Hideya taps his box of cigarettes listlessly, lip curling as the conversation from earlier replays in his mind.
Sakamoto-san, the man in charge of an entire wing of the Agata-gumi, sat behind a long, polished desk. The desk hid the gut he was starting to develop from years of fat living, and its top was decorated with a rare cigar in a case and pictures of Sakamoto-san’s family.
Behind the desk, he folded his hands pensively, his jocular and booming voice coming forward.
“Hideya-kun, it’s just not practical. You understand, right? Just work under Nanami for a few more years, and then you’ll have kobun of your own to run.”
He talks to Hideya with the kind of avuncular affection that makes it sound like Hideya is an errant child—to be indulged to a point but ultimately too naive and asking for too much.
That had been the outcome of Hideya bringing his plan to Sakamoto-san for the second time in twice as many years. The answer had been the same when he was twenty—you’re too young; it’s good to be ambitious, but mind your elders.
He had bought it at twenty, but at twenty-four, Hideya was older and wiser—and starting to understand that Sakamoto was just giving him the runaround.
“Shit,” Hideya says, thumping his fist into the concrete wall.
What could he do? He could only accept and bow and thank Sakamoto-san for his time.
After Sakamoto had had his secretary show Hideya out, Hideya found himself in the back of one of the clubs that the Agata-gumi ran in the city.
Of course he’d run into Snake. Hideya twirled his cigarette between his tattooed fingers, not in the mood for Snake’s bullshit.
He was never in the mood, but he especially didn’t feel like he could play nice right now.
Snake’s always been a fucking dummy at reading people, though. He peels his greasy ass off the wall where he’s been leaning trying to look cool and takes off after Hideya.
“Hayate-kun. Hayate-kun, wait up.”
Hideya doesn’t slow his steps, which means Snake has to trot to keep up with him, which annoys the hell out of Snake. He stops Hideya and spins him around with a hand on his shoulder.
“Hayate-kun, didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Busy,” Hideya says. “What?”
Snake’s eyes flick to the cigarette in Hideya’s hand. “Didn’t you quit?”
Hayate flicks the cigarette around his knuckles in a familiar pattern. He used to do this with knives. Although he doesn’t have a blade in his hand right now and although he’s three years younger than Snake, Snake still eyes his hands warily.
He’s been on the business end of Hayate’s knife before.
“Bad news from the boss man, huh?” Snake asks, trying to be friendly.
Hayate looks at him with an expression that could freeze ice, and Snake falters and drops it.
“Alright, look. I have a job for you. I need it to be done tonight, but while you’re here, you might as well make it worth your while, yeah? What’s the sense in leaving empty-handed?”
“Busy,” Hideya says again.
“Tch! Come on, please. I have to go help Hikaru with a thing. Please.”
It’s a little satisfying to see Snake beg. And unfortunately, Snake isn’t wrong about him. He really does hate leaving empty-handed.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Half,” Snake says.
Hideya snorts. “75% or I’m finding better things to do tonight.”
Snake looks like he’s going to pop a vein, and Hideya turns to leave.
“Fine! Fine, 75%, you fuckin’ monster.”
Hideya smiles.
God, Hayate always did have the worst fuckin’ personality.
So that’s how Hideya winds up in the long and winding corridors beneath the club, about to sticky-fingers some security footage for dummy Snake.
“Seriously?”
What the hell? He was supposed to do a job, and now here there’s just some guy passed out in the middle of the hallway.
The service corridor is long and empty. Only a sliver of the sound from the club out front comes back here.
The way the guy is lying, Hideya can’t see his face. Just some flashy silver hair that’s all messy as it covers him up. He must be some kind of drunk.
Hideya walks up to him and kicks him not too gently. “Oy. You can’t sleep here.”
Nothing.
Geez, how drunk is this guy?
“Oy!”
Hideya’s annoyed, so he kicks him a little harder, and this time it’s hard enough to make the guy roll over onto his back.
As he does, his silver hair falls away, and his face is revealed.
It’s a man, but only just. Honestly, his face is prettier than most of the girls in the club out front, with a high, thin nose and pink lips that are parted in sleep.
The sight momentarily stuns Hideya. It’s not every day you see that kind of face.
He looks down the hallway at the sound of voices and the clacking wheels of a service cart. People will be coming this way soon, and they’ll sound the alarm if they find people in the off-limits area.
It’s nothing that Hideya couldn’t deal with. They’ll just go running for the boss, who will okay that he has the clearance, but then Hideya would have to explain what he’s still doing here, and it would be a pain.
He looks down at Mr. Sleeping Beauty, then shoves his cigarette behind his ear with a, “Tch.”
“We’ve only just met, and you’re a pain in my ass,” he tells the prone body as he hefts the drunk up and over his shoulder. His head and arm flops like a ragdoll, and Hideya carries him like a sack of potatoes.
He’s light, and carrying him is almost nothing.
Hideya enters the nearest unlocked room, which happens to be a security office. Blinking CCTV monitors line one of the walls, casting the room in a mint green glow.
Outside, two waiters chatter, and the sound of the rolling cart grows nearer and nearer until it’s almost deafening.
One of the waiters: “Hey, how much do you think these tartlets cost?”
And the other: “More than your life. Hey, don’t touch them.”
“I just want a taste!”
“Yeah, and you’ll be lucky if you don’t lose your hand. Don’t go stealing from the boss. Don’t you know that’s 24k gold leaf?”
As Hideya listens to them argue, he takes the opportunity to rifle through the CCTV footage. The security system is old school, saving records to hard copy rather than simply digitizing them to the cloud. Hideya finds what he’s looking for and pockets the disk, ready to get out of here and get on with his night.
Outside, the would-be tart thief whistles, and then the cart and voices stop right on the other side of the door.
The more sensible one of the two sounds annoyed.
“What’s the hold up? Come on.”
“Wait a minute. I think my heel is stuck.”
Inside the security room, Hideya clicks his tongue impatiently. Just his luck to get stuck with the slow ones. His fingers twitch with the urge to smoke, and he pulls the cigarette from behind his ear with a sigh.
It’s not like there’s anyone here to complain. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag and feeling the nicotine settle over him like a soothing virus.
Some time later, the heel situation outside is resolved, and the cart goes clattering back in the opposite direction.
“Finally,” Hideya mutters.
He stubs out his cigarette and with one last look at the ragdolled drunk sitting in the corner, slips silently out of the door and back to his business.
A little while later, a little white nose twitches.
A man who’s been bundled into the corner of a small room illuminated by televisions stirs, then sneezes.
He blinks his eyes open and rubs his nose.
Where is he? And why does he smell like cigarettes?