Diet Building, 11:18 a.m., 3 Otober 1999
Fuuma knows he's in trouble even before the sound of approaching footsteps reaches his ears. They're slow footsteps, made by well-heeled shoes that even though the rooms and corridors are polished and flat, strangely do not echo. They can only belong to the Sakurazukamori, of course, but the difference between Fuuma and any other person who finds themselves in trouble with the assassin, is that Fuuma doesn't give a damn. What's more, he can get away with not giving a damn.
The footsteps come methodically closer, then stop. Fuuma smirks, but otherwise ignores his visitor, and continues pretending to read the morning paper.
"What have you done?"
The question is pitched calmly, even cordially. Unsurprising, given that it's the Sakurazukamori speaking, but to Fuuma who knows the context in which the question is asked, the irritation lurking beneath the words is plainly obvious. It's worth dragging out a bit more. "Morning to you, assassin," says Fuuma cheerfully. "Had breakfast yet? There's a new bakery that's opened up near the station with some fantastic sponge cakes you really ought to try."
"I've eaten, thank you very much. What have you done."
Fuuma lowers the paper and looks at Seishirou with wide-eyed innocence. "What do you mean, 'what have I done'?" he asks.
"This." Seishirou is holding a sheet of paper on which is printed several very familiar paragraphs. Fuuma resists the urge to snicker; despite the ridiculous sunglasses and the still calm tone of voice, the unreadable expression is probably the closest to thing to anger he's ever seen on the assassin. "Explain."
"Oh, that." Fuuma puts the newspaper away and swings his legs off the armrest of the chair. "Isn't it satisfactory? I did my best to remain within our agreement."
"Our agreement was to write believable letters that would further each other's interests. Your effort--" here the Sakurazukamori lets the paper fall and drift onto Fuuma's lap, "--does not further my interests."
"Really?" With great flair Fuuma picks up the letter and rereads it, trying not to grin his head off at particular lines that he feels rather proud of. "Why doesn't it? It seems to do the job quite nicely to me. Out of curiosity, where did you find this?"
"It was sitting next to the printer." Fuuma chuckles; he had left a copy there just so that it would be found but he's not going to say that aloud. The assassin's sunglasses glare at him. "How could you even think that I would write such a thing?" he demands.
"Because what's written down is exactly what was going on in your head when you went Sumeragi-stalking that night." Fuuma isn't bothering to hide his evil grin any more. "Or did you forget, Sakurazukamori, that I can see Wishes?"
"Wishes or not, I would not have put them down in writing, let alone sent it for Subaru-kun to read."
"Which is exactly why you hadn't been getting anywhere," Fuuma retorts somewhat impatiently; there's only so much idiocy he can stand. "The reason we entered into the arrangement we did is because neither of us were getting anywhere with our usual tactics. You agreed to let me write on your behalf to the Sumeragi because it would be completely not what the Sumeragi usually expects of you. That letter isn't supposed to be you at all, so what the fuck are you complaning about? Especially if it lands you the Sumeragi butt-naked on a silver platter. Or are you afraid that I've ruined your image?"
Silence for a moment. Fuuma lifts a querying eyebrow at the Sakurazukamori, who is standing very still, face unreadable behind the ridiculous sunglasses. How such an intelligent man can be so stupid Fuuma has no idea, and he wonders if the assassin is going to go off and sulk. Well, maybe not sulk, it's not dignified enough. Brood darkly with cigarette staring at the nightscape of Tokyo would be more like it, which is still sulking, but at least it sounds more dramatic.
Suddenly the Sakurazukamori smiles. It's not a nice smile, it's the kind of smile Fuuma wears when he's thinking up creative ways to make Kamui whimper and scream, so it immediately puts Fuuma on his guard.
"Pardon my response; it was perhaps a little impulsive. What's done has been done, and I must see what I can make of this situation." The Sakurazukamori gives a slight, mocking bow before turning to go. "By the way, the mail has arrived containing a piece of correspondence for Monou Fuuma. Since I was ostensibly Monou Fuuma for a brief period of time as far as letters go, I took the liberty of reading it. Kamui Shirou has interesting and self-destructive ideas of retaliation that seem to imply he is at some level capable of considering other people instead of you. Oh, and apparently now you're a potential asylum inmate."
Fuuma's eyes narrow dangerously. "What the fuck did you write, Sakurazukamori?"
The assassin is already walking out the door. "Go read your mail, Monou-kun," he calls back over his shoulder. "It's sitting outside."
Seishirou leaves. Fuuma stares after him, then swears and gets up to fetch his mail. When he does sit down again to read it, he swears for much longer, and far more loudly.
Okinawa?
The footsteps come methodically closer, then stop. Fuuma smirks, but otherwise ignores his visitor, and continues pretending to read the morning paper.
"What have you done?"
The question is pitched calmly, even cordially. Unsurprising, given that it's the Sakurazukamori speaking, but to Fuuma who knows the context in which the question is asked, the irritation lurking beneath the words is plainly obvious. It's worth dragging out a bit more. "Morning to you, assassin," says Fuuma cheerfully. "Had breakfast yet? There's a new bakery that's opened up near the station with some fantastic sponge cakes you really ought to try."
"I've eaten, thank you very much. What have you done."
Fuuma lowers the paper and looks at Seishirou with wide-eyed innocence. "What do you mean, 'what have I done'?" he asks.
"This." Seishirou is holding a sheet of paper on which is printed several very familiar paragraphs. Fuuma resists the urge to snicker; despite the ridiculous sunglasses and the still calm tone of voice, the unreadable expression is probably the closest to thing to anger he's ever seen on the assassin. "Explain."
"Oh, that." Fuuma puts the newspaper away and swings his legs off the armrest of the chair. "Isn't it satisfactory? I did my best to remain within our agreement."
"Our agreement was to write believable letters that would further each other's interests. Your effort--" here the Sakurazukamori lets the paper fall and drift onto Fuuma's lap, "--does not further my interests."
"Really?" With great flair Fuuma picks up the letter and rereads it, trying not to grin his head off at particular lines that he feels rather proud of. "Why doesn't it? It seems to do the job quite nicely to me. Out of curiosity, where did you find this?"
"It was sitting next to the printer." Fuuma chuckles; he had left a copy there just so that it would be found but he's not going to say that aloud. The assassin's sunglasses glare at him. "How could you even think that I would write such a thing?" he demands.
"Because what's written down is exactly what was going on in your head when you went Sumeragi-stalking that night." Fuuma isn't bothering to hide his evil grin any more. "Or did you forget, Sakurazukamori, that I can see Wishes?"
"Wishes or not, I would not have put them down in writing, let alone sent it for Subaru-kun to read."
"Which is exactly why you hadn't been getting anywhere," Fuuma retorts somewhat impatiently; there's only so much idiocy he can stand. "The reason we entered into the arrangement we did is because neither of us were getting anywhere with our usual tactics. You agreed to let me write on your behalf to the Sumeragi because it would be completely not what the Sumeragi usually expects of you. That letter isn't supposed to be you at all, so what the fuck are you complaning about? Especially if it lands you the Sumeragi butt-naked on a silver platter. Or are you afraid that I've ruined your image?"
Silence for a moment. Fuuma lifts a querying eyebrow at the Sakurazukamori, who is standing very still, face unreadable behind the ridiculous sunglasses. How such an intelligent man can be so stupid Fuuma has no idea, and he wonders if the assassin is going to go off and sulk. Well, maybe not sulk, it's not dignified enough. Brood darkly with cigarette staring at the nightscape of Tokyo would be more like it, which is still sulking, but at least it sounds more dramatic.
Suddenly the Sakurazukamori smiles. It's not a nice smile, it's the kind of smile Fuuma wears when he's thinking up creative ways to make Kamui whimper and scream, so it immediately puts Fuuma on his guard.
"Pardon my response; it was perhaps a little impulsive. What's done has been done, and I must see what I can make of this situation." The Sakurazukamori gives a slight, mocking bow before turning to go. "By the way, the mail has arrived containing a piece of correspondence for Monou Fuuma. Since I was ostensibly Monou Fuuma for a brief period of time as far as letters go, I took the liberty of reading it. Kamui Shirou has interesting and self-destructive ideas of retaliation that seem to imply he is at some level capable of considering other people instead of you. Oh, and apparently now you're a potential asylum inmate."
Fuuma's eyes narrow dangerously. "What the fuck did you write, Sakurazukamori?"
The assassin is already walking out the door. "Go read your mail, Monou-kun," he calls back over his shoulder. "It's sitting outside."
Seishirou leaves. Fuuma stares after him, then swears and gets up to fetch his mail. When he does sit down again to read it, he swears for much longer, and far more loudly.
Okinawa?