"I'll be fine," Hikaru told the driver evenly. "You may leave."

"Hai, Ue-sama," the man nodded, still visibly reluctant to leave the Lady on her own in the streets of Hiroshima. The last time Hikaru had told a driver that she was going to be fine, things took a turn for the worse. It was frustrating that they all thought her weak and unable to care for herself. With a frown, the thirty-four year old closed the door of the navy town car and proceeded to meld into the throng of human traffic, not once looking back. The faint hum of the engine met her ear as eh heard the vehicle pull away. She was completely on her own.

Good.

Hikaru ambled down the sidewalk, short, green, fur-lined leather coat pulled snugly around her to fend off the biting November wind. Dark brown eyes surveyed the surrounding area from behind a pair of dark shades. Absently, she flicked a few stray strands of hair from her line of vision.

There.

Hikaru sped up her pace and disappeared into the narrow confines of an alley set between a butcher’s and a boutique. She put down her rather large hand bag once out of sight, and immediately stripped. First came the shades and then the coat, followed closely by the thin black shirt beneath. With a grunt, she threw on a freshly ironed tan blazer and pulled up a matching short skirt around the jeans and boots she was wearing. Reaching under and up the skirt, she ed and ped the jeans and shed them with haste, balancing precariously on one foot as she worked them around her boots.

“So chilly,” she murmured to herself, nose wrinkling in distaste at the feel of the morning draft around her hips and bare legs. Hikaru cast a quick glance at the mouth of the alley, making sure that no one could see her.  The Yakuza wife worked off one boot and stood on top of it, hastily, but carefully pulling on a tan colored pantyhose. Finally done, she stood up straight and smoothed out her skirt. Stooping low to reach into the large bag again, she fished out a pair of black pumps.  After a few moments of catching herself, she folded her other set of clothes and stuffed them into the handbag.

The large handbag had a pocket in front; reaching inside, she pulled out a small pouch and a comb. She worked swiftly, without a mirror, tightening the ponytail and sliding the hair through an artificially made bun that she quickly constructed from a few of her husband’s newer dress socks -- not that the man would actually notice them missing.  Six pairs had made a sizeable one and she wrapped the strands of her hair around the hair piece.

Hikaru smoothed her hair back and pulled out some foundation.

Several seconds later, she emerged from the alley a certified, dressed to the nines businesswoman.

Alright, she thought to herself, straightening. She smiled at a passing worker and merged with the wave of civilians once more.

Kris eyed the other man warily.  It was the third time he’d stumbled over his own feet in as many minutes.

“You alright there?”

Jun Ki dug the tips of his thumb and forefinger into the inner corners of his eyes before breaking out into a large yawn.

“I’m just dandy,” he said around the action, using his free hand to wave the other man away.  “Just a bit out of it.”

“You look like hell,” came an oddly sober, but familiar voice from the bartender’s left.  Jun Ki rolled his eyes and slid the shot glass over to Chanyeol who took it up eagerly and knocked it back. “And then some.”

“Do you ever take a day off?” Kris put down his shot glass and asked for the pitcher. He’d seemed to be promoted to a trusted friend, considering only those of that status got to pour their own drinks and take control of the pitcher whenever they felt like it. The Chinese tilted the pitcher over his glass.

“Holidays,” Jun Ki shrugged.

Kris froze and looked up with a frown. “And what time do you actually leave?”

“Reasonably early.” The barista drew up his barely used cushioned barstool and sat in front of the mean-faced mafia worker.

“We leave here between three and four,” Reita piped up, walking behind the bar as usual and snagging the pitcher of Vanilla King from Kris. He gave the Chinese a pointed look before glancing at Jun Ki. “Regularly.”

“Go home early and take tomorrow off,” Kris said with finality.

“That’s what I tell him,” the DJ shrugged knocking back his shot. “If he doesn’t listen to me, who’s to say he’ll listen to you?”

“Who knows? Maybe he would,” Kris replied. His gaze and the DJ’s locked for a moment, each challenging the other.

“Boys, boys,” Chanyeol cut in. “Not in front of the owner.”

“Shut up, Chanyeol,” the other two chorused.

Chanyeol politely flipped them off and knocked his glass down onto the bar. “Hit me.”

Reita poured the man some and put the pitcher on the counter top behind Jun Ki.  Kris flicked his gaze back to the Korean owner of the bar and laced his fingers together, the space between his brows wrinkling a bit. He may have only known the other for roughly two months now, but he saw the kind of crap the other had to put up with and solve even if it was just once a week. He was afraid to ask if things like that went on daily.

Jun Ki snorted and folded his arms on top of the bar, resisting the urge to just drop his head into the fold. Just to avoid it, he removed an hand and lodged his fingers into his hair, dragging a good bit of it from his face. He looked at Kris, face as straight as ever.

“Whenever you go on vacation,” he said, blinking tiredly. “Take me with.”

Caught so off guard by the blunt statement, Kris could only stare for a long moment. At least until an obvious clearing of a throat tore his gaze away. He looked up just in time to see Reita look elsewhere from behind the rim of the glass.

It really isn’t any of his business as a customer, but some days Kris really wondered what Reita was to Jun Ki. The DJ hovered around almost all the time when he was there at the club. The Chinaman glanced back at Jun Ki, who was all but barely conscious, his head taking some deep dives.

“Hey,” he murmured, putting his forefinger as an anchor for Jun Ki’s forehead to stop the other from face planting right then and there. The look on the other‘s face made him stall for a moment; the bar tender‘s lips were slightly parted and the hooded gaze pierced the Mafioso into his core.  The slurred ‘huh?’ had drove it home, though.

Controlling his features was hard enough work, but the constant presence of the DJ was a god-sent in that instance. “Go home,” he finally managed.

From around the bar, Chanyeol watched the entire display from around the rim of his glass. The curly haired man’s mind stalled the same moment Kris couldn’t find his own bearings. The heat of Kris’ gaze tore right through him; and it wasn’t even aimed in his direction.

Damn, he thought, irritably. It was no ifs, ands, or buts about it: he knew he had it bad for Kris. But how could he tell his own partner? They had a tentative friendship, at best, really. So, yeah. Kris wasn’t his, but…

Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, he shifted his gaze to meet Reita’s. The DJ merely raised a brow and looked around as if he was pretending not to know. He got the signal.

‘I know, but I won’t ask.’

For that single moment, his respect for the DJ grew an iota.

But no more than that.

He put the shot glass down. “Hit me,” he declared.

The pitcher was set down in front of him. “I’m no bar tender,” Reita’s soft voice penetrated his bubble of gloom. The bleach blond DJ left from behind the counter and closed the latch. He looked at his watch and tapped the less than lively man on his shoulder, whispering something in his ear. The barista seemed to nod, but just barely. Seeming satisfied, Reita disappeared from view. The owner put on a show, getting up and pushing the stool away to make room. He watched as Owner G raised his arms over his head and nearly bent backward completely, in a lithe stretch.

Chanyeol had to admit, in that moment, Owner G was nearly perfect.

But he wasn’t Kris.

In a bare few minutes, Reita was back again, tugging the barista from behind the counter and through the front door of Vanilla.

After they were out of sight from the tinted windows, Chanyeol moved to sit next to his partner, the pitcher never leaving his grip.

“What do you think they are to each other?” he asked, pouring both of them a drink.

For a moment, the Chinese man looked a tad troubled. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “But they do seem pretty damn close.”

“No ,” Chanyeol bit out, his irritation showing just a bit.

“What’s your problem?” Kris asked, not unkindly with a slight frown.

“Headache,” Chanyeol lied easily enough. Kris immediately took the glass from the curly haired man and set it on the bar.

“Stop drinking so much,“  Kris admonished, poking the younger man in the cheek as he always did. He slipped a few bills into the tip jar and stood.  “Come on, my little Virus. We’ve got work to do.”

This is more like it, Chanyeol thought smugly to himself.

“God, this is awesome.”

Reita glanced over to his charge and snorted. The Japanese shifted in his seat and started the vintage town car. Over in the passenger seat was Jun Ki, the seat shoved back as he lounged comfortably. 

“And you didn’t think you needed to go home.”

“Go to hell, Rei,” Jun Ki muttered, eyes long since closed.

Reita chuckled, smacking Jun Ki’s thigh lightly, winning a tired smile from the other.

They rode in relative silence for the following half hour, and before the first ten minutes, Jun Ki was out like a light, the dark circles under his eyes becoming more apparent on his milky skin. Reita dug into his pocket and took another picture with his phone and sent it to Ruki.

And as if on cue, his phone rang.

"Are you trying to put me in an early grave?" the other sighed. "And why does he look like that?"

"He's working too hard and won't listen when I tell him to take a day off," Reita answered, turning at a stop light.

"And how am I supposed to explain that to the guy?"

When you told Gackt everythig you knew, you'd better have more information to give thereafter. It was a known fact to everyone under his command.

"Tell him to talk to him for once," Reita groused. "I'm sure he'd listen then. I'll call you when he's awake so keep the boss nearby, would you?"

"I'm not your gopher, Reita," Ruki grumbled.

"Reita?" came the query of their boss.

"Taichou," Ruki chuckled nervously.

"Goodbye, Ruki-kun," Reita sang-song.

"Oi!"

But Reita hung up before he could be dragged into the debacle.

Reita: two; Ruki: zero.