#sdtosa

☾ 𝚘𝚗𝚎: 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚑

☾ 𝚝𝚠𝚘: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗

☾ 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎: 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑

"April, this is February," August introduces you with a vague motion of his hands. "We came to work for the Organization at the same time around...?" The light-haired agent blanks out with his words, shooting you a brief look which you return with an amused chuckle.

"Two years ago," you continue for him, and April sees the way you're toying with some kind of...wire in your hands. "I know you liked picking cats off the street, but this is something else, August." 

"January did the same for us, you know." August sighs, running a hand through tufts of celadon before walking off the makeshift arena. He catches April's eyes and grins. "She's going to be your sparring partner for today."

"Excuse me?" April asks, trying to sound offended. Is he really going to fight with a woman?

You merely laugh off his incredulity, twirling the wire in your fingers as you step onto the arena in front of him. He's only noticed now that the wire is connected to a couple of brass handles on either end. It looks harmless to the inexperienced eye, but even if he's just officially started training a week ago, April knows what a garrote can do with a single flick of hands. 

"August's been telling me that you're exceptionally skilled at handling knives," you say as you encircle him with steps that don't create a single sound. April instinctively reaches for the knife in the holster around his waist, eyes narrowed as he studies you from where he stands. 

You're wearing a sleek, leather bodysuit that suggests you either just got back from a mission or just about to head out. With your hair bound in a taut ponytail, April can see the fine lines and angles of your youthful face clearly. August has always told him he's good at reading people, but he can't quite do the same with you. Despite the sunny disposition you harbored when you first stepped in, you became shrouded with mystery the moment you stood across him on the arena.

April makes his first error for thinking that you're the type who likes to psych out your enemies—letting them anticipate your first move only to pounce at the most unexpected moment. 

You're the complete opposite. 

His prejudice against women might have played a role to his demise here. Never in his life would April think that any woman can move with the agility you've showcased just now. Before he can even do anything—draw his knife, step away, make a sound, anything—you already swept him off his feet, sliding your foot against his legs to make him lose touch of his center of gravity. April just barely manages to regain his balance with a grunt before he feels the cold, callous wire of the garrote straining against the skin of his neck. 

"Too slow," you sigh, and he can practically hear the pout in your words when you spoke behind him. "And here I thought August managed to snag a prodigy with how much he's been praising you in the executive meetings."

August laughs somewhere to his far right. April can't see where exactly he is right now because the moment he moves even an inch, there's a very real chance that he might accidentally decapitate himself. 

"Come on, he's only been training for a week, February," August says. "When we were still training, you couldn't even hold a knife without breaking down on the first few days."

You groan, and April feels your grip on the wire loosen around his neck. Taking advantage of your momentary distraction, he slips out of your grasp and grabs you by the waist, body-slamming you onto the concrete before you can even process what's happening. April moves to straddle either side of your torso, effectively pinning you to the ground as he points the blade of his knife at your throat. 

You can only stare at him, wide-eyed and out of breath, but April can't say it's an entire win for him when he's making the exact same face—like he can't quite believe he managed to pull that off. 

The stunned expression you make morphs into amusement, and you flick away his knife with such ease that it slips out of his grip and clatters to the floor without resistance. The fact that you disarmed him in the middle of his stupor is a testament to how much of a fluke his feat just now really was. 

"Guess we're even, then," you chuckle as he clumsily gets back on his feet. 

August pats April's shoulder once when he walks over, a sleazy grin plastered on his mentor's face as he simpers at you like a child that got the last piece of candy. As you gather your garrote in a single coil, you roll your eyes at August's inane behavior, giving the seasoned agent the stink eye.

"Next time we spar, there better not be any distractions," you say, eyes trained on April, himself as you make your way back to the door. "As you can see, I don't go easy on newbies."

The moment the lock clicks shut behind you, April feels the apprehension in his posture ebb away as he exhales a breath of relief. 

"Turns out you're more special than I made you out be."

April glances at August with a question hovering on his face, and he isn't sure he likes the way his mentor's lilac eyes are crinkling with mischief. 

August only humors his curiosity when they're in the middle of a sparring session of their own. As April manages to deflect each blow that August sends his way, the older agent breathes out, "February never sets second round spars in stone. Not even with me. Not even with the others."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?" April grunts, dodging just in time before August could roundhouse kick him in the neck. 

"Who knows?" his mentor replies, as vague as he always is, but April decides not to press the matter any further. He has a hunch that he'll be seeing you more often than he'd like to anyway.

Fast forward to three days later, April only managed to dodge the rain of bullets aimed at his direction by a narrow margin. His work suit (one he borrowed from August last-minute) has torn lapels and bloodstains that he isn't sure will ever come off even with thorough hand washing. His breathing is ragged and uneven, very unlike how August taught him to behave in situations where he's backed into a corner. April is clutching his arm from where one of the bullets lay buried in his flesh, and fuck why couldn't he stem the bleeding?

"Search the alleys! He couldn't have gotten that far. The order is to shoot on sight, go!" 

At least, that's what April's limited German manages to register. But with how disoriented he's become after his desperate attempt to outrun his pursuers, the best course of action that he decides upon at the last moment is to hide behind a dumpster that would effectively conceal him from plain sight.

He messed up. He messed up big time.

While he did manage to confirm the presence of illegal African slaves deep in the mining caves of the small town, the mayor had seen through his farce the whole time. In their last meeting, April met an entire armada of guards pointing their rifles at him the moment he stepped into the conference hall. If he wasn't as quick on his feet as he was, he never would have made it out of the town hall alive. 

April relieves himself of his coat, a hiss caught between his teeth when he practically feels the bullet scrape deeper into his arm. He tears his dress shirt off next until he's left with nothing but a plain white undershirt to cover his battered torso. Unsheathing the knife from his holster, he then shears off some fabric from his dress shirt, just long and wide enough for a makeshift torniquet of sorts. While he currently doesn't have anything to keep his arm in place, he should at least manage to stop the—

He freezes at the sound of a gun cocking into place behind him, but April just instinctively knows that it's not one of the mayor's underlings that were on a wild goose chase across town. They were sloppy and didn't know the first thing about the element of surprise. 

"I was wondering when you were going to fuck up."

Instead of feeling relieved at the sound of the familiar voice, his agitation only festers. April whips his head around to see you, pointing a pistol right between his eyes as your face harbors the most unreadable of expressions.

The dim street lamps are doing nicely in illuminating your domineering form, making you seem much more menacing than the guards that were chasing after him. In April's head, you looked more like a harbinger of death instead of his saving grace. 

When he manages to pull himself together, he grunts, wincing when feels the wound pulsing underneath the hasty dressing as it oozed out even more blood. 

"Why are you here?" April asks, voice hoarser than he liked it to sound. "I thought the Organization never sends back-up." 

When he gets the question out, you lower your gun, the twitch of your mouth resembling a mix of a smirk and a sneer in one. "I was on leave, and I thought, hey. Visiting Austria sounds super neat right now."

"You went on vacation in a goddamn mining town?" the agent sighs, exasperated when he rakes a hand through his matted, viridescent hair. 

You chuckle at him, offering a hand that April merely scoffs at. Instead, he staggers onto his feet merited by his own effort, making sure he doesn't make the mistake of moving his arm around too much. From where you stand, you merely watch in sly amusement as he struggles to even out his breathing.

"Come on," you say, turning on your heel. "Let's get that bullet out before you die of a tetanus infection."

"I'm being chased," he replies blankly. "It won't do either of us any good if I go parading the streets when they know what I—"

The words promptly die on his tongue when he feels a bullet zip past the air next to his face. April only manages to process the deafening gunshot the next second with how his mind yelled at him to stay still so he wouldn't get grazed. His mouth hangs agape, cerulean eyes glazing over with rage. "What the fuck, February? Are you trying to announce my location to—"

Another gunshot, and this time the bullet really does graze him. April can only stand in horror when he feels the familiar trickle of blood running down his cheek.

"Nothing pisses me off more than newbies that think they're the shit. You should've listened to August and refused the job," you grumble, spitting saliva on the putrid ground. "This isn't even my mission, but I'm already five steps ahead of you."

A frustrated retort rests on the tip of his tongue, but before April can even lash out, you're already tucking your gun in the waistband of your trousers. You don't grant him any leeway for smart-talk when you decidedly turn your back to him.

"If you don't want to bleed to death, come with me. I know a medic around these parts. And don't even think about giving me that useless attitude of yours because I might just accidentally put a bullet through your thick skull instead."

The snark in your tone is something completely foreign to him. Taking your first sparring session out of the equation, April has never seen you as anyone other than a carefree senior that he's sure will get killed in action because of her lax behavior. But the aura of authority that envelops you the moment you talked him down forces him to recalibrate the way he talks to his seniors. 

When you begin walking away, he wordlessly follows. 

"One espresso for Valentine-san?"

Your gaze momentarily darts back to the waiter who took your order not ten minutes ago. He's a charming little boy, still with a hopeful look in his eyes. The posture in his legs is stiff, like he's still getting used to bussing around the quiet, outdoor café. A part-timer, perhaps? Nonetheless, you humor him with a sweet smile, keeping your voice meek and sincere as you let him place the mug and saucer in front of you.

"Would you like anything else to add?" he asks, but you don't miss the way heat creeps up his neck, painting his skin with a reddish hue.

You make a show of playing the unbothered socialite with too much time on her hands by taking another glance at the menu he left on your table. This place is well-known for their Belgian waffles, but the calling of your sweet tooth was ultimately decimated by the sight of two of the three people you thought would never leave you behind.

"The coffee's fine," you manage with fluent Japanese, pursing your lips before following it up with, "Thank you, Tsuzuru-kun."

The waiter jolts slightly at the mention of his name, completely forgetting that the tag pinned to his dress shirt is open for anyone to read. He stutters with his words, a nervous you're welcome spoken in haste before the young man retreats back to the kitchen with fumes of embarrassment practically coming out of his ears.

You sigh, tilting your head slightly as you searched for a head of green hair from the corner of your eye. April has always been painfully easy to spot, and it took years of training for him to learn how to properly tune down his presence. December once proposed that he dye his hair black once, but of course, April shot down the idea faster than you could re-load a gun in training.

But neither of them are in sight anymore, possibly having been whisked away by the throng of passers-by that crowded the renowned theater district. Pouting, you decide to bring the cup of espresso to your lips, so terribly accustomed to the bite of the black brew that you find yourself planning your next course of action unfazed by the bitterness.

Based on the intel given to you, the company they work for operates depending on the season. It's the height of summer, and neither April nor December are supposed to be working on a—

"Is this seat taken?"

You pause, hands subtly but instinctively reaching for the knife concealed in a holster strapped underneath your sundress. Whoever this is, they managed to catch you off guard—not making the mistake of announcing their presence like the clumsy waiter did so earlier.

"No," you respond kindly, turning to the person you're speaking to. "But there are a couple of unoccupied tables, April. Don't you find it inappropriate to intrude on a lady's privacy?"

April returns your pretentiousness with a flat, uninterested look before pulling out the seat adjacent to yours. Even the way he sits down is silent, like he's spent his entire life being taught to never get caught or die in the act. His hair is longer now, curling slightly at the tips from the humidity. A year ago, he would go as far as to delay missions just so he could have an extra few minutes to trim his hair into pristine smoothness.

"Red doesn't suit you, February," he comments before pretending to parse through the menu that Tsuzuru forgot to take back again.

You flash him a lopsided smile, twirling a finger around a loose lock of dyed auburn hair. "I'm just trying to live up to my branding. If December can go prancing around with white hair, why can't I do the same in my case?"

"Don't call him that."

April has always been rough around the edges. You're the one who oversaw his training alongside August, so you knew this better than most. But there's something about the tone he dipped his voice in that catches your attention. The peculiar set of his brow and the frown etched across his face is clue enough that he doesn't want you anywhere near Veludo Way or even Japan itself.

"You knew what you were signing up for when August took you in, right?" You smiled at him, folding manicured fingers on the table. "The Organization is not just some charity that will let you leave whenever you've found your footing in the world again. You swore your life and loyalty to it, but I'm afraid the one that's been tasked to eliminate the traitor became a traitor, himself."

His jaw tightens at your insinuations, but you know that April won't go against the truth about his life now. Not when he still hasn't figured out why the Organization personally sent out its second-in-command to intervene.

"So, where's December?" you ask, deciding that pressuring him right now won't do you any favors. "It's unlike him to pass up on a chance to say hi to his favorite mentor."

"He doesn't need to know that the Organization is still out for blood," he says tersely, setting down the menu before brandishing you with a hard-eyed stare. "I owe it to our family to keep it safe."

"Family?" you repeat incredulously. "Since when did you ever care about the value of family—"

"Ah, Chikage-san?"

The sound of Tsuzuru's voice irks you a little, as you assume a mask of confusion when he calls out April's codename. He's changed out of his uniform, gaping at the two of you like he's just witnessed a miracle. You add a bit of theatric flair to your act by taking another sip of your coffee—this time, the aftertaste makes you wrinkle your nose—but you clasp April's hands across the table just in time to ask, "Chi-chan, do you know the sweet little waiter?"

April stiffens, and you can hear him grinding his teeth out of frustration. But, with you having left him no choice to play along, he manages a kind smile to send your way. "This is Tsuzuru. We're in the same troupe at the Mankai Company."

Confusion dances between the poor brunet's face as he alternates between looking at you and April. "C-Chikage-san, you never mentioned having a girlfriend."

"Ah, she goes overseas often, but she surprised me with a visit," April chuckles, stroking your hands tenderly with calloused fingers. "She does always drop by in the most inconvenient of times, though."

"Oh, right," Tsuzuru perks up, as if he just remembered something. "The new recruits will be having a four-man street act later in the day. Chikage-san, you need to head back to the dorms so you could talk to the rest!"

"Dorms?" you question before staring at April inquisitively. "Chi-chan, you didn't mention anything about living in a dorm."

You don't miss the murderous look that shadows his face the next second, but the presence of his troupe mate thankfully delayed his rage. April clears his throat, breathing out an airy laugh.

"Sorry, I didn't want you to worry about me living with others," he sighs, reaching up to scratch his neck to feign awkwardness. "You've always been nitpicky with the people I live with, darling."

"Hmph." You promptly remove your hands out of his grasp, partly for a show of sulkiness and mostly because you were disgusted by the endearment. But you try to redeem your bratty image in Tsuzuru's eyes by saying, "I guess if it makes you happy... Ah, whatever, Chi-chan. Just take me there to meet your friends, okay?"

You're crossing dangerous waters at this point. You and April have always been in-sync whenever you two had to fake being lovers on missions, but his newfound resolve to protect his so-called family is a wildcard that you haven't completely factored in your plans yet. You've seen what lengths people would go to keep those dearest to them safe, and you aren't sure if you want to know how far April would go.

"I was just going off duty, actually," Tsuzuru informs. "You can come along with us to the dorms and we can show you around, Valentine-san. I'm sure the director won't mind—"

"Ah, she can't do that, unfortunately," April imposes before the poor guy can even get another word out. "Darling, you did mention that your boss is calling you in for a conference, right? I'm sorry I can't drive you there, myself, but I'm sure you can manage."

Two can play in this game, are practically the exact words he wanted to get out.

To your dismay, he was right. Though you'd want nothing but a free pass to infiltrate the new company that April and December have gone into hiding to, you couldn't afford to attack. Not yet.

"Thank you for the offer, Tsuzuru-kun, but Chi-chan is right," you apologize, lower lip swelling into a pout. "I'll have to meet up with my boss, but I'll drop by whenever I can."

Tsuzuru nods in understanding. "O-Oh, okay. Chikage-san, will you go back to the dorms with me or will you stay a bit longer with Valentine-san? I mean, it has been a while since you've last seen each other right?"

"Yes, it has been a long time," April affirms, casting you an unreadable look before getting back to his feet. "But I prefer not to let Kumon talk my ear off for being late. I'll go with you."

"Alright, then," the younger man says. "It was nice meeting you, Valentine-san."

"Oh, darling, I have a few words I'll want you to pass on to your boss," April says, and you knit your brows together. How long is he going to keep up this charade for?

The former agent leans down to your level and you feel the warmth of his breath fanning your face. You gulp, feeling your skin prickle at the close proximity. Has he always smelled like fresh lillies?

"We're never going back," he whispered.