
Ayame shook her head. "Ahead of you." She held out the cell phone, having already downloaded the picture that their contact in the Starbucks had taken.
Tsurian looked, and swore. "Oooohhh, Boss, dammit!"
Even through high pixelation she could recognize the tranquil expression on the pictured face of Kenrou.
He had obviously just made a pun. At the barista. Whose expression, even though four blocks of space, ninety seconds of time, and weird interferences of electronic media, bespoke seventeen ice ages.
Four blocks away, Amakusa Kenrou finished giving his order with precision, accuracy, and care; according to even the impossible standards of Mokushi Oki it was annoyingly perfect. A thing worth doing, Kenrou believed, was worth doing flawlessly. He handed over the correct amount of money and smiled benevolently at the barista, whose composure, he was pleased to see, was back to normal. He approved this. It required sterling character, the very essence of Japaneseness, to admit that one had been wrong and that hard work would be required to overcome such a flaw.
And then Amakusa Kenrou committed one of the very few major errors he had ever made in all his days.
He spied the kanji on the pretty, if uncooperative, clerk's nametag.
And succumbed to his own nature, and smilingly addressed her as "MomoKuShi-san."
["Momo" = literally "peach", idiom in Tokyo dialect as "fortune"; "Ku" = "service" with connotations of "noble service/duty"; "shi" in this case = "gladness". Altogether we come to "glad and fortunate to be of service", or what Kenrou imagines Oki to be now that she's gotten through a whole transaction without fussing at the customer.]
Mae was back in observation mode, spending more time analyzing what was going on around her than worrying about how much coffee she actually wiped up from the table. (She was getting some of it up, mind you, she'd be shirking her duty if she was just pretending to). Besides, taking her time would give her more time to observe.
The object of her observation, one barrette clad male, had just thrown her for an unexpected loop. She had just about written him off as out of the closet for the first time, but when she handed him the napkins, he did something that didn't jive with that role: help the damsel-who-cause-the-distress. This shouted "clearly not gay" in Mae's book. What guy would give up a chance to get anywhere near his partner's lower region, especially when it is veiled as an attempt to help him clean coffee stains? None that she had ever come across.
So in the light of this new revelation, it could only be that Mr. Maybe-He-Is-Maybe-He-Isn't was indeed a challenge. Or at least more of a challenge than she had originally pegged him as. He didn't fit neatly into any of Mae's boxes, which both thrilled and confounded her. A real challenge! This would require more observation than usual. Now, she just had to find a way to make more observation happen ...
She finished cleaning off the table and, satisfied with her work, gingerly escorted the coffee soaked napkins into the garbage can. Turning, she approached the purple clad man once again, to be assured she had helped him to her full capacity and his satisfaction.
Bowing slightly, she asked, "Is there anything else I can help you with? I apologize for not having anymore detergent wipes on hand. I do hope those were sufficient enough for you."
Kenrou inclined his head respectfully to the helpful young lady. He had not been surprised when he had glanced at her dry-cleaning and noted the itako's ensemble; surely no one as well-prepared as this could fail to be in perfect, studious harmony with her world.
"Thank you, miss; the help already tendered has been more than adequate," he responded, accepting her bow as his due. He wrote off the pants as a loss, despite the napkins and other aids pressed upon him, and reflected that it was a pity; he had rather liked that suit.
As always when presented with a seemingly disadvantageous situation by the universe, he attempted to solve the puzzle of what the universe saw fit to bring to his attention. In this case, it could only be a gentle reminder that absorption in material things, such as suits, was most unbecoming in a follower of Zen.
(Much later, he would come to realize that the omen and portent had been, in fact, a harbinger of his duty to watch the paths of certain young ladies lest they should stumble and lose their footing. Alas, foresight is so clear, looking back; the master Bashou had had several thoughts to this effect.)
Omen or not, he had been left unfit to conduct affairs in public; he would have to presume upon Giou-kun's patience and request an extension or a grace period to discuss ... ... ... whatever it was that had led to this meeting.
(A city ward away, Giou Ayame and Yoshinaga Tsurian sneezed in unison.)
He addressed himself to the polite young man who had kindly aided the maiden responsible for his portent. "We must extend an apology to Giou-kun, and humbly beg his pardon," Kenrou said, "for this Amakusa must repair away to arrange certain things more comfortably."
Deep inside, Toshiro's already-nervous inner self had become a blushing, gibbering idiot incapable of anything more eloquent than "...er." The phrase "certain things more comfortably" had struck his inner self the final blow, especially as he was still kneeling on the floor, and thus had certain things at his eye level. As with most people, when the conscious mind is rendered incapable of responding, autopilot takes over. Fortunately for Toshiro, his autopilot was an actor's, and excelled at maintaining and improving the status quo, in harmony with the principle agents, and doing it with style.
In all honesty, it was better at it than he was.
"Of course, Amakusa-san! Apologies are quite unnecessary, however; an accident such as this is something no one could have anticipated." He said, rising gracefully and bowing to Amakusa-san. He then looked attentively at Misao, who looked stunned, dazed, and absolutely mortified, and extended his arm to help her to her feet. "If you're certain you're all right...?" She nodded mutely, probably not trusting herself not to stammer. He didn't let go of her until she was quite steady on her feet (probably for the best with recent history in mind), and sent her off with the courteous charm expected of a fairy-tale prince.
"I would like to accompany you to the train station, Amakusa-san, if I may presume upon more of your time," he said humbly.
"This Amakusa would be honored by the company," he rumbled, and with another round of polite bowing, always a treat in the middle of a busy urban Starbucks, the pair exited, (Amakusa strategically placed behind Toshiro to obscure at least part of the coffee stain) stage center, to the sound of coffee shop chatter.
After all, it had been a spectacular show for this quiet little Starbucks.
Mae watched the pair's exit for a brief moment before turning her attention back to the now empty table. Scooping up a few of the clean napkins, she slipped them into her purse. They weren't detergent wipes, but they would work in a pinch if she needed them; at least until she got home and restocked her supply.
Mae settled back into her own seat, pleased the spilled drinks got nowhere near her dry cleaning. As she sipped what was left of her raspberry mocha, a quick glance at her watch told her it had been two minutes and fifty-three seconds since the manly(ish) duo had departed. Plenty of time for a head start if she did say so herself. Not that she was going to stalk her Challenge -- of course not! However, since she was headed in the same direction, it could hurt to do some observing without being too obvious. She was NOT about to let something as rare as a Challenge get away that easily.
Rising, Mae deposited her empty cup in the trash and placed a generous tip in Oki's jar. Excellent barista skills and attention to duty should always be rewarded. With that, she too left the Starbucks in casual pursuit of the Challenge. She'd figure him out. Eventually. She always did. And now was the best time to start. With a slight smile, she murmured,
"Shujo mu hen sei gan do Bonno mu jin sei gan dan Ho mon mu ryo sei gan gaku Butsu do mu jo sei gan jo."
After all, patience is a virtue.
Misao nodded at the barista, face still flaming red, as she handed over even more cash for a second round of complicated orders. She couldn't risk heading back without the drinks, as it would be worth her job. But she was probably already in trouble for taking so long. This was definitely not her day.
But, she reflected as she picked up the cardboard trays and carefully exited the cafe, there was at least one small glimmer of goodness in all of this. She'd met a man so handsome and honorable that he didn't even mind being showered in boiling-hot coffee and tea, who could quote poetry and make remarkable puns at a moment's notice. And another... person... who was unfailingly kind and sweet when she was embarassed beyond belief. As Misao delicately picked her way back to the bookstore, rehearsing her explanation and apologies for her lateness, she decided that it hadn't been a total waste of her afternoon.
Though visibly unmoved by the exit of the last of the Obnoxious People Who Did Obnoxious Things In Her Store, in the depths of her frozen core Oki breathed a sigh of relief.
She had frequently packed the suggestions box with demands that she be allowed to post photographs of store-disrupting, bad-tipping, tasteless slobs in the store windows, pasted over with enormous red 'X's. Management had always told her no (something about how it was technically illegal to do something like that . . . and that would be the FIRST thing Oki would change when she was running things, damnit, it was time to bring back the honorable Japanese custom of social humiliation) but if she ever got her way, those people, especially the freak with the streak in his hair . . . they would be front and center. And possibly, possibly, the 'X's would be drawn in their own blood.
Sometimes, when they thought she wasn't paying attention, her coworkers called her Genghis Oki. Poor taste, in her mind. Everyone knew Kublai Khan was cooler.
She would have mused on the subject longer, drawn up elaborate revenge schemes, but she did have a job to do. Especially when a pretty, elegantly dressed young businesswoman strolled up to the counter, wedge heels clicking loudly on the linoleum, cellphone glued to her ear. Without so much as glancing at the barista, the woman said, brusquely, "Green tea frappucino. Venti. Make it snappy, I have a meeting."
Oki smiled a little Mona Lisa smile and raised an eyebrow. And then proceeded to viciously break her.
Perhaps the day wasn't a COMPLETE waste.
