Youji wa Ore
Van Donovan

“Na. Youji, th’light’s green . . . Oi! Youji! Oi!”
“Huh? Oh!”
Youji turned back to face the street and hit the gas a bit too hard. The car shifted jerkily and he hisses as it jackrabbit-ed. Ken clutched to the dashboard as his seatbelt attempted to throttle him, and then looked over his shoulder at the bunch of flowers in the back seat of the car. “Watch it will ya?!” Ken hollered into Youji’s ear. The older man raised a hand and plugged the offended ear with a finger.
“I was distracted! Everyone is allowed their mistakes!” he retorted and then got big-eyed as Ken unbuckled and lurched from his seat to turn around completely and look out the back of the car window, his butt near-level to Youji’s face in the center front of the car. “K-ken!!” Youji shouted, looking from the wild boy to the road, swerving a little, but trying to stay in between the lines.
“What were y’lookin’ at, Youji? S’jes’ a buncha promotional posters fer anime garbage and some ads fer therapy, not even any cute girls!”
“Ken get your ass back in your seat dammit!” Youji shouted again and slapped the boy on the rump.
Ken immediately reacted by shooting bolt upright and slamming his head on the convertibles soft roof. “Ittai!!!” he moaned and dropped back down into his chair, nursing his bumped head. “Punkass,” he growled, and looked at his hand, as if he expected to see blood. “Yer really distracted ain’t ya, Youji, want me t’drive?”
“Shut up Ken.” He said without looking at the other.
They sat in silence for a long while until Youji flipped the radio on, riffling through stations until something came up that sounded decent and had a good beat. “Get th’map out, I think we’re almost there.” Youji said after awhile and Ken complied.
Before long the two had parked and were unloading the flowers to their designated delivery stop. Ken lagged a bit behind, waiting for Youji to turn and chide him. Ken raised a finger to the elder mans lips and shook his head. “Don’t say anything.” He muttered and then started walking so the two could be shoulder to shoulder. “Really though, what’s bothering you?” he asked, absently using his free hand to fix some of the petals on the flowers. Youji didn’t say anything. He wanted a cigarette and to be left alone. “Ch’.” Ken grunted and leaned forward to ring the bell.
A woman in her forties answered the door with a look of surprise on her face upon seeing the two handsome men standing in her doorway with flowers. “Well! I knew you delivered, but I never thought the deliverers would be prettier than the flowers!” Ken laughed and elbowed stone-faced Youji when the other didn’t.
“Oh just put them on the table, here,” the woman said, directing the boys along as they entered the house. Ken followed mindlessly, while Youji trailed behind. He passed one room with an open doorway and when he peeked inside on walking by, he found he had to do a double take.
Through the small crack in the open door, he could see a young boy, about twelve, sitting at a desk with a bright lamp shining down on the variety of little plastic pieces scattered over the desktop. In the boys’ hand was grasped part of a model mecha while the child, with tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, attempted to clue another piece of the model together. Youji was entranced by the package displayed to him that the model came in. Of course, it was a Gundam . . .
“Youji.” Ken chided, plucking the flowers from the older man and tsking at him as he went to take them to the place the woman had directed them to. Youji just barely registered Ken and then turned back to look through the doorway into the child’s room again. This time, the boy looked up at him and met cool blue eyes with vacant green ones. The boy tilted his head at seeing the grown man standing at his doorway, but didn’t feel threatened.
“You can come in, if you’d like.” The boy announced and Youji suddenly realized that was very much what he wanted to do. He pushed the door open and stepped into the portal of a child’s domain. There were two large wallscrolls on the wall, both from the same series, and a huge array of Gundam models from all the series, painted and displayed with care throughout the room. Youji looked around, not realizing his mouth was slightly open, and then looked lastly to the boy who held the model Gundam Heavyarms in his hand, letting the glue set. “You a Gundam fan too?” the boy piped up.
Youji just nodded a bit, “I used to watch Gundamwing when I wasn’t working. It came on during my break.” He mused, and the boy beamed.
“That series is my favourite.” He said and then bowed a bit from his awkward position of holding the model. “I’m Hiroshi.” He said as an introduction and then smiled crookedly. “Some people call me Zechs, though.” Youji laughed a bit at that. The boy looked nothing at all like the azure eyed, long-platinum haired, pilot of the Tallgeese.
“Zechs, eh?” Youji grinned, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Don’t wanna be one of the boys more your age?” he asked, implying the five main characters who all started off at fourteen. The boy shook his head.
“Nope! I wanna be Zechs! Sure, he has his flaws, but he came so far and has so much nobility and pride. He looks really cool, too.” He added, and tilted his head towards a shelf filled with models. Youji realized, upon closer observation, they were all various versions of the Tallgeese, in one form or another. “He got the best mech too.” Hiroshi added. Youji chuckled. That was easily arguable, but he said nothing, just admiring the paint jobs. “Which one are you?”
Youji looked up, a bit startled by the question. “Which pilot?” he confirmed, and Hiroshi nodded his affirmative. “Aaah,” Youji grinned, having always had related to one of the pilots more than any of the others, but not wanting to let the boy think such a grown man thought so much on an animated cartoon. “Number Three, I guess.” He stated with a grin, and Hiroshi nodded.
“Codename: Trowa Barton.” The boy answered grinning, shocked Youji’d not even just called him “Trowa” like so many people did. This guy even knew Trowa wasn’t Trowa’s real name. He was impressed.
“Aww bull, yer nothin’ like Trowa.” Ken commented from where he’d manifested leaning against the doorframe. “Aren’t ya a lil’ old fer anime anyway?”
Youji shot him a foul look. “And here we have Quatre.” He grumbled, flicking a thumb at Ken, addressing the statement to Hiroshi. Hiroshi made a slight face.
Ken sprang from the wall so fast he hit his hand against the door. “QUATRE?! Why you!!” he steamed and then huffed, taking a stand. “You KNOW I’m most like Duo! Death himself!” Youji just laughed, and Hiroshi joined in, although he thought just from these few moments that Ken’s attitude was a lot like Duo’s.
Ken double took at the two laughing at him. “What?! Aww!!! Ferget it! S’jes’ a dumb anime anyway! I’m way cooler than Duo’r any of ‘em!” he exclaimed and Hiroshi giggled again setting his little model down. “Aww c’mon Youji, we still got more flowers to unload.”
“That’s my cue, Mother Quatre reeling poor Trowa in,” Youji said, again to Hiroshi. The boy just laughed and waved as Ken grabbed Youji by the arm and physically dragged him from the Gundam-loving boys room.
“It was nice to meet you, Trowasan!” came Hiroshi’s shout before Ken closed the door to the inside.

Later in the day, after the two had delivered all the flowers and were en route back to the flower shop, Ken brought the subject back up again. “I didn’t know you watched Gundamwing when it was on.” Youji didn’t reply for a long time.
“Yer not that much younger than me, Ken.” He finally said, implying that Ken watching it as well would be kind of weird.
Ken slouched and shrugged. “Ch’. That was in what, 1995? 1996? I was just a brat back then, still in Junior High. It was okay fer kids t’watch it. It was the cool thing t’watch.”
“You’re still are a brat, Ken.” Youji replied, but it wasn’t really insulting. “Heee, I’m surprised you don’t have a mile-long pig-tail like Duo did.” He added after awhile. It was weird to discuss such an anime with the likes of Ken, but it was also something nice. It was true, Youji had been older when Gundamwing had first aired, but he’d still watched it a lot. It’d held a lot of meaning for him, and it’d gotten him through a lot of hard times. Well, Trowa had, at least.
Ken grinned madly. “So then you admit I am like Duo!”
“Frighteningly so.” He answered and Ken grinning, leaning back, putting his arms behind his head cocky like.
“I still don’t get where y’go off callin’ yerself Trowa. D’y’do that jes’ ‘cause th’kid’d already picked Zechs?” he asked, shutting his eyes, relishing in the sunlight pouring from above.
“I didn’t like Zechs.”
Ken popped one eye open, looking to the brunette. “Y’mean y’really identify with palm-leaf head?”
“Un.” Youji just grunted, not wanting to get into the details of it all, especially since he knew Ken wouldn’t understand. He felt he was a lot like Trowa. He’d learned a lot from Trowa. They were, however, things he wasn’t that eager to share. Not with Ken, at any rate.
“Mm, I’d think Aya was more like Trowa.” Ken commented and shrugged, staring up out of the top car, now that the convertible top was down. “And Heero and Wufei . . .” he muttered.
Youji was tired of the thread of conversation and finally snapped out a cut off that was in completely opposite of how he sometimes felt. “No one is like an anime character! Their situation is nothing like ours to even compare to!” He growled and Ken blinked, looking to the man who now carefully kept his green eyes focused on the road and not at Ken who stared at him.
“It actually is,” Ken stated, and then dropped off into silence.
He sat up as they came to a stop at the same light as before and peered across the street at the movie posters as they drove by them again - the same ones that’d distracted Youji so much on the way to the their delivery spot. Amoung the other smaller ads was a large one advertising a new promotional Original Animated Video just out. Youji’s cheeks were burning as they passed and Ken looked from the man back to the large poster with a bit of disbelief in his face.
The ad was for Shinkidousenki Gundamwing: Endless Waltz, the OAV.

“Oh! Youjikun! Kenkun! You are here!” it was Omi’s voice from the flower shop. The youngest Weiß member entered and paused seeing just Ken kicking it in the back, reading a magazine with his feet on the coffee table. “Don’t put your feet there, Kenkun.” Omi scolded but Ken didn’t budge his feet, pretty eyes only lifting from the paper to glance up at Omi briefly. He yawned at the younger boy. “Where’s Youjikun?” Ken just shrugged, saying nothing. “Maaa,” Omi breathed and began untying the apron he was wearing. “Ayakun should be in shortly; it’s your guys’ shift soon.” Omi continued talking to keep the room filled with some sort noise. Ken just raised his hand and waved the other boy off, not in a pleasant or talkative mood. Youji’s reaction earlier had rattled and upset him.
Omi frowned and then decided to go upstairs to see how Youji was doing. Whenever he and Ken got in fights with one another, Ken would become a recluse, but Youji even more so. Omi leaned on the frame to Youji’s door and rapped his knuckles on the wood. “Huh?!” came Youji’s grunt from inside. Omi smiled a bit; Youji was probably smoking a cigarette inside, even though they asked him not to.
“It’s me,” he announced and when he heard another grunt, he opened the door, slipping inside and shutting it again, behind him. He smiled brightly and then opened his eyes. He blinked once upon not seeing Youji at his bed or his desk where he’d expected him to be, and then looked at him sitting on the floor. “Eh?”
“I got it when they came out, but I always thought I’d butcher it if I tried to put it together.” Youji said, holding a little razor that he was carefully using to cut the Gundam pieces out of their packaging.
“Waaaah, Youjikun! I didn’t know you built models!” Omi exclaimed and moved forward, bending at the waist with his hands on his knees, peering down as Youji cut away. Omi glanced up and then plucked the cigarette that was bobbing up and down out of Youji’s mouth and crushed it in a nearby ashtray. Youji just grumbled.
“I needed that,” he muttered and then set down the newest piece he’d cut out. He blinked, looking up to Omi. Omi’d actually been about the right age to watch Gundamwing when it’d aired. He felt a little flushed about the younger kid seeing him with the model, now. After all, he was the eldest of the Weiß members and was supposed to be something of a role model. “Well, this is my first one.” He muttered and shrugged, absently. He began freeing another piece.
“Ooooh, what’s it from?” Omi questioned, wanting to know because maybe it’d help him know why Youji was in a bad mood. If the model reminded him of his youth, or if Ken had triggered something . . . well, he had no other way of comforting the older man without knowing the cause of the ailment.
Youji blinked looking up. “Y’mean y’don’t know?”
Omi picked up the box Youji’d taken the model out of. “Shin-ki-dou-senki . . . Gundam-Weengu.” He blinked and then broadly smiled. “Oh! Gundamwing! Sousou, I remember, they are coming out with a new movie, right?”
Youji sighed, deflated. It figured Omi wouldn’t remember. Or, more than likely, the boy was too involved with grades and studying than to be bothered with the anime television shows that the rest of the youth enjoyed.
“It’s a show I watched when I was younger.” He said finally. Omi set the box down, crossed his ankles and put his hands behind his head.
“Aah, oh.” He replied and looked at the clock in the room. Aya and Ken’s shift would have started by now, and he ought to go check on them - Ken, at least. “Youjikun.” He added, first.
“Mm?” he answered, without looking up. It was futile; Youji was too into his model to be bothered with talking about his problems. Perhaps later tonight would be better, he thought.
Omi shook his head. “Mmhmm, never mind. I’m going to see if Ayakun and Kenkun’ve started their shifts yet.” He added and waited for a dismissal.
“Fine.” The older man muttered, never lifting his eyes from the model he was busy cutting on.

Countless hours later there was another wrap on the door. Youji grumbled thinking it was Omi again, and didn’t want to be disturbed. He was almost done with the model, after all, although his back was aching from hunching over for so long. There was another knock and Youji just grunted. “Come back later!” he shouted and snapped a piece into place, grinning and cutting down on a bit of the uneven edges. Against his wishes, the door opened. “I thought I told you to--” he cut off, seeing it wasn’t Omi at the door entrance.
Aya held a tray with some steaming rice, soup and a drink on it, his hip cocked, his violet eyes flashing angrily. “A-Aya!” Youji stuttered, starting to stand, but then sitting back down as Aya entered the room, setting the tray on his desk. The redhead seemed pissed off, even more so than usual.
“Do you have any idea of what time it is?” he growled, his back to Youji, looking out the window into the pitch-black night. Youji raised a knuckle and rubbed his eyes, stifling a yawn. He wasn’t sure. He was feeling a little tired now, though. When had he and Ken gotten home? No later than six at night . . .
“Ten-thirty?” he asked, and Aya turned his head, glaring to the emerald eyed brunette with contempt.
“It’s four in the morning.” He growled and Youji did a double take, looking to his clock on the wall. He blanched. Wow.
Aya turned to face him completely now, crossing his arms, his mouth set into a scowl, one hip still cocked. “Th’hell has you so preoccupied that you’d miss your dinner, three phone calls and a date?” he growled.
Youji glanced to the tray of food Aya’d brought up for him, and then felt himself knot inside as he remembered the date he’d had tonight with a cute girl named Rumiko. “It’s just . . .” he started and sighed, running his hands through his pony-tailed hair, tousling it. “augh, I dunno Aya, I’ve just been thinking about my past so much lately, and it’s just been getting to me. I’m sorry.” He muttered, kicking himself.
Aya didn’t move for a bit. “I know Omi can pull all-nighters with ease, but you cannot. Eat some dinner, go take a shower and get to bed. And you’re not coming on the mission we have tomorrow night.” The other ordered, his tone serious and cold.
“Aya!” Youji retorted, moving to stand, his brows drawing together. His legs were weak from having been sitting and he almost fell over. “That’s not fair! I’ll be fine in the morning!” he growled. Aya rounded on him, his hands dropping to his sides in balled fists.
“Don’t start with me right now Youji. You need sleep and you need to get your mind off whatever is bothering you. You go on a mission with those thoughts in your mind and you’ll get yourself killed.” He growled, his tone cruel and forceful as ever but silent so as to not awaken the other two sleeping boys.
Youji clutched his pants leg, pissed at the way Aya spoke so freely to him with no respect for his age or privacy. Who made him the leader anyway? “Fine!” he snapped back, “Just get outta here!” he added. Aya glared at him a few moments longer then turned, shaking his head.
“Sleep it off,” he said without anger in his voice, before exiting out the still open door and shutting it behind him. Youji set his model down and looked away.
“Ch’.” He growled. He remained seated several moments longer, then sighing got to his feet, shaking circulation back down to his ankles. He’d clean the Gundam mess up tomorrow when he was more awake. Aya was right; he really did need to sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he started for his door to go take a shower and paused, seeing the tray of food on his desk that Aya had brought him. “Aitsu.” He muttered and shook his head, pulling his chair out, and picking the chopsticks up.
Regardless of what he’d said earlier, Aya really wasn’t like anyone of the Gundamwing boys. Aya was Aya. His way of showing he cared was by yelling and ordering people around. It wasn’t something Youji liked or appreciated really, but it was well meant.
With that in mind, he set about eating the meal before it got cold.

Youji didn’t awaken until the sunlight hit his eyes from the slant via his mini-blinds. He groaned and rolled over. The sun couldn’t shine through those blinds unless it was after noon, he knew, and that meant some one had come in and turned his alarm off before it went off at ten like he’d set it. Probably Aya. “Ch’,” Youji growled and finally moved to get up, his hair all crazy looking after a night of sleeping on it. The dishes he’d eaten off of last night were gone too, leading him to believe even more so that it was Aya who’d turned his alarm off.
Sighing he moved to stand up to get dressed, and promptly stepped on a few of the discarded plastic pieces from the Gundam. “AAH!” he shouted and hoped over the rest of the mess, peeling the embedded piece of plastic from his foot and cursing. “God dammit!” he hissed and threw the piece of plastic into his wastebasket. What had he been thinking? Of course he’d step on the tiny little pieces. He rubbed his eyes blearily and opened his door as he buttoned and zipped his pants. He stifled a yawn and stretched as he walked down the hallway towards the downstairs and floor shop.
He flipped his watch around on his wrist to see what time it was, to get an idea of who’d be working the shop right now. He squinted a bit against the onslaught of sun, and upon hearing the giddy giggling of school girls from the front of the shop, decided to avoid the flower shop altogether. Their giggling was making him ill.
He padded into the kitchen and picked up a banana and absently began eating it, looking around. He seemed rather lost, and yawned again, moving back up to his room. He sighed, sitting down at his desk after successfully navigating around the Gundam-mess on the floor, resting his half-eaten banana down. He looked out his window and sighed again, then looked over his shoulder to the half-formed mecha on the floor where he’d left it last night. His teeth clenched at the memories it brought to mind. His hand went to clutch the shirt material above his chest, and he inhaled raggedly. For all the man he was on the outside, sometimes he was dying on the inside. He squeezed shut his eyes, memories being to flood his mind and buried his face in his hands.
He was crying.

“Ne ne, Kenkun, do you know what’s been bothering Youjikun?” Omi asked as the influx of schoolgirls died down a bit. Ken, who was arranging a vase of fern and lilies, looked up to the other boy.
“Huh?” he looked back to his flower arrangement and shrugged. “Youji’s Youji.” He muttered and sighed. “All I got outta him was garbage about some old anime.” He added and then moved away to work on another plant.
Omi sighed and leaned against the countertop, looking concentrated and in thought. “I wonder . . . if the anime is what is making him so depressed.” He wondered aloud. From over in the front of the store Ken called out:
“What would Gundamwing hafta do with Youji?”
Omi shrugged, crossing his arms. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the show, have you Kenkun?” Ken looked up, and then walked over before answering.
“Aah.” He said in an affirmative tone. “I watched it when I was younger. It’s no different than any other anime.” He finished, but Omi’s expression proved that he wanted him to elaborate more on what they talked about. Ken shrugged again and grabbed a cloth and began wiping the counter down. “Saaa, he said he’s like one of th’characters, Trowa. And then he tried t’identify Aya and you and I with other characters from Gundamwing, but he snapped at me when I’d said Trowa was more like Aya than him.” Ken threw the rag back down, disgustedly. “Who knows with him.”
“I’m worried about him, though.” Omi replied, and then perked as someone entered the shop. “Aaah! Welcome!” he announced, and moved around the counter to go help out the new customer. Ken just leaned heavily on the desk he’d just finished wiping down and watched the two interact with a dazed sort of look. What did he care about Youji? He knew he was big enough to take care of his own problems.
“Aah, thank you, come back again soon!” Omi cheerfully called as the customer left without buying anything. Ken just leveled the boy with a glare when he came back over. Omi was so good at just being happy. It really unnerved Ken sometimes.
“So tell me what this Trowa character is like, Kenkun.” Omi asked, nestling in behind the cash register again. Ken slapped his palm on the counter and stood again. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Youji, but . . . just something was bothering him, and he was tired of talking about the subject.
“Trowa’s jes’ a closed-lipped quiet guy who worked in . . . aaaah, a circus with lions. I dunno. I didn’t like him much. He’s a traitor later on. I don’t remember. I never saw the end of th’series. G’ask him yerself.” Ken growled and then set off to re-rearrange the fern and lily set up.
“I just might . . .” Omi softly said, and then looked down at his hands, really worried about the older man.

Asuka’s death had changed him.
He’d grown up overnight, from being the wild teenager who found “missions’ impossible” fun and enjoyable, to someone much more older and worldly. It had been just a game for him, until then. The day he’d seen her brutally gunned down right before his eyes, he’d become a man. Reality had hit him full force and snapped him into awareness. He regretted so much that the way it had come to be had been at her death, though. Nonetheless, he was changed. He’d become harder then, and all the while his insides had screamed. He’d screamed at his inability to save her, to return to that moment in time, to hold her a little longer.
He was an assassin now, but he could have been so much more if things hadn’t gone the way they had. Asuka’s death had impacted him more than it should have. He blamed himself entirely for it. Everyday after her death, he had just been; he was only existing, but not alive. That was when he’d started dating casually. Anything he could do to get his mind off Asuka, he did. She almost seemed to haunt him, and he couldn’t escape the memory of her dying, of her last words, of the way she’d run off and been shot, the way her crimson blood at sprayed the air . . .
He’d buried himself in the company of other women. He’d done anything to get his mind from her, but it’d always been futile. He’d erected a mask to wear, to charm the other women, to make them love him and hold him and make him think of them and not her, but he always awoke screaming Asuka’s name. He always dreamed she was coming back for him from the dead. That was when he fell in with Weiß. It was one job he could take on that would let him vent his hatred and anger. Yet he still couldn’t escape the memory of Asuka’s death, no matter how much he tried to bury the memory with the new girls in his life. He always made his dates frivolous, and none ever lasted more than a week or two. He couldn’t handle it. None of them touched him inside the way she had . . . and he knew, deep down that he was afraid of getting to close to them because if he lost one again, like he’d lost Asuka, that he’d loose himself too.
He’d almost had to face that with Maki.
Becoming an underground assassin had been the only thing left for him to do. He wasn’t focused enough to go into any higher field of work, and his previous life as a detective had helped him qualify for an assassins job. Also, although he almost never admitted it to himself, he knew he wanted to aven>

Transfer interrupted!

assin he might once again be able to face the ones who’d killed her, and kill them. But Maki had almost shattered him. She resembled Asuka as much as Omi did in appearance, which was to say not much at all, but he could still mistake the both for them for her when he was tired or hurting or when the situation was right, and Maki had had Asuka’s vibrancy, her attitude.
He hadn’t gotten close to Maki. Not at all. She was just someone he’d rescued. She was just another woman. Yet, she had reminded him of Asuka . . . and then she’d been shot the same way Asuka had. She had kissed him, then practically run off to her death while he’d stood behind, only able to watch the re-enactment. It had almost been too much to bear. Had he been able to get to know Maki even just a little more, the event would have entirely destroyed him. He was a strong man, but . . . he was only so strong.
The idea that the people he learned to love and care for could be killed by his line of work just unnerved him too much. Human life was too precious for him to love, because if the one he loved was killed again while he helplessly stood by, he’d snap. Thus he was torn, stuck between a rock and a hard place. He remained an assassin to avenge the death of his first partner, Asuka, but in remaining an assassin, he assured himself he would never get over her death and fall in love because he could never jeopardize someone with the career he chose.
He’d erected a mask to hide his emotions behind, to bury them deep beneath other girls, other jobs, friends and life, so that he could live on without needing love or Asuka. His burial had been so complete he could entirely forget the event - until something happened to trigger it - or until he came so low, so tired or downcast, that his reality was as depressed as his buried memories, and they overlapped, . . . then things would spill over and come out from behind his mask, as they were now.
His hand came up from where he’d buried his face into it, his long bangs concealing damp emerald eyes and clutched the bicep of his left arm, his palm covering the tattoo he’d had under the shirt.
Sin. When you gonna learn?
When would he learn? When would he be able to take off his mask-of-happiness in exchange for real happiness? When could he stop being the womanizing player that he was, and find someone real to love, without fear that they might be killed? When could he finally get over Asuka and on with his life?
Tears streaked down his nose, pooling at its tip and plopping onto his desk as his fingers bit into his arm, clutching tighter and tighter. He made very few audible sounds, mostly faint gasps as his shoulders rocked with his shaking frame. He was pathetic. Even the love he’d found wasn’t something he could hold to anymore. He was desperately trying to detach himself from it so he could return to a normal life again.
He wasn’t Trowa. Trowa had always maintained that mask of solitude and stone. Trowa had surprised himself by his own tears. Youji clenched his other fist and sighed, forcing down his emotions. He would do like he had when Asuka had died. He would become Trowa as best he could. He fiercely rubbed his eyes dry, and finally stood up, pushing his chair back the legs grating against his wooden floor. Eventually he would come to terms with his inner turmoil, but until then, he would have to become the nameless boy from an old anime and hide behind his mask of happiness, fooling everyone including himself.
It was the only way he could carry on.
He changed again into something more his masked-self wore: slacks, a cream shirt and a dark blue jacket. He spent the next half hour preening his face and hair, and making sure his eyes were clear. He didn’t want anyone to think he had been crying. He left his hair down, the light brown tendrils framing his face gorgeously again. He stuffed his wallet and a pack of cigarettes into his back pockets and then headed out the door, picking up his car keys on the way out. If Aya didn’t want him to go on a mission tonight, then he’d make use of the night, just to anger the little redhead. It would almost positively insure Aya’d never lay him off again, too. With a deep breath to guide himself, he once again became the well-known and loved Kudou Youji.

Omi stiffened as an arm slipped around his shoulders from behind. “It’s such a gorgeous day, what with the amazing azure sky, the creamy puffs of cirrus clouds and the magnificent shinning sun lighting them all! Smell that fresh air! What a pity you two have to be stuck in a flower shop working.” Youji mused, and then drifted his arm off Omi and grinned at Ken, both who stared at the renewed man with wide eyes. Youji waved cutely to the small group of girls outside the flower storefront flocked around Aya and fished out a cigarette, lightning it. Ken approached him.
“Oi, Youji, you okay now?” the brunette asked, his eyes a bit wary.
Youji resisted blowing his smoke into Kens face as he took a long pull off his cigarette. He exhaled up into the air instead. Omi looked nonplused.
“Youjikun, please don’t smoke around the flowers.” He kindly asked, but his face showed he’d asked the same thing many times before and been prominently ignored. Youji shot a glance over his shoulder at Omi then grinned, raising his other hand and waggling the keys, which jiggling.
“No bother, I’m on my way to a date.” he mused and then turned and ruffled Ken’s hair with his free hand, the cigarette balancing on his lips, and sauntered towards the door to the squealing delight of the many girls gathered out there. This time, he relished in their high-pitched giggles. He picked up a bouquet of flowers from the stand display outside, not bothering to pay for them, and continued along. From inside, Ken and Omi watched as Youji flirted his way past Aya and the multitude of girls, the former of which just glared bolts at him. Youji waved his keys to Aya, who retorted with some comment the two observers inside couldn’t hear. Youji gave Aya a cute closed eyed grin and flashed the peace sign, around his bouquet, at the redhead. He then promptly turned, and kept walking like he owned the world, puffing away on his cigarette.
Omi and Ken exchanged baffled glances.


Within the hour Youji and Rumiko were side by side in his red convertible, the latter happily clutching the bouquet of stolen flowers, her large brown eyes fixed on the handsome man beside her.

He was once again in his element, his thoughts of Asuka and pain far behind him, only a salty stain left from a few spilt tears. He’d submerge himself in the nineteen-year-old beauty beside him tonight, and make up for the date he’d missed the night prior. He glanced at her through his veil of blowing light brown hair and flashed her one of his token sexy smiles. Rumiko just darkened and averted her eyes at it.
Yes. He might have to hide behind a mask to bar his emotions from the rest of the world like Trowa, but unlike Trowa he still had an advantage.
He’d at least learned to sometimes appreciate the mask he wore and the sort of life it made him lead.

Owari
The End