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[...]orion du nord, then, is something like a rogue variable: a one-hundredth millimeter unaccounted for in the curve of a thigh muscle, the warp of a residual limb under weeks of physical therapy. a minor discrepancy on its own, but then, such inconveniences tend to snowball when left unchecked. it’s a mistake ayato’s made before. like any good empiricist, they’re taking measures to avoid repetition.

case in point: it’s well past the end of orion’s shift when his voice floats up from behind, an arc over the chorus of shuffling papers. “you smoke...?” 

when they turn, orion has a slim black box poised in the L of his thumb and index finger. it’s late, and they’ve got the lights in the parlor room on their lowest setting; still, the light catches, both on the pack’s foil lining and the tulle overskirt of orion’s uniform. ayato’s eyes skim one, the other.

“of course not,” they say dismissively. “those belong to monsieur dumas. honestly, i’m shocked you couldn’t smell it on his coat – so much for those enhanced senses llawes is so keen on advertising, hm?”

orion misses or is otherwise unfazed by the slight. instead of responding, he sweeps his skirt up and beneath him to sit (525.1mm from arch to knee, a clear vector over the arm of the couch), the gold-lined box still glinting in his hand. it’s just left of amusing, this little habit of his, how he poses every moment like he might be oil-painted by some passing fragonard or boucher, though knowing its etiology ayato would pin it a touch closer to pathetic. tragic, maybe, in the theatrical tradition. regardless, it makes a pretty picture.

marc dumas is an important client. it shows in their handiwork, which is to say ayato curled orion’s lashes themself. the nails, however – ayato would recognize ayumu’s handiwork anywhere. the pink sets nicely against the black, aurore triomphante; an odd pairing, yet so well-matched one would think it had been selected intentionally. those lashes, clumped painstakingly into points and curled to the perfect curve, brush the swell of his cheek.

but, well. contrary to what either of them might imply, in one fit of pique or another, they don’t pay him to sit around looking pretty. 

“if you’re going to take those, do it outside, won’t you?” ayato says, one brow arched just so. they doubt dumas would miss them, especially if he knew whose hands they’d ended up in. still, ayato has never cared for the visual, so they add: “and i’d ask that you don’t do it in uniform.”

whatever passive insult had failed to accomplish earlier, their mild disdain manages tenfold now. orion’s gaze flickers, archly, from the cigarettes over to where ayato is standing, fingers gone still on the pack. “i don’t smoke,” he says. almost like it isn’t obvious; like ayato hasn’t run extensive checks on anything even remotely interesting about orion, be it his habits, his medical history, his idiosyncrasies, both for the sake of their livelihood and their child. “i just...”

“can’t, yes, i know.” whatever interest the topic held for them begins to stray to other topics, and so they return to stringing their most recent project. measuring tape at hand, they add placidly, “or rather couldn’t. given how many offers to try my peers’ cigarettes you must have had to turn down during your little teenage rebellion, i’m sure that it must be awfully tempting to do so now. hence my request: take off your uniform first.”

(it isn’t the first time they’ve said as much to him. the echo is intentional; the pink that takes orion’s face, they’re sure, is not.)

“...i was just wondering,” he mumbles, sliding down from the couch. his skirt falls just shy of the knee, a perfect length for its volume and orion’s height. naturally. it was hand-stitched. “how good these must be, for both morgan and dumas to like them so much.”

an almost childlike train of thought. ayato nearly laughs, but orion sets the pack down on their workdesk, and they rewire their focus into trimming the cord at just the right angle. “it’s not a matter of liking them, dear.” (he squirms, and the corner of ayato’s mouth twitches. to move a marionette isn’t so hard, once one learns where the strings lead.) “they’re just expensive.”

orion’s expression fissions, his quaint go at neutrality splitting abruptly into surprise and – mm, something like despair? perhaps they’re reading too much into it. then again, they’ve come to know him awfully well at this point. after all, orion, too, was once a luxury circled back to time and time again, a vice promised to be well worth the price tag; orion, too, was once well-liked.

it took ayato thirty minutes altogether – twenty, ten years ago, and another ten the day he died, to ensure it was still true – to understand that that was all orion had. that and a certain bitterness, vicious and defensive, clutched between his knees and chest like he needs it to survive. they’ve spent much more time with him since.

poor thing.

ayato smiles.