She's got a cute little smile, her hair smells like candy, and her skin's soft and fine where he might want to touch. He could bone her.

When she says that she'd like some cake, Agon takes her to a coffee shop, the kind that has cute shit like kewpie dolls and poodles across the baby pink interior. Her hand tightens around the crook of his arm, and the press of her cheek against his shoulder kind of gets him hard.

But, somehow, the attraction ends there, and pretty soon he and her are sitting hip to hip at their table and he's barely paying attention.

He knows this should unsettle him --

and it does, when he can't seem to stop thinking about the awful night before: the cold, wet grass staining the knees of his pants, the short, violent puffs of breath against his brow, the messy heat of his first time with someone not pretty, or soft. Or a girl.

There's a vague taste of bubblegum scratching down his throat, and he actually considers the cake on the plate, just to get rid of it.

"Um, Agon-kun?" She looks down at her lap. "Am I boring you? Is this a bad idea after all?"

"No," Agon says, because he's thirsty and she'll have to pay for his mochaccino and double berry float.

"Oh," she smiles, looking up again. "Then, um, I'll just go to the bathroom, okay?"

She's hardly out of her seat and Agon's pulling out his cellphone, miffed that it even has to come to this. That he has to stoop this low. He presses the buttons, anyway.

Hiruma answers after the twenty-first ring. "Who says you could call me, fucking dreads."

"Don't make me wait like that again, trash!"

"Then don't fucking call me again!"

"I'll call whatever scumbag I want to call."

"What are you, fucking lonely or something?"

"Lonely?" Agon snorts. "I'm with a pretty chick right now."

"Nice, a potential slave. Anything I could blackmail her with?"

"How the hell would I know. We just met."

"You're pretty fucking useless, you know?"

"I'm not finding out anything for you."

"Fine. You got three seconds to say something useful or I'm hanging up. One."

"No."

"Two."

"Shut up."

"Three!"

If Agon really thinks about it, Hiruma's got one too many stupid rings on his ear, and the blond shade of his hair lacks the first hint of class or subtlety. It makes retarded sense, too, that Agon even bothers with someone who doesn't fawn over him. Like girls always do.

"If you hang up, trash, I'm going to find you and break your skinny neck."

"Do you know how fucking desperate you sound?"

"Stop fucking with me!"

"You're the one who fucking called!"

"You answered anyway!"

"Goddamit what the fuck do you want?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"I'm -- geezuz, you really got the lousiest taste in clothes."

"What??"

"Your polka-dot shirt goes with the fucking decor, hah!"

"Where are you?"

And Agon only has to look up to answer his own question. Across the room, outside the big stenciled window by the counter, he spots Hiruma, a phone to his ear, a smirk across his face. But then Hiruma whips around the cafe corner and disappears.

So Agon goes after him, slicing his way through chairs and trays and oblivious waitresses. Out on the pavement, he zips through a pack of students and salarymen, bumping aside those too slow to make way or too light on their feet, not stopping or slowing down until he rounds another corner to the backstreet and he's standing, scowling, before Hiruma.

Hiruma presses the stopwatch in his grasp. "Five-point-nine seconds over twenty-six yards of traffic," he smirks. "Not bad, fucking dreads."

"Not bad?" Agon backs Hiruma to the wall and presses him to the bricks, the heels of his hands against Hiruma's shoulders. "That was awesome. I'm awesome."

"Whatever. 'Slong as we kill 'em."

"Kill who?"

"The other fucking teams, who else?"

"Whatever. I'm fucking you, take off your pants."

"Hah! What happened to the pretty chick?"

"Since when did you give a shit?"

"Who fucking does?" Hiruma kicks at Agon, scuffing his shoes, and that's what it takes for Agon to lunge for Hiruma's mouth.

Later, when they're slumped down on the dirt and he hasn't pulled out of Hiruma, Agon runs his teeth along the rigid line of Hiruma's collarbone and squeezes one hand onto the sharp curve of Hiruma's hip, slides the other down the lean, solid plane of Hiruma's chest. There's nothing soft, or plump, or delicate about Hiruma, just places that are smooth enough, parts that are hard enough to take a bruise or two, but Agon's getting hard again just listening to Hiruma's breathing that he has to wonder out loud:

"What the shit is this anyway?"

Hiruma starts to roll his hips down on Agon. "You figure it out. You're the fucking genius."

"Yeah," Agon smirks, thrusting. "I'm the genius."

The next day, before the sun's even up, Hiruma calls Agon to tell him to rough up some assholes outside a club. Agon's out the door like a shot, but on his way to the place, in his pajamas, scratching his bare pecs, something just bugs him about this, and he suddenly feels like the biggest twit in the neighborhood.

END