Roulette

Disclaimers: Paradise Kiss belongs to Ai Yazawa, Zipper, and Tokyopop.

Warnings and rants: (THIS IS A SPEC FIC!) Takes place five years after the manga series, or what is currently the manga-series. OOC characters, OOC situations... then again, this is five years later. Might give way to yuri/yaoi/slash relationships in the future. Keep an open mind, everyone.

Summary: The Paradise Kiss cast, five years later. Life never works out the way you want it to, the way you expect it to, for better or for worse. In progress.

Radishface

[ Yukari and George ]

She took her long, black hair, and twisted it up so that it fell in waves down her shoulders, not quite reaching her back. Casting him a blank look, she took the lipstick from the counter and applied it, gingerly, while still managing to talk at the same time.

"Really, if you don't think much of it at all, maybe we should break it off."

The man sitting in the chair, opposite of her vanity counter, gave a sigh. "Didn't we just talk about this yesterday?"

The girl flipped her compact shut and turned around to face him. "We've been talking about it for two months now. It's not working out anymore."

"This coming from you?" He laughed, bitter, irony fused in his voice. "This coming from the person who never wanted me to leave her."

"I bet you get that all the time from your wives. And husbands."

His eyes narrowed. "You don't think you're the first anymore?"

It was her turn to laugh, and she did. "Was I ever the first?"

"Once." He looked away.

"Listen." She said, her voice a little softer, more gentle now. "We've had these discussions before, we've tried to make it work, but it never has. There's always that doubt in my mind--"

"Which you put there yourself--"

She shook her head. "But if I can't feel that way, then that means it can't work." She faced him, but he refused to look at her. She gave a bitter smile, and turned to the mirror again. "Just let it go. You're still attractive, you know."

"Is that it?" He chuckled, hysteria seeping into the edge of his voice, so unlike what he usually was. "That's all? I'm a good-looking playboy, that's it?"

"You have some redeeming qualities." She replied. "I'm the only one who doesn't see them now."

"There were only a few people who saw through." He gritted out, through his teeth, the lump in his throat bothering him. "And then they all disappeared five years ago, and you were the only one who stuck by me."

"That's probably why Mikako was so successful." She mused, clipping silver studs onto her ears. "There was only one of her to manage the whole Happy Berry business. It wasn't chaotic, and all the profits ended up with her."

"That's not the point." His hands hung by his sides, fisted, as he stood up. "I don't know why it didn't work out. We had everything, you had everything, and even though I don't know where everybody else is, at least you, out of all of us, were successful!"

She shook her head, looking at him like he was something to be pitied. "I understand something now. It wouldn't have mattered if I was still back in high school and I had never met you, because sooner or later, 'Paradise Kiss' would have broken up anyway. And I would be off at some college, studying some major, so I could earn money later on in my life, which is what I'm doing now."

"But you enjoy it now."

"I do." She said simply, and made a half-curtsey. "But there wasn't that passion I had for it like I did before. Now, I'm just going through the motions. It's like eating a refrigerated birthday cake that's been sitting there for a week."

"Stale, boring, and tasteless, a remembrance of good times." He said dully. "Like me."

"I guess that's the only eloquent way to put it." She shook her head. "I don't love you anymore, George, all right? I think it'd be best if you'd leave. I have to go on in fifteen minutes."

He knew he was being stared at, and tried not to scowl, tried to keep an amiable expression on his face. After all, he was in Ikebukero, one of Tokyo's business districts, and he was young, not some middle-aged man. The only respectable thing he could find in his closet was an old white school shirt his mother had bought for him three years ago that he'd never worn, and a pair of grey pants he had planned to cut up, had planned to mutilate, that had been stuck in the back of his closet because they were too small, or so he had thought.

The wind blowing around him made his eyes water, made his red-striped scarf flutter, the fringes tickling at his face distractingly. He had to get this job, or he'd be broke. He didn't want to live off of his parents anymore in that dingy apartment, now completely run down, old, and broken, like him. He didn't want to try to think he could make something out of his schooling at Yaza Arts.

He was twenty-something years old. He was a grown man; it was time for him to act like one.

So he had taken the pins out of his eyebrows, had taken the pin out of his mouth, and had taken all of his earrings out of his ears, he hadn't spiked his hair that morning, but he was still out of place here, where the people kept looking at him strangely, like he was some sort of freak.

Arashi ran a hand through his hair, feeling it's dryness, it's brittleness feeling that it was a bright yellow, bleached from black, that it should be black and it would help if it was black, because everybody around him had black hair right now. Black, straight, and boring.

He should have known that the dream of becoming an artist, any kind of an artist, was just a dream in the end. It wasn't worth it, it shouldn't have been worth it. In the back of his head, he had always wondered if really, one day, he'd end up working for somebody with straight, black hair and brown eyes. He hated conformity. He knew that conservatives, these right-wing sorts, would always win out.

Somewhere there, he had known.

His blonde hair was a little long-- it fell just past his ears, when it wasn't spiked. It kept falling in his face, obscuring his vision, like the wind was making his eyes water. He couldn't see clearly, he didn't want to see clearly. He knew people were looking at him but he didn't want to know how. That was Arashi now, that was him now, cowardly, afraid, and quick to anger, still.

He looked up suddenly, into the eyes of some dark-haired, unsuspecting stranger, and glared, knowing that he was showing the other person what he thought of them, the whole of them, their working type, their type who sat around in offices and in front of computers, rotting their brains with numbers and words without concepts, the kind of person he was going to become. The man gave a start of surprise, and quickly hurried on his way, unnerved.

Arashi cast his gaze back down to the ground before he could glare at anybody else. Just one person. Just to humiliate himself in front of one person today was enough. He didn't have to do it anymore, not today. Maybe tomorrow he'd say something, maybe tomorrow, if he was rejected from this job interview today, and if he was looking for another job tomorrow, he'd say something to somebody on the streets, something with what, and are, and you, and looking, and at.

Taking a deep breath, Arashi stilled his erratic heartbeats and looked back up again, a deceptively demure look on his face, at peace and tranquil, even though his eyes still burned, his vision still danced in front of him, scarlet and crimson.

There it was-- the Sasahi Publishing building, looking for a secretary, a paperboy, a receptionist. Help wanted, apply within.

Damn you. He said, to nobody in particular, as he stuck his hand out in front of him, entering more forcefully through the glass doors than he needed to, ignoring the bewildered expressions of the office workers in the lobby. The white floors gleamed, spotless, the pristine white walls seemed to close in on him, the black granite of the receptionist's counter loomed out from all the insufferable white, ominous and foreboding. The men stood in their black shoes, their grey and navy suits, their pressed shirts, their glasses, the women in their high heels and pantyhose and knee-length skirts and their expressions of placid emptiness.

Damn you all to hell.

"I don't understand what happened, Miwako."

"Miwako doesn't either-- it was working out so well, Miwako knows, and these things never happen, never like this, and Miwako doesn't know why!"

"Calm down, Miwako, tell me the whole thing, from the beginning."

"It's always like this, but this time, you know how he always thought Miwako was the one to go away from him?"

"Yes?"

"Because of Hiro? Miwako would never. But Arashi left Miwako this time. And that's never, never, never happened before."

"How do you know he won't come back, Miwako? He loves you, doesn't he?"

"Arashi's always loved Miwako."

"Then he'll come back."

"Oh, not now, he won't." Miwako sniffed, dabbing her tears with a handkerchief as she sobbed over the phone. "He doesn't love Miwako as much anymore. There's somebody else he loves, I think, that's why he left me-- that's why he doesn't love--"

"Miwako, please." Isabella sighed, hands twisting, belying anxiety, phone settled between shoulder and ear. "This just happened yesterday, how could you be so sure?"

"Miwako just knows." Came the small, frightened voice over the phone. "I mean, Miwako will learn to let it go, right? Things always happen like this to other people, why not Miwako?"

"My dear--"

"Miwako has seen it in his eyes." She smiled, somewhat bitterly, a little melancholy. "It sounds stupid, Isabella, Miwako knows, but aren't the eyes always tell-tale? They always say things. And Arashi has never been good at hiding."

"Well, that's true." Isabella said. "But we'll wait and see."

A silence, stretched so far and so tense and so thick that a knife could have cut through it.

"Where's Carrie, now?" Miwako's voice came, distant, wondering.

"Modeling for Shimamoto, still." Isabella's voice was dulled. "And she received an offer from Mischka, I heard."

"Wow." Miwako's voice was still warbling, stuck in her throat. "She's really gotten famous, hasn't she..."

Of course, this wasn't recent news. Anyone could have read about Yukari's success in the magazines, in the newspapers.

"I suppose so."

"And what about George?"

Isabella paused.

"I don't know." An aristocratic turn of the head, and Isabella stared out the window, at the clouds hovering in the distance, threatening rain and thunderstorms. "I haven't heard from him in two months."

Eight-o-clock, and Hamada was leaving the office. Checking to see if her keys were in her pocket, she left the paperwork on her desk and flipped the light switch on her way out, locking the door behind her, and headed towards the parking lot.

Five years ago, George Koizumi and his gang of tag-alongs had graduated from Yazawa Arts, leaving the school bereft of a dandy, a drag queen, a little girl, and a punk. Not that they didn't already have an abundance of those sorts of liberals, but of course they would consider themselves special. They had placed second at the junior fashion show.

The dress was pretty enough, she supposed. But really, anybody could have designed it, with the right materials. It was only a gown, eighteenth, early nineteenth century European, France, perhaps. But to have the same color for the entire dress-- it was awkward. No matter which way the light turned, the same hues would be repeated over and over again.

It was pretty, completely unoriginal. The roses had been a nice touch, though. Genius of Koizumi to think of those at the last minute, although perhaps leaving them white would have provided a better contrast to the somber blue dress.

The model was pretty, insignificantly pretty. She was not beautiful.

And where were they now? Oh, she kept in touch with Koizumi's father, or rather, he kept in touch with her. But Koizumi, after graduating from Yazawa Arts, had gone to an indiscriminate college of some sort, perhaps pursued his dream of becoming a designer. With his money, he could have gone anywhere.

Miwako and Arashi, the inseparable two, wouldn't have been able to make it far. Miwako could have been able to use her connections, since her sister was with Happy Berry, which was flourishing very nicely in the indie-fashion world. There was no way Mikako's creations could go mainstream-- catch a celebrity wearing Happy Berry and they'd be the laughing stock of the world. No, Happy Berry's fun and fruitful creations were purely for young people.

Arashi had always dressed like he would drop out. And where was he now? Freeloading off Miwako? Most likely, although his pride would never allow him to admit it.

Yamamoto, another rich boy. Pattern designer, that was what he wanted to be. And who knew? In school, being flamboyant drew stares. Out in the real world, it did the same thing, with negative results. To be young, to be carefree, to be ignorant of everything that went around you. Once you hit adulthood, it was different. Hamada wondered if any of those students had realized that yet.

That was the problem with an arts school. You were allowed to pursue your 'creativity' as long as you liked, but that illusion didn't stay. Mikako's success branded her as one who had risen up and above the others, but was that really true? Did she really break society's concept of normality and common sense with her fashion, with her clothes? No, Mikako was mediocre, a little above mediocre, but mediocre all the same.

Five years ago, they had graduated.

Hamada couldn't say she was proud to be a mediocre teacher of a school that flaunted illusions.

"Miwa, open the door!" Mikako kicked at it with her foot. "You need to eat!"

"Miwako's not hungry." Came the frail voice from the other side. "Miwako will eat something later."

"Listen, the least you could do is come out to eat something. You come running to me, and then you lock yourself up. That's not very nice to your host." She tried to infuse some humor into her voice, and failed miserably.

"You're not a host, you're my sister."

Mikako gave up, and sighed, placing the tray of steaming food down by the door. "Well, if you're hungry, there's food out here."

A muffled sniff. "Thank you."

The Happy Berry designer turned on her heel and walked down the hall into the living room, where Tsutomu was reading the paper, and Alice was studiously doing her homework from school at the kitchen table.

"So?" Tsutomu's voice came from behind the newspaper. "How is she?"

Mikako plopped down on the sofa opposite him, and crossed her arms. "You could go check up on her yourself, instead of sending me to console her all the time."

"What?" Tsutomu laughed. "She's your sister."

Mikako was quiet, and stared at the rug. Alice's pencil scratched away in the background.

"Why don't you take your shoes off?"

"What?" Mikako said incredulously.

"I had to vacuum yesterday." Tsutomu said from behind the newspaper, turning the page. "It was filthy. I don't know, you never take your shoes off after work."

"At least I work." Mikako shot back coolly, kicking her shoes off as she did so. Tsutomu lowered the newspaper and gazed calmly at her.

"What are you implying?"

"Since when was the last time you were assigned?"

"It's not my fault, all right?" The photographer shook his head. "So as of now, nobody really wants pictures of models and such because it's runway season. And people criticize my landscapes. I'm only good at photographing people." He glared at his wife. "To be fair, you were the one who fired me."

Mikako spluttered indignantly. "I never fired you. You never worked for me in the first place!"

"The Happy Berry spreads? The magazines? The photo shoots? What were those, then?"

"You wanted to do those yourself, all right? And the only reason I told you to stop was because I could have somebody as blockheaded as you dictating what to do with my models! You didn't even know what you were doing half the time!"

"So they're your models, now." Tsutomu said sarcastically. "Who recruited Mitsumi and Ayame for you? They were the ones who brought Happy Berry out of obscurity, after all."

"The industry is not based around people, it's the minds that run it." She said heatedly, standing up. Tsutomu stood up as well.

"I don't see how you can say that when you're so obviously a hypocrite." Tsutomu shot back, crossing his arms. "'Let's hire Yukari.'" You said. "'She'll be the new face for our brand. And since she's so new to the industry, we'll be able to keep her for a while.' Isn't that what you said? Your dependence on her was almost as obvious as her dependence on you, except she's grown out of you now."

"So she's a poster face for Mischka and Gucci right now, so what?" Mikako spat out. "She still models for us."

"She's bored with you, Mikako." Tsutomu said.

Mikako turned away and looked out the window, seething. "Just shut up."

"All right, then." Tsutomu threw the newspaper down on the coffee table, and marched towards the foyer. "I'll get dinner."

"We have dinner." Mikako chased after him, followed him into the foyer. "I had to come back and cook it before Alice got him, or did you forget? Where were you all day, anyway? You don't have work, so you could have stayed home and made something for dinner! I'm always the one who has to do everything around the house, why can't you do something as well? I already have to manage the store and you're out there doing god-knows-what in Shinjuku!"

"So you've followed me?" Tsutomu laughed at her, slipping his shoes on. "Sure you have. Why don't you follow me now? You can leave Alice with Miwako, she won't care."

"Somebody has to stay home and take care of Alice, because Miwako's not in any right condition to take care of her!"

"Then hire a babysitter!"

Mikako's hands balled into fists at her side. "Where do you think we have the money? All our money is being sucked away by you. Every time you see a new gadget for your camera you have to get it. Have you ever thought about the family?"

"So I'm selfish, is that it?"

Mikako stared at him as he walked out the door, slammed it so hard that the apartment shook. She wondered what the neighbors would think.

Alice was still seated at the kitchen table, looking after her mother and father in a mute sort of fascination and anxiety.

"Oh, Alice." Mikako ran over to the girl, and gave her a hug, kissed her on the forehead. "It's all right. Daddy's just being unreasonable right now, that's all. Why don't we start eating dinner? Mommy will help you finish your homework later."

"I've brought you your tea, young sir."

"Thank you, Sebastian."

"It's Ueda."

"It's 'young miss.'"

Smile.

Isabella turned his eyes back to the television screen, where tall, skinny models were strutting down the catwalk with an amazing fervor. They looked like they were giving themselves hip dislocations.

"We have Gucci's latest chiffon creation, which brings back themes from the early 18th century, as you can see from the elaborate decoration." The female announcer spoke. Isabella gave the dress a bored look.

"Who's the model? Gucci's got a good catch." The male announcer spoke, and as Isabella watched the screen, his eyes widened just a bit. Of course he was expecting it. It was the reason he was watching.

"Yukari 'Caroline' Hayasaka." The female announcer said. "From Japan. The most recent of the line of Asian imports. I don't know... what do you think about combining western fashion with eastern faces?"

"Exotic, as always. Then again, it's nothing new."

Isabella watched the slim form strut down the catwalk like she was born for it. The makeup was light, her skin seemed to glow. Caroline's hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, hair still as long as ever. Her eyebrows were curved in disdaining arches; her eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, cold, like ice.

Placing her hands on her hips, Caroline turned around at the end of the catwalk, gave a slight quirk of the lips, a smile, to the photographers, who anxiously clicked their cameras from below. In a flurry of blinking lights, it seemed to be in slow motion that Caroline turned around and walked back, further and further away, out of reach.

Isabella turned the television off after that, sat on the chair, staring at the blank screen. Of course Caroline had been made for the industry. Everything was there for her, it just had to fall into place. And so it had. And had she remembered them? The lowly Paradise Kiss from which she had emerged? Life was ironic, so it would be deemed that she didn't remember, or chose not to. Life was beautifully, cruelly ironic.

Isabella turned the television back on.

"I'm backstage with Yukari Hayasaka," a blonde reporter announced, bustled and pushed by the frenzy of models getting ready to go onstage, by the makeup artists running to and fro, by the stage hands who were lugging around the outfits. The camera angle switched so that Yukari was seen, staring into the camera with a sweet smile. "How do you feel?"

"I feel great!" She gushed energetically, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "That was the first major catwalk I've done, and I'm excited to do it again."

Isabella sank in his seat, putting down the teacup handle before he could drop it. First major catwalk? Then what had the junior show counted as?

"We've heard rumors about you and your boyfriend splitting up." The reporter stated, and Yukari blushed appropriately. Isabella found himself listening, whether he had wanted to or not.

"I don't know about that." Yukari murmured onscreen, demure. "I think we're just taking a break for a while. I'm on tour, you know? And he wants to stay in Japan. But I'll be going back there at the end of this tour, to visit, before I have to take off again!" She laughed. "It's great, to model like this, for such a wonderful designer."

Isabella brought a hand up to his face and closed his eyes. He didn't know what he wanted to do right now.

What was George thinking? Of course George knew that Yukari was on show tonight. Their very own little Japanese princess had grown up to become a world-famous model. But the rejection, the hurt, and Isabella could identify. And why had she grown up that way, in a span of five years? Perhaps because she was meant to. Perhaps she was the only one meant to succeed.

He stood up and walked over to the phone, hands taking the old-fashioned receiver and putting it up to his head, hands shaking as they dialed George's number, his apartment number. Maybe he was there, watching the show. Maybe.

Isabella got the answering machine again, and hung up.

"Good job, Hiro."

"What-- oh." The dark-haired youth turned to his boss and smiled, a little embarrassed. "It's nothing, really."

"No, no." His boss pressed. "If you hadn't found that rogue paper that Ken wrote about the company it would have been very humiliating. The entire company would have been in shambles. But thanks to you, you found that stupid paper, and the company is saved. Who knew we had a traitor in our midst?"

Hiro pushed his reading glasses further up his nose, and grinned at the boss, who had a tendency to exaggerate. "Ken only made a typo, and I'm just doing my job as the proofreader."

"Well, I think your internship has gone on long enough." The boss said, scratching his head. "Time for you to be promoted to some real work, eh? No more filing papers for you!"

Hiro's eyes glimmered with suppressed gratitude, but he forced the excessive thanks down his throat. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't think anything of it, boy." The boss gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "It's nice to see young people working so hard. And you can take a break. It's been a couple hours. Why don't you go to that new cafe that just opened up around the corner?"

"I'll do that, sir."

"And could you bring me back an coffee?"

"Regular or decaf?"

"Regular... with extra cream, please."

"All right, sir." Hiro watched the boss walk towards the elevators, and then stood up, stretched, looked at his watch. So it was already four... he'd been working for what, three hours? Taking his jacket from the coat rack, he shrugged it on and put his cell phone in his pocket. He'd missed one call, from his mother. Probably wanted to know whether or not he was coming home for the weekend.

After making sure everything was in order on his desk, he walked to the elevators and pressed the 'down' button. Waiting for the elevator to come up, he took out his cell phone and dialed.

"Hello?" Came the voice.

"Hey." Hiro said. "It's me."

"Oh! Hiro, how are you?"

"Fine." He laughed. "Listen..." He started. "Why don't we go out for dinner tonight?"

"Why?"

"I don't know." He laughed. "I'm happy."

"Silly. Did you get promoted? I knew you would."

"You could say that."

"Good for you."

"Anyway." The elevator gave a ring as it reached his floor. "I'll pick you up, okay?"

"All right. What time?"

"Six-thirty?"

"Sounds good. Love you."

Hiro smiled, looked down at the floor, then up again, as the elevator doors opened. "Love--"

Arashi?!

"What?" Came the voice over the phone, and Hiro blinked as Arashi looked up at him. Except it wasn't Arashi. Not... really. The chains, the rings, gone. His hair wasn't spiked. He actually looked... normal. The blonde head raised and looked at him, the eyes widening in surprise, then dropping back to the ground, brow furrowing.

"No, no..." He told his girlfriend, realizing he had said Arashi's name out loud. "Yeah. Well." He said, hurriedly. "I'll see you later, okay? Bye." He clamped the cell phone shut, walked into the elevator. The ground button had already been pushed, so he leaned back against the wall, taking in Arashi's countenance. The former punk didn't look up at him, but at the elevator buttons. Hiro cleared his throat.

"So." He started. "How've you been?"

"Good enough," Arashi said, after a slight pause. "And you?"

"I'm fine." Hiro found that it was easy to smile, even if Arashi was frowning. Then again, he was always like that. "I haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here?"

The lanky form stiffened, and Hiro immediately regretted his words.

"I was at an interview." Arashi said slowly, carefully, still reluctant to make eye contact with Hiro.

"Job interview?" Hiro asked.

The blonde nodded.

"How'd it go?"

Arashi let out an audible growl. "Fucking hell. Mind your own business, Hiro."

So it didn't go well, and Arashi wanted him to fuck off. That was fine with Hiro. He was used to rejection of all sorts... but there was something about Arashi. He looked vulnerable today, and he never looked vulnerable. Why?

"I work here." Hiro said, sticking one hand in his pocket, gripping the cell phone, like a life support. "If you wanted, I could give you a recommendation..."

"You don't even know me anymore." Arashi spat bitterly, "I don't need your fucking pity."

Hiro shook his head. "I don't know... but I just figured if you needed a job, this would be your chance." He smiled. "I just finished my internship. It's a great opportunity, Arashi, and I could show you how it works. I haven't seen you in a while, and this would be a great way to catch up." Hiro suddenly felt depressed, but kept his voice light. "If you wanted, I mean."

The elevator gave a ring as it reached the lobby floor, and they stepped out of the elevator, Arashi at a brisk pace, Hiro lagging behind him, and he tried again. "If you want the offer, Arashi, you know where I am."

They stepped out the doors, Arashi in one direction, Hiro in the other.

The cafe around the corner, right? His boss had wanted a regular coffee with extra cream. Hiro's own mouth felt dry, but he didn't feel hungry or thirsty or anything otherwise. The sky had been clear this morning, but the clouds had suddenly moved in for the afternoon, a brisk wind ruffling his hair, making it fall in his eyes. He'd pick up the coffee for his boss and then go back to work. There wasn't anything worth taking a break for, after all.

Out of the blue, a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Hiro nearly jumped two meters out of his skin. Turning around warily, he followed the hand back up to a familiar face--

Arashi.

He looked slightly out of breath, his cheeks slightly red, his eyes refusing to meet Hiro's, again. And when Hiro turned around, Arashi withdrew his hand and stuck them in his pockets, and looked like he wanted to spit but politely refrained from doing so. Hiro wanted to laugh, but kept it in.

"Hiro..." Arashi said, gritting his teeth, looking like he wanted to choke, or cry, or scream with surprised frustration-- or a combination of all three. "Sorry-- sorry." He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for rejection. "It's just been a bad day."

"Yeah." Hiro smiled, and waited, anticipated. When Arashi didn't say anything, he ventured. "The job--"

"The job."

Hiro laughed, and saw a faint smile appear on Arashi's face, slightly embarrassed. A sudden gust of wind reminded them both how cold they were, standing in the streets.

"Why don't we go there?" Hiro pointed to the cafe, warm, orange lights coming from behind the windows, an old-fashioned bell above the entrance. "It's new-- just opened a few days ago."

Arashi looked up at the sky, as if unconcerned. "I don't want to interrupt your work, or anything--"

"No, I'm on break right now."

The blonde stared at him, a lingering shame in his eyes, blown out of proportion by his pride. "I'm broke."

Hiro replied without a pause. "My treat. We can talk there, and it's better than talking about it in the street. Besides," he glanced up at the sky, a grin appearing on his face. "I think it's going to rain."

It seemed like an eternity before Arashi nodded and they made their way across the street, Hiro thinking about the one time when it was raining outside, when they were just kids, and Arashi had dragged him outside to play in the puddles. He didn't want to, and hung back in the alcove while Arashi made fun of him from outside, and they were both laughing as the rain suddenly became a thunderstorm and all hell seemed to be break loose from the sky. And then a few days later, he was the one visiting Arashi with a thermos of chicken soup made by his mother because Arashi was stuck in bed with a cold.

It was a stupid thing to think about, Hiro thought to himself, since that was so long ago, but the smile on his face persisted.

Notes: So… that's that. ^^;; I'd be very glad if people would R&R, because that means the world to me, and it does sort of… inspire me to write on! ::smacks self:: Yes, I'm being obnoxious, I know. But reviews help the fic move on, and vice versa. But there's no pressure to review, really… ::runs off to a corner::

To George and Yukari fans: I'm sorry. I had to do it. ::ducks from the potatoes::