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Aoba'd asked for the day off in advance. Wasn't much of an issue. Barring a bad run of personal self-revelations, migraines, and accidentally becoming a part of an underground resistance movement a few years back, he was usually pretty good about time off. Didn't mean he didn't feel weird about it, so he asked two weeks in advance.
“Oh, yes, it's about the anniversary event, isn't it?” said Haga, when Aoba asked. “Please don't worry about it--”
“Aooooba. Tell me about the newest custom colors!” The brats chose that moment to make an appearance. They'd gone from patently un-cute kids to patently un-cute teenagers. Mio chose that moment to lean over the table. She thought it made it look like she had cleavage. It didn't.
“Only if you're asking because you're actually interested!” snapped Aoba.
“I'm a CUSTOMER,” squeaked Mio.
“You're a menace.”
“OI! WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT OUR SISTER?” snapped Nao. Aoba thought about mentioning that his pompadour looked more stupid than retro-chic, but decided to leave him to his poor life choices. Kids had to learn somehow. He looked back to Haga.
“You sure it's all right?” he asked. (“HEY,” shouted Kio.“HEY WE'RE TALKING TO YOU”) “Feels like I'm leaving you under siege.”
“It's just a morning shift,” said Haga, faintly, “and, really, it's not like it's some small event. Please enjoy yourself -- ah, be careful with with that display...”
Crash.
“Right,” said Aoba, leaping over the desk. He took one of the brothers by the arm and the other by the collar. Mio gave a squawk as he dragged them towards the door. They landed in a big pile of jangling belts and adolescent embarrassment. “Thaaank you for shopping at Heibon Junk Shop! Please check back when your cerebral cortex has developed properly and you are no longer an absolute plague to society.”
“Aoooba,” whined one of the brothers.
“Have a nice day,” said Aoba. He shut the door.
That was one thing out of the way. The two weeks going in were still a real pain. Everyone just kept wanting to talk about it. It was a real bit of buzzing news on his block. Aoba supposed there was a lot to fuss about it. It would be the fifth year since the Oval Tower fell. That was considered enough of an occasion for a party. Every year since, the citizens of the Old Resident's District held a festival in honor of it. That they'd be especially excited about this year was almost understandable. Still, he wished Granny's friends wouldn't keep stopping him. They had their own plans for the event, but they all wanted to know his plans. Yoshie cornered him in the shipping center to talk his ear out, and only a well-timed appearance from Ren managed to distract from the issue at hand. Clara was more interested in talking up her new upgrades.
Still, the gushing rang in his ears when he visited Granny that morning.
“And when was everything I do everyone's business anyway?”
To which Granny gave him a smart smack on the head with the games section of the newspaper. “Be respectful! It's nice that they're wishing you well.”
“I guess,” said Aoba, who'd never really been comfortable at being a local celebrity. In the scheme of things, his part in the fall of Toue had seemed awful small. “But since when is what I wear anyone's damn business.”
Smack. “It is if you're planning anything stupid.”
“I'm not, I'm not...!”
...which led to Granny asking him about his plans for the date. Attempts at vagueness were met with glares and withdrawal of cookies. Aoba couldn't really resent it that much. It was kind of nice to be fussed over, sometimes.
A week ahead of the event Aoba caught a flicker of white scrabbling along the roof of the old bicycle shop on the corner. It was his one warning. The flicker of white became a great white comet. It slammed into the pavement in front of him. Aoba thought he heard it crack, but that couldn't have been the case--
“Clear!” Aoba jumped back. It was less alarming than the usual way Clear launched himself off buildings. He'd had taken the time to land in a crouch, with a hand spread to plant himself. He stood, dusting himself off. On a whole, it could have looked really cool... if Clear wasn't facing the wrong direction.
“Apologies for my rude entry, Aoba-san,” said Clear, without turning. He gave the back of his coat a proper pat. “But I have a very important question.”
“Eh, sure,” Aoba craned his head, trying to get some hint of an expression. No good. Clear turned slightly, keeping his back firmly facing him.
“What color goes best with blue?” asked Clear.
“This about that party?” Somehow Aoba had been hearing a lot of questions like that recently. “Look, don't worry about it. People are just excited about it, it doesn't mean you have to do a thing...”
Clear was incapable of not worrying about it. His hands curled into determined fists at his side. Aoba thought he heard a sound like a piston rumbling -- but it could have been his imagination. Clear had a weird effect on people.
“I must,” said Clear, “it is absolutely important that I do this the way any other person would. I do not know much about such events, but I know they bring people great joy. I definitely, definitely want to get it right!”
His voice rose in quivering agitation. Aoba tried to step in front of him. Clear turned away again. “Clear. Clear. It's fine if you're just there. But – hey – is there a reason you won't...”
“Yes,” said Clear, dutifully, “because it would be bad luck for me to look at you before the occasion.”
“...that's not how that works...”
“Nevertheless, I want to be sure that this time is joyful for everyone.”
Argh. There was really no winning with him sometimes.
“Yellow or white,” said Aoba, “but don't go overboard.”
Clear bowed to the empty air in front of him. “Thank you very much,” he said. He vanished, with a determined twirl of his umbrella.
Five days to the date, Aoba found himself pulled into a fancy foreign car. It grabbed him off a crosswalk. The light turned green and it drove away.
His first thought was: 'Damnit, Trip and Virus know not to fucking DO that...'
His second thought, when he re-oriented himself to face the slick business man fiddling with a coil on the other side of the plush interior, was: ‘Noiz really, really needed to work on his timing.’
But what he said was: “I've got a job right now...?”
“Later,” said Noiz. The light of the digital screen danced in his eyes as he scrolled down a list. Aoba tried to make out what it said, but it was in German -- and backwards, anyway. “Not important. What is important are the arrangements you've already made. They're stupid. I'm changing them.”
Noiz's branch company was the one bankrolling the big anniversary. Part of it was a convenient PR push for their new line of all-mates, but it seemed like Noiz took it for a challenge. One would've thought the general populace had had enough of big companies coming in and commandeering local functions, but somehow Noiz had managed not to plaster too many logos on everything. The fact he'd absorbed a lot of the old Rhymers into his workforce helped.
“Not you, too...” groaned Aoba. “So, what part of this required grabbing me off the goddamn street?”
The corner of Noiz's mouth twitched, just slightly. “You're a VIP,” he said. “Mister Hero of Midorijima.”
“No one calls me that. No one calls any of us that.”
“The flowers have been ordered.”
“Flowers.”
“As have the table centerpieces.”
“Centerpieces!”
“And,” said Noiz, “your suit.”
“What suit? I don't have a suit. I'm not wearing a suit.”
Aoba froze. Somehow, without a sound at all, Noiz had managed to flick off his coil and cross the expanse of the car. He sat nose to nose with Aoba. Practically on his lap. He looked into Aoba's eyes and he didn't blink. At all.
“You're doing this right,” said Noiz.
“....a...ha,” said Aoba.
When Aoba visited his grandmother that afternoon the door fell open with just a push. That made his jaw go tight. The Old Residents District had gotten safer since the companies had started moving in, but that didn't mean there weren't still plenty of idiot gangs still roaming around, just out of the grasp of the only slightly better cops. The fall of the Oval Tower had flushed a lot of garbage out of Platinum Jail, but that garbage took its time getting properly processed.
Granny was good at locking that door. Still, Aoba reasoned (with his heart beating loud in his ears), sometimes you forgot, and maybe she'd come in carrying groceries, which she should've just let him do anyway, it wasn't that out of the way, she had a bad hip and why didn't he drop by sooner damnit, damnit, damnit---
Aoba shut the door behind him. He locked it. A warm light shone at the end of the hall. He could hear the sound of pots and sizzling. The hall smelled of spices. Something about the weight of it in the air bothered him. He jogged to the kitchen. It was hard not to out-and-out run.
“Granny, are you--”
“You're late!” snapped his grandmother. “You said you'd be by an hour ago.”
“Something came up,” said Aoba, a little helplessly. That something had been Noiz and a really fancy car, but he wasn't sure that sounded like a real predicament and not a joyride. “...I could've picked up groceries.”
“You could have,” snorted Granny, “yesterday. When I bought them. And got them in just fine. People don't crumble to dust once they're over fifty.”
“But they can throw out their hip. Wish you'd take it a little easy.”
“I've been taking it easy all damn day.”
“Eh? But...”
“Think very carefully about this.”
Aoba did. It was Wednesday. Granny didn't usually do her rounds on Wednesdays.
“Oh,” said Aoba, wondering when he'd started acting more like an old lady than his grandmother. Twenty-nine wasn't that far over the hill. “But the door was open...”
“Nonsense. I remember when I lock it.”
“I haven't forgotten in years!”
“You haven't lived here in years, either,” his grandmother shot back. “Have you locked it just now?”
Aoba backtracked down the hall. He did it slowly. Granny wasn't starting to forget things? No, she was making a curry. She was really meticulous about her curries. It didn't smell like she'd gotten the ingredients wrong. Even if it seemed like she'd added a few more spices than normal. He jangled the door. It stayed open. The switch wouldn't turn, like the lock was broken, or something had gotten jammed in the latch. Aoba bent to have a look. Ah, there it was. Something was stuck in the stop. Aoba fished it out. He froze.
The bracelet was made of smooth beads, alternating turquoise and white. Aoba might have taken it for a set of prayer beads, except the shape was wrong, and the center-most bead had a feather dangling from it. It'd gotten a little bent and scuffed from being lodged in the door, but a little rubbing brought out an awful nice luster...
Aoba's throat went tight. Something in his chest lurched. He was stuck somewhere between confusion and something much wilder. He took a quick look around, shoved the bracelet into his pocket, and kicked the door shut.
“Seriously,” he muttered, cheeks flushed. It didn't seem real. “That guy...of all things...”
Granny's curry tasted the same as it always did. She hadn't added anything extra at all.
“Is it really that big a deal?” asked Aoba, three days to the date and laid out sideways on the bed. Ren lay next to him. The bed dipped a lot more under his weight than it used to. A lot about Ren had changed about their days together since the craziness of the Oval Tower. Some things hadn’t, though -- Aoba reached over and stroked his head. Ren leaned into it. Aoba couldn't help but marvel a little at the ease of the gesture. It used to be impossible to tell when Ren was smiling. Now it was easy to track the twitch in his lips when Aoba's fingers kneaded in just the right spot. Aoba ran his fingers behind one of his ears in a fond circle. Ren's eyes came open a crack. The stutter in his eyelashes was the kind of uneconomical movement you'd never get in an all-mate body.
“Aoba,” said Ren. The smile faded, replaced by a more customary worried, pursing of his lips. “I am certain you are aware, but there is a condition among all-mates in which one has attempted to boot up too many processes at once...”
“Meaning I'm overthinking it. What else is new,” sighed Aoba, falling away from him. “But, sheesh. It sure became everyone's business really fast. Can't they just focus on the festival, and not what I'm doing for the festival?”
“You are important to them,” said Ren, “as you are important to me.”
“You're not about to get on me about it, are you?”
Ren got up on his elbows and peered down at him. “Would you like me to? I am already aware of what you are doing for the festival.”
“Then you know I'm having second thoughts!”
Ren considered this. “Aoba,” he said, with that near mechanical patience, “I do not believe you are being wholly truthful with that statement.”
He had to say it like that. Aoba put a hand over his face. “Maybe. But -- bah. I could just... not... turn up.”
“I believe that would be noticed.”
Aoba's voice hit a bit of a petulant hitch. “You don't know. I just might.”
“No, you will not,” said Ren. He put his hand over Aoba's wrist. He took Aoba's hand and placed it back on the top of his head. Aoba's hands sank into the soft wispy strands of his blue-black hair. It was really soft. Not as soft as his old body, but prickly and real.
Aoba felt his cheeks go a little red. He was being kind of silly. He gave Ren another consolatory stroke. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” said Ren, unblinking, “because you are the one who has chosen to go, and, as I believe I have reason to know, when you have chosen to take action there is very little that can dissuade you.”
“Spoilsport,” sighed Aoba. “You know better than anyone that there's someone who can talk me down.”
Ren's eyebrows rose. It was a learned gesture. He'd picked it up a few years ago. “That is why I said 'very little.' But, I do not believe you are looking to change your mind."
“You think so?” The weight on the bed shifted. Ren moved to lie half on his chest, his eyes a shadowed gold in the mid-afternoon light.
“I know,” said Ren, bumping their foreheads close. All Aoba could see were those eyes. “I have more reason to know than most.”
The day of, they'd put up banners over the streets. Aoba grabbed breakfast with Mizuki that morning. Aoba liked spending time with Mizuki during the day. Mizuki had taken to wearing high studded collars and occasionally startled at loud noises, but his eyes got bright when Aoba said he'd pay, and anyway it was good some things didn't change in the face of some really royal crazy about to go down. They watched the workers string lights in the awnings over the shops.
“...and in the end I kicked them out,” said Mizuki, who'd reopened his bar to a new generation of stupid teenagers. He did good business and found no end of reasons to bitch about it. “You'd really think the rowdy ones could wait until the actual day. You picked one hell of a date!”
“Wasn't up to me,” said Aoba, a little sore. Mizuki watched him sidelong with a laugh. The truth was, after a final three days of endless preparations, he'd really hoped the topic wouldn't come up at all. “Everyone always thinks I somehow had some kind of plan going into it.”
Which was closer to the point than Aoba meant. He swallowed hard, expecting a dark flash on Mizuki's face – Mizuki just smiled and stole some of the fruit off his plate.
“Well I know you didn't,” said Mizuki. “Don't think I don't wish you well. Don't think I don't do it every day. You're a good friend.”
'I could have been a better one to you,' thought Aoba. The years had taken away the haunted twitch to a lot of Mizuki's mannerisms, but that didn't mean he didn't have his demons. Still, it wasn't the sort of day for talk like that.
So, instead, he looked Mizuki in the eyes and said with a long deadpan: “Woooow, Mizuki. I had no idea you felt that way about me. This changes everything. Let's be together. We should run away. Right the fuck now.”
A crack like that cost him the rest of his fruit, but it was worth it for the laugh. They talked some more about crappy bar guests and Mizuki ordered seconds on the pancakes.
“Still,” said Mizuki, when they'd settled the bill. He was headed back to the bar to do some last minute clean up. Aoba walked with him part of the way. “You're being kind of lax about this. Aren't you sort of one of the guests of honor?”
“...yeah, yeah,” said Aoba. “Centerpieces, and flowers and all that.”
“What am I doing taking you away from the festivities?” asked Mizuki. “Shouldn't you be getting ready?”
“I'm ahead of you,” said Aoba, with the face of one whose true destiny was unfolding before him. “I'm going to see the stylist.”
“...are you sure about this?”
“I said I was sure.”
“Yes, but you know, it's no small thing...”
“Be a little more grateful,” said Aoba. “I haven't touched it in six months just for you.”
“I'm honored,” said Koujaku. He wasn't just saying it. He really meant it. That was the sort of embarrassing thing about him, at the end of the day. His apartment smelled like incense and fresh cleaning products. He'd made his own preparations for the event. Aoba could make out the length of a dark silk kimono laid over the bed, before Koujaku settled the sheet around Aoba's shoulders and Aoba shut his eyes.
The clips felt just a little tingly. “It doesn't hurt?”
“Am I going to have to keep saying...”
“No, no,” Koujaku laughed. Aoba heard him reach for the scissors. “Still, bear with me a little. My pride's on the line for this one. This is a big event.”
Still, Koujaku's hands were steady as he made the first cut. It pricked, just a little. Like peeling skin off of a healed burn. “Not you, too....”
Truth was, he expected this from Koujaku. He'd expected it since he'd asked him to do him up for the occasion. 'Since you're the self-proclaimed expert in these kind of things,' Aoba'd said, grudgingly. He'd offered to pay him back for it, but Koujaku's eyes had gone so bright Aoba suspected he'd be offering to pay him for the 'favor.'
“Yes. Me, too.” Through his eyelashes, Aoba could make out the wry grin on Koujaku's face, offset only by the odd grimness in his eyes as he separated the damp strands with a comb. Aoba set his teeth. It didn't feel bad. That was kind of the annoying thing. “Everyone's going to be there. You must admit, from a strictly business standpoint I'm never going to have a better opportunity to advertise.”
“Opportunist!”
“But more to the point, I've always wanted to,” finished Koujaku. “I don't really give a damn about this 'fifth anniversary' business, you know.”
“Yeah? That's cold. You're one of their heroes, too, you know. You're the handsome one, too. What, you of all people can't hear all the girls swoon?”
“We did what had to be done,” said Koujaku, simply, with a deft flash of scissors. He sure was taking his time. Aoba wondered who was really the one taking this seriously. “Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not big on official functions, but delivering a beautiful bride on their wedding day, now, that's something else entirely...”
And there it was, hanging between them. Aoba opened his eyes, but Koujaku was back to his work, rearranging the clips with a deep concentration.
“Idiot,” said Aoba, quietly, “why am I the bride?”
“You're the one seeing the stylist day of.”
“How… old fashioned of you.”
“Fine then. An unusually beautiful groom,” Koujaku punctuated this with a soft teasing of the strands that fell close to Aoba's neck. He wasn't going too short with it. A couple of shining lacquered ornaments on the desk next to the styling gels and conditioners. At first Aoba had objected to something that fancy, but Koujaku had made a really damn good case for it. “The other groom will be nothing in comparison.”
“Oi, don't say that,” said Aoba, “make it sound like you want him to vanish.”
“You know my feelings about him.”
“Yeah?” Aoba took his life and hair into his own hands and crooked his chin up. Koujaku was smiling, though. It was one of those hard-won smiles, with a crease at the corner of his eye.
“....he's a real handful,” said Koujaku, with a quiet deliberation, “but I hope he can make you happy.”
“I think so,” said Aoba, breath oddly tight as Koujaku separated his hair with a deft careful press of his scarred hands. “I mean, he's kinda weird, and really embarrassing -- insisting on something big like this. But it isn't really that I don't want to. It's not even that I think it's weird for guys to marry guys. It just feels a little... redundant, I don't know. I already know I want to be with him. So why the fuss?”
Koujaku's hands slowed. Aoba could feel the curve of his palm close to his ear. “Sounds like he's really putting you through your paces.”
“Oh, he's needy as hell. You really wouldn't guess it from meeting him, but he's a guy who needs a ton of validation.”
“Sounds like a pain.”
“It's fine,” said Aoba, staring at his face in the mirror. In the glare of Koujaku's desk lamps, his eyes were almost gold. “The other person's happiness matters, too. He's had it hard. If he wants some good memory like this… I don't mind sharing something like that.”
They fell into a companionable silence. Koujaku finished wrapping his hair around the ornaments. In the end, Aoba had to admit he'd done a really damn good job. It didn't look that girly at all, and Koujaku insisted it would look even better once he was dressed. Koujaku helped him with that, too. He showed him how to do the tie, and fixed the collar to lie just right.
“And use a little of this,” said Koujaku. He handed him a small container of make-up.
Aoba tilted his head. “What, will it bring out my eyes?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Koujaku, much to Aoba's annoyance. “You'll want to hurry to Tae-san's, if you want to get there in time. You're running late.”
“And who's fault is that?” Granny had put her foot down about that one last thing. Aoba'd given it to her. His parents had eloped. Granny was owed the opportunity to oversee one family member's odd life choices.
“You can't rush perfection,” said Koujaku.
“And he's so modest,” said Aoba, setting a hand on one hip. Koujaku frowned.
“Ack, seriously, and now you've got it all bunched up. I'm not sure it's laying right anyway. Let me get that...” Koujaku reached over to fix his sleeves. He pulled some pins out from the pouch around his waist. Aoba held still, wondering exactly how he was going to make it back to Granny's without ruining it forever... until a more immediate concern struck him.
“Eh, Koujaku...”
“Mm?”
“Shouldn't you be getting ready? You're not planning to turn up like that, are you?”
Koujaku raised an eyebrow and glanced down at his red kimono. “Ah! And what's wrong with this! … Of course I've got something in mind. What do you take me for?”
“A perfectionist,” said Aoba, sourly. Koujaku gave him one last spin. The sleeves seemed to swing right this time, because he took a step back. Aoba eyed him over his shoulder. “All this talk about me turning up late.”
“I'll be there.”
“This isn't optional.”
Koujaku laughed. “I wouldn't miss it for anything!”
“I'll take your word for it,” said Aoba, swinging his way for the door in a mess of expensive silk. He slipped on his shoes. He pressed open the door. He looked back over his shoulder, at Koujaku, in the main room, eying the bits hair laid out under the chair with a particularly distant smile. “Koujaku.”
“Mm?”
“If you're late to your own damn wedding because you're too busy fixing your kimono,” said Aoba, “I'm marrying Noiz instead.”