10 fragments of the 104 persuasion
1.
“I don’t need a doctor,” Watanuki repeated stubbornly as the doctor, some straight-faced, sharp-eyed quack whose nametag declared him to be Doumeki Shizuka, advanced toward him.
“Watanuki-san, you were brought in on a stretcher,” the doctor pointed out flatly. “Before that, you were in an ambulance. Because you fainted in an elevator.” He produced a thermometer from nowhere, a trick that Watanuki wondered if he could replicate with his spatula. “And your coworkers said you were flushed and dizzy all day from a fever. I’m going to take your temperature to see if you still have one.” He managed to make the statement sound condescending as he moved forward.
“I said I don’t need a doctor,” argued Watanuki, backing away further, “and furthermore, if that thermometer goes anywhere near where it looks like it’s heading, you’re the one who’s going to need a doctor!”
“This won’t hurt,” the doctor told him, eyes narrow. “Now hold still.”
Watanuki snorted. “I’ve heard that one before,” he informed the doctor, “and I didn’t trust that guy either.”
The doctor blinked slowly, and Watanuki thought he saw the hint of a frown in his eyes. “This is different.”
Not really, Watanuki thought. I’m pretty sure that guy wanted to stick something in a place on my body it didn’t belong in, too. “I don’t care,” he said curtly. “I’m going home.”
“Not without an examination, you’re not,” said the doctor grimly, shifting his grip on the thermometer. “Stand still and let me do my job.”
Watanuki snorted. “Catch me if you can,” he dared the man, preparing to sprint past him if he had to.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the doctor tonelessly.
“Who’s going to stop me?” Watanuki scoffed.
As if on cue, a nurse sauntered into the room. Watanuki thought privately that she was either deliberately pushing the dress code or she was expressing creative license with the hospital uniforms: her skirt was extremely short, her top extremely tight, and her nametag, pinned over her ample bosom, revealed her identity to be Ichihara Yuuko.
“Do you need some assistance, doctor?” she trilled. Claret eyes, as mischievous as the doctor’s were expressionless, twinkled at them. Her smile, when she glanced at Watanuki, was slow and wicked.
Watanuki gulped.
“Should have held still,” said the doctor with a shrug.
2.
“Shizuka,” said Kimihiro wearily, “if you were a boy, I’d probably have to punch you for being a jackass.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “If I were a boy, you’d ask me out,” she said mildly. A few feet away, one of her teammates-Asamoto, if he remembered correctly-glanced over at the two of them with an eyebrow raised in amusement.
Kimihiro sent him a bland stare, then refocused on Shizuka and shook his head. “What are you talking about, you crazy girl?”
“You would.” Shizuka contemplated her bow and tested the string. “If you weren’t gay, or if I were a boy, we’d make a good couple.”
The words were spoken calmly and without inflection, as was usual with Shizuka. She adjusted her stance, aiming for the target across the archery range. Kimihiro, indignant though he was about the remark, knew from long experience hanging around watching Shizuka practice after school that he was to stay quiet and not distract her, until she had gone through the steps and released the arrow. It flew true and struck the target dead-center, as was also usual with her.
“How do you figure?” demanded Kimihiro as soon as Shizuka stepped out of stance.
“Well.” Shizuka flicked her long ponytail over her shoulder and shrugged. “It’s inevitable. If I were the gender you’re attracted to, you’d be attracted to me.” Simple, matter-of-fact-
Mind-boggling. Kimihiro gaped at her.
“Do you listen to yourself when you talk?” he said finally. “Because that sounded-you act as if you’re the only one I could ever end up with!”
Shizuka looked thoughtful. “What would be better is if we did a role reversal,” she mused, idly fingering the bowstring. “It would really make more sense if I was the male in the relationship since you’re more feminine than I am, and I’m stronger than you physically.”
“Are you calling me a girl?” Kimihiro thundered, outraged. Asamoto looked over at them again and grinned.
“Are you denying that I can beat you in an arm-wrestling contest nine times out of ten, and that you make better croquettes than my mother does?” asked Shizuka.
Kimihiro stomped away to the sound of Asamoto laughing himself stupid.
3.
“Why,” growled Watanuki from between clenched teeth, “am I the woman?”
“You fit the dress,” said Doumeki. His eyes, though, were not on Watanuki, but watching across the street from their parked car.
“That is not the point,” insisted Watanuki. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, under the false breasts he wore beneath the silk of the dress. “The point is that I am not a woman.”
“He’s just met with the boss,” reported Doumeki, his hawk-like vision zeroing in on their target through the window of the bar they had staked out. “I can’t read their lips perfectly, but they haven’t started talking about the hit yet.”
“And furthermore,” Watanuki argued, “furthermore, I am not going to go in and flirt with the suspect just because you forced me into a dress.” And a wig. And high heels. And a damn corset, of all the humiliating-
He glared for extra effect and shifted uncomfortably, trying to tug the material of the dress down lower on his thighs but only succeeding in further exposing the fake bosom Doumeki had also wrestled him into. Oh, how he hated this entire damn setup. How, he wondered, did women breathe in these things? Maybe they packed extra air into their breasts or something the way camels did with water. Otherwise it was utterly, scientifically inexplicable why a woman would voluntarily strap herself into these stupid things and parade around in shoes that simply begged for a chance to turn an ankle.
“You,” he informed his partner tartly, “are a manhandling brute.”
“He has a weakness for pretty women,” Doumeki told him, as he’d told him already twice since he’d outlined the plan the first time. “If you can get him drunk enough to pump him for information about the murder, we might be able to close this case tonight.”
“I am not,” said Watanuki again very pointedly, “a woman, therefore his weakness does not apply to me.”
“Make it,” said Doumeki flatly. He reached across the car, shoved open the door, and pushed Watanuki out of the car. “Go, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Right, because a man wearing a dress and flirting with another man-a hit man from the yakuza-isn’t stupid,” muttered Watanuki, but he went.
“Oi.”
Grumpily, Watanuki turned around. “What?”
Doumeki regarded him with those piercing eyes. For a moment, something uncharacteristically wicked flashed through them.
“Nice ass,” he said.
Watanuki gaped at him. “What-” he squeaked. “How-you-”
Doumeki only lifted an eyebrow at him. “That’s the kind of thing you’re going to hear in there,” he explained. “Don’t blow your cover by yelling something stupid about how you’re not a woman.”
Watanuki balled his hands into fists. “Why you-” he snarled, and whirled on his heel-amazingly, without turning an ankle as he was sure he was bound to do-and stalked into the bar.
4.
“Ironic,” commented Shi from his place on the floor. A dozen sheafs of paper were scattered around his prone figure, all of them showing the same sketch abandoned at different points.
Hiro glared at him from the sofa. “Is that all you can say?” he demanded. “I just told you that I’ve started seeing ghosts-which, genius, means dead people-all over the place, and your brilliant commentary is ‘Ironic?’”
“Well,” said Shi absently, glancing up at his subject, which happened to be their sleeping dog, Mugetsu. “It is. You’re a ghost writer, after all. And now you can see ghosts.”
“I am aware,” said Hiro tightly, “of where the irony comes into play, Shi. This isn’t a joke, you know. It’s a problem.”
“Why?” Shi discarded another half-finished sketch and started anew. The dog didn’t even stir. “Do they bother you?”
Hiro sighed. “Not yet,” he said darkly. “But give it time. When we met, you started following me around after three days, and now look at me: stuck with you as my flatmate.”
Shi tilted his head at his sketch, considered abandoning this one too, then decided to stick with it. He replied vaguely, “Maybe you can use the ghosts as an idea for your next book. And maybe get it published under your own name this time.”
Blinking, Hiro stared at his friend. “Maybe,” he murmured, his mind already racing.
He had always wanted to write. When he’d gotten a job as a ghost author-being paid to let another person take the credit for his writing-he thought that was good enough as long as he was being published. But Shi had a point: maybe now he could find the inspiration he needed to publish something under his own name. He could research supernatural occurrences-hauntings, witchcraft, encounters with otherwordly creatures-and put together an anthology. Or maybe-his eyes lit up at the thought-maybe he could write an actual story with all those elements in it. It could be set in modern times and center around a boy who came across a witch living in the middle of a sprawling city. Somehow he could wind up asking for her help and having to pay a price in exchange…
When Hiro rose from the couch and disappeared into the room that served as his writing studio, Shi glanced up at his retreating back briefly with a small smile. He had a feeling Hiro would be okay, even if he was seeing ghosts all over the place.
Mugetsu yawned, then flopped over onto one side. Sighing, Shi left off the sketch and started a new one.
5.
“This sword,” Watanuki said after a few moments of frowning in concentration, “is making lewd noises at me.”
In his hands, Morgif let out a long moan that did, indeed, sound vaguely lecherous.
Doumeki, leaning against the wall of the weapon shed, shrugged one shoulder. “It’s probably hungry,” he said practically. “It feeds off of souls, you know.”
“I am not,” snapped Watanuki, “going to kill people just to feed a perverted sword.”
Morgif whined unhappily at this news, just as a small fox-boy came racing onto the training grounds. “Heika!” he squeaked. “You’re wanted in the office of Her Majesty the previous Maoh!”
Watanuki sighed frustratedly. “What does Yuuko-sama want now?” he muttered, but he sheathed the still-protesting Morgif and smiled at the fox-boy. “I’m coming,” he assured the fox, who smiled back beatifically and raced back the way he’d come to deliver the news of Watanuki’s impending arrival.
Doumeki pushed off the wall. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why?” demanded Watanuki. “I can find my way to Yuuko-sama’s office without you to lead me by the hand.”
Doumeki shrugged. “I know my mother,” he said offhandedly. “She’ll probably hit on you the entire time you’re with her. And since you’re my fiancé, I have to protect your virtue.”
“You’re still going on about that?” Watanuki said in disbelief as they trudged across the yard back up to the castle. “It hardly counts if I didn’t know that slapping you equaled a proposal in this world!”
“I still accepted,” Doumeki pointed out. “Which means by the customs of this kingdom-your kingdom, since you’re the king-we’re engaged.”
Watanuki moaned in dismay. Slung at his hip, Morgif let out an answering moan that was muffled by the sheath and still managed, somehow, to sound suggestive enough to ensure that Watanuki entered Yuuko’s office, to her wicked amusement, with flushed cheeks and Doumeki sporting the smallest of smirks.
6.
With a sigh of defeat, Watanuki sat back in his chair and rubbed the heels of his hands over his tired eyes. “Do they even listen to the lectures,” he muttered, “or does it all just go in one ear and out the other?”
Doumeki spared him a glance as he graded his own tests on the opposite side of the table. Between them, the flat surface was covered with piles and stacks of paper.
“Still having trouble with the grades?” he asked.
Watanuki shook his head ruefully. “Only with a minor percentage of the class,” he explained. “Most of them seem to at least handle a basic understanding, and a few of them even get it.” He sighed. “But there are those who consistently fail to grasp the most rudimentary concepts…”
Doumeki pushed back from his tests. He knew how frustrating it could be for a teacher to try and make his students understand a difficult theory. Watanuki, as a teacher of philosophy and metaphilosophy, just had a harder time than most since his classes, as a rule, required sincere effort to truly understand. Even in a university as prestigious as Tokyo U, it was obvious that not every one of Watanuki’s students possessed a true zeal for the material, although he was patient enough with all of them: despite the difficulty of his classes, he was consistently touted as one of the kindest and most affable professors on the whole campus, and was certainly well-known for his willingness to assist his students outside of class. Still, every so often he fell into a dejected slump at what he perceived to be his failure as a teacher, especially when faced with a rash of particularly heinous grades.
“You need a break,” Doumeki decided. “We’ll finish grading these later. Let’s go get coffee and come back in an hour.”
Watanuki let out a long breath, then admitted, “I could use a break from grading.” He shoved back his chair as well and stood. “But only an hour.”
Doumeki nodded and motioned for Watanuki to lead the way out of the library’s conference room. On their way past the circulation desk, he asked the librarian to make sure their tests were undisturbed. She agreed, and they made their way to the teacher’s lounge.
As they walked down a deserted hallway, Doumeki casually rubbed Watanuki’s lower back briefly to massage away some of the ache brought on by sitting too long.
When they got to the lounge, Watanuki prepared Doumeki’s coffee before his own-perfectly seasoned with cream and sugar as Doumeki liked it-and let his fingers brush Doumeki’s as he handed the mug over.
“Over half of my students failed the last quiz I gave them,” Doumeki said candidly. “It was multiple choice. I gave them three days’ notice beforehand.”
Watanuki snorted over the rim of his coffee mug. “Maybe you just suck at teaching,” he suggested, but the faint line between his brows had smoothed away at the reminder that even a class as straightforward and basic as Doumeki’s Japanese history module had its share of stresses.
Doumeki didn’t reply to the jab, but sipped placidly. Watanuki looked less upset than he had moments before, and that was good enough.
7.
This, Ki’iro thought disgustedly, was the most ridiculous party in the entire universe, and he was an idiot for getting swept up in it. For one thing, every person in this room was wearing a masque, which meant he couldn’t exactly strike up a conversation with random strangers, since any one of them could be the mage hunters he was desperately trying to avoid. All of them knew his magical signature; they’d recognize him mere seconds after coming within two feet of him. At least his barriers worked well enough to keep them at that much of a distance; he had enough time to flee if one of them, by chance, recognized his eyes behind the large, overly elaborate butterfly masque obscuring most of his face from crown to nose.
Still, he couldn’t believe he’d let his cousin convince him to attend her party. Even not knowing it would be a masquerade ball-did the silly girl want the hunters to catch him?-he should have refused and fled the country already. Instead, he was stuck entertaining several of Hi’ari’s giggling socialite friends. These girls admittedly did not recognize him, since they’d have cleared a ten-foot ring around him in repulsion if they had, but without the knowledge that he was the rogue mage the hunters were on the lookout for, the women would not leave him be. They seemed content to flutter about him and coo and preen and prattle and-
A large hand yanked on his elbow, pulling him from the scandalized circle of peahens-er, partygoers, and tugged him behind a decorated pillar.
“Excuse me,” Ki’iro said on an indignant huff when the hand released him and he turned to face his captor. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“That’s my line, Ki’iro Spirit-Seer,” said the tall figure wearing a leopard masque, in mixed tones of amusement and condescension. “You are aware that there are seven mage hunters here, all of them looking for you? Myself included.”
Gaping up at him in stupefied horror, Ki’iro looked at the eyes visible through the holes in the mask-eyes that completely matched the feline features of the disguise-and recognized the deep golden hue. He was face to face with not only a mage hunter, but the best of the best in their province.
He’d been caught by Shi’ka the Archer, the mage hunter whose talent for finding rogue mages quickly and dealing with them efficiently had earned him the reputation of a speeding arrow finding its precise target without fail each and every time. He wondered panickedly how Shi’ka had caught him so quickly when he’d made sure not to linger close to any man in the room-but then again, Shi’ka was the most powerful hunter, and he could probably sense Ki’iro’s deliberately suppressed signature from all the way across the mansion, much less this crowded dining hall. Ki’iro stared up into the solemn, unsmiling eyes, dismayed at the situation and even more irritated with himself.
He knew he shouldn’t have come to this party.
8.
There were a hundred things Watanuki could have said at this moment.
“That’s a TV,” was what he decided on.
There were also a hundred things Doumeki could have said in reply.
“Yeah,” was his contribution. And, “It’s heavy.”
Watanuki stared at him, at the large bulky box in his arms, then back at him. “I bet. Why are you carrying a TV?”
“It would look odd if I dragged it across town with a rope,” said Doumeki, and shifted his burden. “It’s heavy,” he said again.
Blinking, Watanuki considered boy and box. “Shizuka. Why did you bring a TV with you across town?” he asked suspiciously.
Doumeki made a sound that would have been a sigh of exasperation if it had come from anyone else. “To give to you,” he said. “Can I put it down somewhere? It’s-”
“Heavy,” finished Watanuki, finally standing aside and gesturing inside defeatedly. “Come in, idiot, and put it on the table before you get a hernia.”
Wasting no time replying, Doumeki did as directed. When the TV was situated on the table in the very small living room, they both stared at the box thoughtfully.
“Why are you giving me a TV?” asked Watanuki curiously.
“You don’t have one.” Doumeki looked around. “I’m hungry.”
About to scold him for having a one-track mind, Watanuki conceded to himself that carrying an 18-inch-screen TV from the temple (presumably) to the apartment would incite anyone’s appetite, and that Doumeki, being the glutton he was, was more susceptible than most. He went to the kitchen and fixed a plate of food.
When he returned with it and a couple of drinks on a tray, Doumeki had already disposed of the box, had hooked up the cable, and was sitting on the badly overstuffed sofa, flipping channels.
“That was fast,” commented Watanuki, sliding the tray onto the table and plopping onto the sofa next to Doumeki. He offered the plate.
“Not hard,” said Doumeki, trading the remote for the plate and balancing it across his knees. “I’ve never seen this movie,” he added, spooning up rice.
“I have,” said Watanuki, leaning against Doumeki’s side. “It’s awful.”
“Hn,” said Doumeki, throwing an arm around him, and they settled in to watch.
9.
Count, said Kohane anxiously, Tanpopo-kun and Mugetsu-kun are fighting again.
Count Watanuki blinked, then frowned slightly. Those two had been rather short with one another lately; he thought perhaps it might have something to do with the fact that their friend Zashiki-Warashi, who had been the peacemaker between the two of them, had been sold under contract yesterday. The customer had been a cross-looking young woman with short, spiraled blue pigtails who carried a large umbrella; her manner had been decidedly difficult, but when she’d left with Zashiki-Warashi, they’d both looked happy with the match, at least.
Since Zashiki-Warashi had gone, Tanpopo and Mugetsu had been bickering nonstop to express their shared dismay at her departure.
“I’ll take care of it, Kohane-chan,” the Count informed his young charge. The human girl looked relieved and smiled up at him. Once more, Watanuki marveled at how this young girl could be so different from her older brother. Not only did she see the human forms of the animals in his petshop-such as the goldfinch Tanpopo, who appeared as a boy of about twelve with shockingly blond hair, a notoriously short temper, and a tendency to tease; and the pipefox Mugetsu, who looked about sixteen years old, with a playful streak and a misleadingly innocent grin that made him popular with some of the shop’s female creatures-but she was simply better mannered.
That rude, uncouth, pigheaded Detective Doumeki Shizuka, on the other hand, Watanuki thought with a grimace as he went to referee the squabbling creatures, is the absolute bane of my existence. He was always showing up at the oddest hours, both on- and off-duty, demanding food, usually in the form of the sweets Watanuki liked to bake.
Not only that, thought Watanuki with a frown, but the detective was much sharper than he looked. Whenever he showed up to investigate Watanuki’s alibi pertaining to a pet-related incident, he neither accused nor questioned Watanuki; he merely watched him with those deceptively lazy gold eyes and commented sparingly on the peculiar nature of some the cases.
He knows that the pets involved aren’t normal, Watanuki mused crossly, even as he lectured Mugetsu and Tanpopo on their behavior. He’s waiting for me to make a mistake and prove his suspicions are correct. Still, a part of the Count wondered if, even with sufficient evidence, the detective would use the information to arrest Watanuki.
He scoffed at the idea. As if any human could hold me captive. As if I would let myself fall prey to one of those crude, selfish, mass-murdering-
Count? Kohane’s voice echoed in his mind from down the hall. She sounded delighted. Onii-chan’s here!
“Of course he is,” muttered Watanuki. “It’s teatime. He’s always here at teatime.” With a final warning glance at the mutinous expressions on Tanpopo’s and Mugetsu’s faces, he disappeared back up the hall.
“Detective,” he said silkily as he glided into the drawing room. He wanted to smile-just a little-at the sight of Kohane seated next to her older brother on the fainting couch, her hands on his leg, her entire body turned toward him attentively, her round little face lit with excitement. She loved it when the detective came to visit; shy and withdrawn as she normally was, she adored her older brother.
Doumeki glanced up at him. “Oi,” he said. “Did you make inarizushi today?”
Watanuki sniffed and looked down his nose superciliously. “What,” he said crisply, “have I told you about calling me that? And I think I’ve also mentioned that I don’t take orders.”
The detective shrugged. Kohane giggled. At the sound of her laughter-so very rare and as precious as diamonds to him, despite the fact that the girl was a human-Watanuki sighed deeply and turned to go get the inarizushi.
10.
Watanuki, Doumeki has discovered, likes the saxophone.
It was a complete accident that Doumeki stumbled across this information. Rather, it was not so much an accident as it was a series of clues that, when finally added together, equaled the conclusion that the sound of that particular instrument had the power to turn Watanuki from spitting mad to contented kitten within five seconds.
There was the time Doumeki tagged along on a shopping expedition; the music playing over the store’s speakers had some low tenor sax crooning sweetly over their heads. To Doumeki’s surprise, Watanuki was much quieter than usual that morning-at least, while that particular song was playing. He had a half-smile on his face when he wasn’t frowning in annoyance at the archer, and Doumeki even caught him humming along as he absently strolled down aisles.
The next time, they were walking downtown on one of Yuuko’s errands. They passed a small shop whose door was wide open. Music drifted lazily out onto the street, twining seductively about passersby like smoke from Yuuko’s pipe. Among other instruments, Doumeki caught the sound of a saxophone. So did Watanuki-he tilted his head attentively, like a puppy listening for the sound of his master’s voice, and that half-smile played about his lips again, as if he knew a secret that he wasn’t going to share. It piqued Doumeki’s curiosity, but when he asked what Watanuki was grinning like an idiot about, they had just about passed beyond hearing range of the music, and instead of answering the question, Watanuki spent quite some time detailing Doumeki’s faults at the top of his lungs.
The time Doumeki finally confirmed his suspicions about what was causing those sly, sweet little smiles, it was at Yuuko’s shop. They were having a moon-viewing party (complete with sakè, of course) and watching Mokona lead Watanuki on a merry chase around the yard, when Yuuko turned to Doumeki with her patented ‘No Trouble, Officer’ smile in place.
“Doumeki-kun,” she’d said sweetly, “why don’t you go put some music on? It’s a night for music, don’t you think? The stereo is just inside the parlor.”
He hadn’t even been aware that she owned a stereo, and he was sure it hadn’t been in the parlor earlier that evening, but he obediently got up and wandered inside to find, lo and behold, the stereo exactly where she’d said it would be. It didn’t take him long to figure out which buttons to push, and by the time he began to make his way back to the party he could hear Watanuki’s voice demanding to know where Doumeki had gone, and if the jerk knew what was good for him he’d stay out of the kitchen.
And then the low strains of saxophone began to play.
“Oh,” Doumeki heard Watanuki murmur, almost too softly to be heard from inside the shop. “When did you get a sound system, Yuuko-san?”
The witch murmured something inaudible in reply. By the time Doumeki slid the shoji open and stepped outside, Watanuki had returned to the engawa and was now sitting docilely at Yuuko’s side. He was leaning back on his hands and had tipped up his face to the moonlight so he could hear the music better.
At the sounds of Doumeki settling himself again, Watanuki peered at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Be quiet,” he said, not quite as crossly as usual. “I’m listening.”
And that tiny, tiny smile curved his lips.
“I don’t need a doctor,” Watanuki repeated stubbornly as the doctor, some straight-faced, sharp-eyed quack whose nametag declared him to be Doumeki Shizuka, advanced toward him.
“Watanuki-san, you were brought in on a stretcher,” the doctor pointed out flatly. “Before that, you were in an ambulance. Because you fainted in an elevator.” He produced a thermometer from nowhere, a trick that Watanuki wondered if he could replicate with his spatula. “And your coworkers said you were flushed and dizzy all day from a fever. I’m going to take your temperature to see if you still have one.” He managed to make the statement sound condescending as he moved forward.
“I said I don’t need a doctor,” argued Watanuki, backing away further, “and furthermore, if that thermometer goes anywhere near where it looks like it’s heading, you’re the one who’s going to need a doctor!”
“This won’t hurt,” the doctor told him, eyes narrow. “Now hold still.”
Watanuki snorted. “I’ve heard that one before,” he informed the doctor, “and I didn’t trust that guy either.”
The doctor blinked slowly, and Watanuki thought he saw the hint of a frown in his eyes. “This is different.”
Not really, Watanuki thought. I’m pretty sure that guy wanted to stick something in a place on my body it didn’t belong in, too. “I don’t care,” he said curtly. “I’m going home.”
“Not without an examination, you’re not,” said the doctor grimly, shifting his grip on the thermometer. “Stand still and let me do my job.”
Watanuki snorted. “Catch me if you can,” he dared the man, preparing to sprint past him if he had to.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said the doctor tonelessly.
“Who’s going to stop me?” Watanuki scoffed.
As if on cue, a nurse sauntered into the room. Watanuki thought privately that she was either deliberately pushing the dress code or she was expressing creative license with the hospital uniforms: her skirt was extremely short, her top extremely tight, and her nametag, pinned over her ample bosom, revealed her identity to be Ichihara Yuuko.
“Do you need some assistance, doctor?” she trilled. Claret eyes, as mischievous as the doctor’s were expressionless, twinkled at them. Her smile, when she glanced at Watanuki, was slow and wicked.
Watanuki gulped.
“Should have held still,” said the doctor with a shrug.
2.
“Shizuka,” said Kimihiro wearily, “if you were a boy, I’d probably have to punch you for being a jackass.”
She lifted an eyebrow at him. “If I were a boy, you’d ask me out,” she said mildly. A few feet away, one of her teammates-Asamoto, if he remembered correctly-glanced over at the two of them with an eyebrow raised in amusement.
Kimihiro sent him a bland stare, then refocused on Shizuka and shook his head. “What are you talking about, you crazy girl?”
“You would.” Shizuka contemplated her bow and tested the string. “If you weren’t gay, or if I were a boy, we’d make a good couple.”
The words were spoken calmly and without inflection, as was usual with Shizuka. She adjusted her stance, aiming for the target across the archery range. Kimihiro, indignant though he was about the remark, knew from long experience hanging around watching Shizuka practice after school that he was to stay quiet and not distract her, until she had gone through the steps and released the arrow. It flew true and struck the target dead-center, as was also usual with her.
“How do you figure?” demanded Kimihiro as soon as Shizuka stepped out of stance.
“Well.” Shizuka flicked her long ponytail over her shoulder and shrugged. “It’s inevitable. If I were the gender you’re attracted to, you’d be attracted to me.” Simple, matter-of-fact-
Mind-boggling. Kimihiro gaped at her.
“Do you listen to yourself when you talk?” he said finally. “Because that sounded-you act as if you’re the only one I could ever end up with!”
Shizuka looked thoughtful. “What would be better is if we did a role reversal,” she mused, idly fingering the bowstring. “It would really make more sense if I was the male in the relationship since you’re more feminine than I am, and I’m stronger than you physically.”
“Are you calling me a girl?” Kimihiro thundered, outraged. Asamoto looked over at them again and grinned.
“Are you denying that I can beat you in an arm-wrestling contest nine times out of ten, and that you make better croquettes than my mother does?” asked Shizuka.
Kimihiro stomped away to the sound of Asamoto laughing himself stupid.
3.
“Why,” growled Watanuki from between clenched teeth, “am I the woman?”
“You fit the dress,” said Doumeki. His eyes, though, were not on Watanuki, but watching across the street from their parked car.
“That is not the point,” insisted Watanuki. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, under the false breasts he wore beneath the silk of the dress. “The point is that I am not a woman.”
“He’s just met with the boss,” reported Doumeki, his hawk-like vision zeroing in on their target through the window of the bar they had staked out. “I can’t read their lips perfectly, but they haven’t started talking about the hit yet.”
“And furthermore,” Watanuki argued, “furthermore, I am not going to go in and flirt with the suspect just because you forced me into a dress.” And a wig. And high heels. And a damn corset, of all the humiliating-
He glared for extra effect and shifted uncomfortably, trying to tug the material of the dress down lower on his thighs but only succeeding in further exposing the fake bosom Doumeki had also wrestled him into. Oh, how he hated this entire damn setup. How, he wondered, did women breathe in these things? Maybe they packed extra air into their breasts or something the way camels did with water. Otherwise it was utterly, scientifically inexplicable why a woman would voluntarily strap herself into these stupid things and parade around in shoes that simply begged for a chance to turn an ankle.
“You,” he informed his partner tartly, “are a manhandling brute.”
“He has a weakness for pretty women,” Doumeki told him, as he’d told him already twice since he’d outlined the plan the first time. “If you can get him drunk enough to pump him for information about the murder, we might be able to close this case tonight.”
“I am not,” said Watanuki again very pointedly, “a woman, therefore his weakness does not apply to me.”
“Make it,” said Doumeki flatly. He reached across the car, shoved open the door, and pushed Watanuki out of the car. “Go, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Right, because a man wearing a dress and flirting with another man-a hit man from the yakuza-isn’t stupid,” muttered Watanuki, but he went.
“Oi.”
Grumpily, Watanuki turned around. “What?”
Doumeki regarded him with those piercing eyes. For a moment, something uncharacteristically wicked flashed through them.
“Nice ass,” he said.
Watanuki gaped at him. “What-” he squeaked. “How-you-”
Doumeki only lifted an eyebrow at him. “That’s the kind of thing you’re going to hear in there,” he explained. “Don’t blow your cover by yelling something stupid about how you’re not a woman.”
Watanuki balled his hands into fists. “Why you-” he snarled, and whirled on his heel-amazingly, without turning an ankle as he was sure he was bound to do-and stalked into the bar.
4.
“Ironic,” commented Shi from his place on the floor. A dozen sheafs of paper were scattered around his prone figure, all of them showing the same sketch abandoned at different points.
Hiro glared at him from the sofa. “Is that all you can say?” he demanded. “I just told you that I’ve started seeing ghosts-which, genius, means dead people-all over the place, and your brilliant commentary is ‘Ironic?’”
“Well,” said Shi absently, glancing up at his subject, which happened to be their sleeping dog, Mugetsu. “It is. You’re a ghost writer, after all. And now you can see ghosts.”
“I am aware,” said Hiro tightly, “of where the irony comes into play, Shi. This isn’t a joke, you know. It’s a problem.”
“Why?” Shi discarded another half-finished sketch and started anew. The dog didn’t even stir. “Do they bother you?”
Hiro sighed. “Not yet,” he said darkly. “But give it time. When we met, you started following me around after three days, and now look at me: stuck with you as my flatmate.”
Shi tilted his head at his sketch, considered abandoning this one too, then decided to stick with it. He replied vaguely, “Maybe you can use the ghosts as an idea for your next book. And maybe get it published under your own name this time.”
Blinking, Hiro stared at his friend. “Maybe,” he murmured, his mind already racing.
He had always wanted to write. When he’d gotten a job as a ghost author-being paid to let another person take the credit for his writing-he thought that was good enough as long as he was being published. But Shi had a point: maybe now he could find the inspiration he needed to publish something under his own name. He could research supernatural occurrences-hauntings, witchcraft, encounters with otherwordly creatures-and put together an anthology. Or maybe-his eyes lit up at the thought-maybe he could write an actual story with all those elements in it. It could be set in modern times and center around a boy who came across a witch living in the middle of a sprawling city. Somehow he could wind up asking for her help and having to pay a price in exchange…
When Hiro rose from the couch and disappeared into the room that served as his writing studio, Shi glanced up at his retreating back briefly with a small smile. He had a feeling Hiro would be okay, even if he was seeing ghosts all over the place.
Mugetsu yawned, then flopped over onto one side. Sighing, Shi left off the sketch and started a new one.
5.
“This sword,” Watanuki said after a few moments of frowning in concentration, “is making lewd noises at me.”
In his hands, Morgif let out a long moan that did, indeed, sound vaguely lecherous.
Doumeki, leaning against the wall of the weapon shed, shrugged one shoulder. “It’s probably hungry,” he said practically. “It feeds off of souls, you know.”
“I am not,” snapped Watanuki, “going to kill people just to feed a perverted sword.”
Morgif whined unhappily at this news, just as a small fox-boy came racing onto the training grounds. “Heika!” he squeaked. “You’re wanted in the office of Her Majesty the previous Maoh!”
Watanuki sighed frustratedly. “What does Yuuko-sama want now?” he muttered, but he sheathed the still-protesting Morgif and smiled at the fox-boy. “I’m coming,” he assured the fox, who smiled back beatifically and raced back the way he’d come to deliver the news of Watanuki’s impending arrival.
Doumeki pushed off the wall. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why?” demanded Watanuki. “I can find my way to Yuuko-sama’s office without you to lead me by the hand.”
Doumeki shrugged. “I know my mother,” he said offhandedly. “She’ll probably hit on you the entire time you’re with her. And since you’re my fiancé, I have to protect your virtue.”
“You’re still going on about that?” Watanuki said in disbelief as they trudged across the yard back up to the castle. “It hardly counts if I didn’t know that slapping you equaled a proposal in this world!”
“I still accepted,” Doumeki pointed out. “Which means by the customs of this kingdom-your kingdom, since you’re the king-we’re engaged.”
Watanuki moaned in dismay. Slung at his hip, Morgif let out an answering moan that was muffled by the sheath and still managed, somehow, to sound suggestive enough to ensure that Watanuki entered Yuuko’s office, to her wicked amusement, with flushed cheeks and Doumeki sporting the smallest of smirks.
6.
With a sigh of defeat, Watanuki sat back in his chair and rubbed the heels of his hands over his tired eyes. “Do they even listen to the lectures,” he muttered, “or does it all just go in one ear and out the other?”
Doumeki spared him a glance as he graded his own tests on the opposite side of the table. Between them, the flat surface was covered with piles and stacks of paper.
“Still having trouble with the grades?” he asked.
Watanuki shook his head ruefully. “Only with a minor percentage of the class,” he explained. “Most of them seem to at least handle a basic understanding, and a few of them even get it.” He sighed. “But there are those who consistently fail to grasp the most rudimentary concepts…”
Doumeki pushed back from his tests. He knew how frustrating it could be for a teacher to try and make his students understand a difficult theory. Watanuki, as a teacher of philosophy and metaphilosophy, just had a harder time than most since his classes, as a rule, required sincere effort to truly understand. Even in a university as prestigious as Tokyo U, it was obvious that not every one of Watanuki’s students possessed a true zeal for the material, although he was patient enough with all of them: despite the difficulty of his classes, he was consistently touted as one of the kindest and most affable professors on the whole campus, and was certainly well-known for his willingness to assist his students outside of class. Still, every so often he fell into a dejected slump at what he perceived to be his failure as a teacher, especially when faced with a rash of particularly heinous grades.
“You need a break,” Doumeki decided. “We’ll finish grading these later. Let’s go get coffee and come back in an hour.”
Watanuki let out a long breath, then admitted, “I could use a break from grading.” He shoved back his chair as well and stood. “But only an hour.”
Doumeki nodded and motioned for Watanuki to lead the way out of the library’s conference room. On their way past the circulation desk, he asked the librarian to make sure their tests were undisturbed. She agreed, and they made their way to the teacher’s lounge.
As they walked down a deserted hallway, Doumeki casually rubbed Watanuki’s lower back briefly to massage away some of the ache brought on by sitting too long.
When they got to the lounge, Watanuki prepared Doumeki’s coffee before his own-perfectly seasoned with cream and sugar as Doumeki liked it-and let his fingers brush Doumeki’s as he handed the mug over.
“Over half of my students failed the last quiz I gave them,” Doumeki said candidly. “It was multiple choice. I gave them three days’ notice beforehand.”
Watanuki snorted over the rim of his coffee mug. “Maybe you just suck at teaching,” he suggested, but the faint line between his brows had smoothed away at the reminder that even a class as straightforward and basic as Doumeki’s Japanese history module had its share of stresses.
Doumeki didn’t reply to the jab, but sipped placidly. Watanuki looked less upset than he had moments before, and that was good enough.
7.
This, Ki’iro thought disgustedly, was the most ridiculous party in the entire universe, and he was an idiot for getting swept up in it. For one thing, every person in this room was wearing a masque, which meant he couldn’t exactly strike up a conversation with random strangers, since any one of them could be the mage hunters he was desperately trying to avoid. All of them knew his magical signature; they’d recognize him mere seconds after coming within two feet of him. At least his barriers worked well enough to keep them at that much of a distance; he had enough time to flee if one of them, by chance, recognized his eyes behind the large, overly elaborate butterfly masque obscuring most of his face from crown to nose.
Still, he couldn’t believe he’d let his cousin convince him to attend her party. Even not knowing it would be a masquerade ball-did the silly girl want the hunters to catch him?-he should have refused and fled the country already. Instead, he was stuck entertaining several of Hi’ari’s giggling socialite friends. These girls admittedly did not recognize him, since they’d have cleared a ten-foot ring around him in repulsion if they had, but without the knowledge that he was the rogue mage the hunters were on the lookout for, the women would not leave him be. They seemed content to flutter about him and coo and preen and prattle and-
A large hand yanked on his elbow, pulling him from the scandalized circle of peahens-er, partygoers, and tugged him behind a decorated pillar.
“Excuse me,” Ki’iro said on an indignant huff when the hand released him and he turned to face his captor. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“That’s my line, Ki’iro Spirit-Seer,” said the tall figure wearing a leopard masque, in mixed tones of amusement and condescension. “You are aware that there are seven mage hunters here, all of them looking for you? Myself included.”
Gaping up at him in stupefied horror, Ki’iro looked at the eyes visible through the holes in the mask-eyes that completely matched the feline features of the disguise-and recognized the deep golden hue. He was face to face with not only a mage hunter, but the best of the best in their province.
He’d been caught by Shi’ka the Archer, the mage hunter whose talent for finding rogue mages quickly and dealing with them efficiently had earned him the reputation of a speeding arrow finding its precise target without fail each and every time. He wondered panickedly how Shi’ka had caught him so quickly when he’d made sure not to linger close to any man in the room-but then again, Shi’ka was the most powerful hunter, and he could probably sense Ki’iro’s deliberately suppressed signature from all the way across the mansion, much less this crowded dining hall. Ki’iro stared up into the solemn, unsmiling eyes, dismayed at the situation and even more irritated with himself.
He knew he shouldn’t have come to this party.
8.
There were a hundred things Watanuki could have said at this moment.
“That’s a TV,” was what he decided on.
There were also a hundred things Doumeki could have said in reply.
“Yeah,” was his contribution. And, “It’s heavy.”
Watanuki stared at him, at the large bulky box in his arms, then back at him. “I bet. Why are you carrying a TV?”
“It would look odd if I dragged it across town with a rope,” said Doumeki, and shifted his burden. “It’s heavy,” he said again.
Blinking, Watanuki considered boy and box. “Shizuka. Why did you bring a TV with you across town?” he asked suspiciously.
Doumeki made a sound that would have been a sigh of exasperation if it had come from anyone else. “To give to you,” he said. “Can I put it down somewhere? It’s-”
“Heavy,” finished Watanuki, finally standing aside and gesturing inside defeatedly. “Come in, idiot, and put it on the table before you get a hernia.”
Wasting no time replying, Doumeki did as directed. When the TV was situated on the table in the very small living room, they both stared at the box thoughtfully.
“Why are you giving me a TV?” asked Watanuki curiously.
“You don’t have one.” Doumeki looked around. “I’m hungry.”
About to scold him for having a one-track mind, Watanuki conceded to himself that carrying an 18-inch-screen TV from the temple (presumably) to the apartment would incite anyone’s appetite, and that Doumeki, being the glutton he was, was more susceptible than most. He went to the kitchen and fixed a plate of food.
When he returned with it and a couple of drinks on a tray, Doumeki had already disposed of the box, had hooked up the cable, and was sitting on the badly overstuffed sofa, flipping channels.
“That was fast,” commented Watanuki, sliding the tray onto the table and plopping onto the sofa next to Doumeki. He offered the plate.
“Not hard,” said Doumeki, trading the remote for the plate and balancing it across his knees. “I’ve never seen this movie,” he added, spooning up rice.
“I have,” said Watanuki, leaning against Doumeki’s side. “It’s awful.”
“Hn,” said Doumeki, throwing an arm around him, and they settled in to watch.
9.
Count, said Kohane anxiously, Tanpopo-kun and Mugetsu-kun are fighting again.
Count Watanuki blinked, then frowned slightly. Those two had been rather short with one another lately; he thought perhaps it might have something to do with the fact that their friend Zashiki-Warashi, who had been the peacemaker between the two of them, had been sold under contract yesterday. The customer had been a cross-looking young woman with short, spiraled blue pigtails who carried a large umbrella; her manner had been decidedly difficult, but when she’d left with Zashiki-Warashi, they’d both looked happy with the match, at least.
Since Zashiki-Warashi had gone, Tanpopo and Mugetsu had been bickering nonstop to express their shared dismay at her departure.
“I’ll take care of it, Kohane-chan,” the Count informed his young charge. The human girl looked relieved and smiled up at him. Once more, Watanuki marveled at how this young girl could be so different from her older brother. Not only did she see the human forms of the animals in his petshop-such as the goldfinch Tanpopo, who appeared as a boy of about twelve with shockingly blond hair, a notoriously short temper, and a tendency to tease; and the pipefox Mugetsu, who looked about sixteen years old, with a playful streak and a misleadingly innocent grin that made him popular with some of the shop’s female creatures-but she was simply better mannered.
That rude, uncouth, pigheaded Detective Doumeki Shizuka, on the other hand, Watanuki thought with a grimace as he went to referee the squabbling creatures, is the absolute bane of my existence. He was always showing up at the oddest hours, both on- and off-duty, demanding food, usually in the form of the sweets Watanuki liked to bake.
Not only that, thought Watanuki with a frown, but the detective was much sharper than he looked. Whenever he showed up to investigate Watanuki’s alibi pertaining to a pet-related incident, he neither accused nor questioned Watanuki; he merely watched him with those deceptively lazy gold eyes and commented sparingly on the peculiar nature of some the cases.
He knows that the pets involved aren’t normal, Watanuki mused crossly, even as he lectured Mugetsu and Tanpopo on their behavior. He’s waiting for me to make a mistake and prove his suspicions are correct. Still, a part of the Count wondered if, even with sufficient evidence, the detective would use the information to arrest Watanuki.
He scoffed at the idea. As if any human could hold me captive. As if I would let myself fall prey to one of those crude, selfish, mass-murdering-
Count? Kohane’s voice echoed in his mind from down the hall. She sounded delighted. Onii-chan’s here!
“Of course he is,” muttered Watanuki. “It’s teatime. He’s always here at teatime.” With a final warning glance at the mutinous expressions on Tanpopo’s and Mugetsu’s faces, he disappeared back up the hall.
“Detective,” he said silkily as he glided into the drawing room. He wanted to smile-just a little-at the sight of Kohane seated next to her older brother on the fainting couch, her hands on his leg, her entire body turned toward him attentively, her round little face lit with excitement. She loved it when the detective came to visit; shy and withdrawn as she normally was, she adored her older brother.
Doumeki glanced up at him. “Oi,” he said. “Did you make inarizushi today?”
Watanuki sniffed and looked down his nose superciliously. “What,” he said crisply, “have I told you about calling me that? And I think I’ve also mentioned that I don’t take orders.”
The detective shrugged. Kohane giggled. At the sound of her laughter-so very rare and as precious as diamonds to him, despite the fact that the girl was a human-Watanuki sighed deeply and turned to go get the inarizushi.
10.
Watanuki, Doumeki has discovered, likes the saxophone.
It was a complete accident that Doumeki stumbled across this information. Rather, it was not so much an accident as it was a series of clues that, when finally added together, equaled the conclusion that the sound of that particular instrument had the power to turn Watanuki from spitting mad to contented kitten within five seconds.
There was the time Doumeki tagged along on a shopping expedition; the music playing over the store’s speakers had some low tenor sax crooning sweetly over their heads. To Doumeki’s surprise, Watanuki was much quieter than usual that morning-at least, while that particular song was playing. He had a half-smile on his face when he wasn’t frowning in annoyance at the archer, and Doumeki even caught him humming along as he absently strolled down aisles.
The next time, they were walking downtown on one of Yuuko’s errands. They passed a small shop whose door was wide open. Music drifted lazily out onto the street, twining seductively about passersby like smoke from Yuuko’s pipe. Among other instruments, Doumeki caught the sound of a saxophone. So did Watanuki-he tilted his head attentively, like a puppy listening for the sound of his master’s voice, and that half-smile played about his lips again, as if he knew a secret that he wasn’t going to share. It piqued Doumeki’s curiosity, but when he asked what Watanuki was grinning like an idiot about, they had just about passed beyond hearing range of the music, and instead of answering the question, Watanuki spent quite some time detailing Doumeki’s faults at the top of his lungs.
The time Doumeki finally confirmed his suspicions about what was causing those sly, sweet little smiles, it was at Yuuko’s shop. They were having a moon-viewing party (complete with sakè, of course) and watching Mokona lead Watanuki on a merry chase around the yard, when Yuuko turned to Doumeki with her patented ‘No Trouble, Officer’ smile in place.
“Doumeki-kun,” she’d said sweetly, “why don’t you go put some music on? It’s a night for music, don’t you think? The stereo is just inside the parlor.”
He hadn’t even been aware that she owned a stereo, and he was sure it hadn’t been in the parlor earlier that evening, but he obediently got up and wandered inside to find, lo and behold, the stereo exactly where she’d said it would be. It didn’t take him long to figure out which buttons to push, and by the time he began to make his way back to the party he could hear Watanuki’s voice demanding to know where Doumeki had gone, and if the jerk knew what was good for him he’d stay out of the kitchen.
And then the low strains of saxophone began to play.
“Oh,” Doumeki heard Watanuki murmur, almost too softly to be heard from inside the shop. “When did you get a sound system, Yuuko-san?”
The witch murmured something inaudible in reply. By the time Doumeki slid the shoji open and stepped outside, Watanuki had returned to the engawa and was now sitting docilely at Yuuko’s side. He was leaning back on his hands and had tipped up his face to the moonlight so he could hear the music better.
At the sounds of Doumeki settling himself again, Watanuki peered at him through half-lidded eyes.
“Be quiet,” he said, not quite as crossly as usual. “I’m listening.”
And that tiny, tiny smile curved his lips.