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Fix the bed, brush his teeth, scour the desk for anything he'd left behind, feel his pockets for his keys, his wallet, his handkerchief, that note from Ken asking him to open the shop 'cause he'd be sleeping in for the day. Check the lights, see if anything was left on, grab his backpack then close the door, the click of the lock a faint assurance of security for his belongings. Hurry down the street, walking briskly against the cool morning air, pulling his coat closer, shaking off the snowflakes that clung to his hair, his eyelashes, his brows. Soft little things, so white, so pure, so delicate. They melted as soon as they touched his skin; their swift, icy kisses made him shiver involuntarily, though it was warm inside his coat. Alone walking down the street towards work, monotonous work, alone opening the shop and tidying up the mess Aya had made the previous day when he dropped a flower pot, alone fixing breakfast for himself and munching on it as he walked to school on weekdays. This was life, nothing more than a hazy jumble of things done over and over again. And he was going through it alone.

Or maybe not alone, because he had the three other boys for company in the shop. Ken with his wide, arrogant grin and easy-going humor; Youji with his expensive shirts and those dark tinted glasses that must've cost him a month's salary all at once; Aya with his lifeless face and the bright, glaring mass of red hair on his head that wasn't quite as self-effacing as his lethargic movement. They constituted the Four Happy Florists of the Koneko no Sumu Ie, the not-so-popular flower shop at the corner of two quiet streets in Tokyo. He was the earliest riser, since he was the only one who had the energy to wake up that early just to open the shop; on school days he'd have to wait until Ken arrived, the next-earliest riser. Aya was simply indifferent; Youji, on the other hand, lived a life that required him to sleep until noon. He sighed as he unlocked the door and stepped into the relative warmth of the empty shop, pulling off his coat and brushing away the snow that dotted its exterior. Pretty little white things, so white against drab dark brown cloth. Outside the entire street was covered with snow, the rooftops and trees and mailboxes and cars and the figures of people, faceless figures hurrying past him under the weak winter sun. Not too many that early in the morning, usually lone figures walking to work or to school. Alone, journeying from one place to another. He turned and closed the door behind him.



"Oi, Omi! Hand me those scissors, will you?"

"Yeah, sure." Omi took the pair that lay on top of the cashier desk next to a large, elongated box containing someone's bouquet. A clump of roses with maidenhair and little white flowers whose name he couldn't recall, wrapped in clear plastic with a large ribbon at the bottom and a card which was signed "With Love, Dai" in Youji's fussy calligraphy. The man who had ordered it had tipped Youji for the card; he was standing at the cashier, trying to write a note to his girlfriend when Youji put an arm around him and said, "Buddy, if you're planning to give her that note you might as well forget about it. She'll dump you the minute she sees it." The man looked relieved when he heard it, and apparently Youji's words had hit the mark because he reached into his pocket to pay for the card, which was usually free with bouquets. Omi envied Youji for his slick salesmanship; the man's five hundred yen would have bought him a small snack and maybe a can of soda. Knowing Youji he had probably blown it on some girl he'd picked up at a bar someplace, on drinks in short, plump glasses with the ice cubes that clinked together whenever the drinker took a sip. Nights spent like this seemed a big waste of time, and Omi never bothered to find out what they were like.

"Thanks." Ken reached for the scissors that Omi held out to him. He yawned as he snipped away the excess leaves that cluttered up the potted begonias by the window. Begonias. Little purplish-pink flowers with waxy, shiny petals, nodding as if in irritation while Ken busied himself about them. Omi watched him, bemused. He imagined those little nodding flowers outside in the snow, their purple petals dotted with white. Pretty.

"Is little schoolboy falling asleep on his feet again?" Omi nearly jumped when he realized that Youji was standing right behind him, one hand on his hip and the other adjusting his dark tinted glasses, his eyebrow raised in amused puzzlement. "I told you to get more sleep, Omi. You've been pulling one too many all-nighters. Go take a nap or something."

"Iya, I'm fine." Omi was more surprised than annoyed with Youji to say anything else. He would appreciate a nap, if Youji was being serious and not just brushing him off for being younger.

He headed for the back, where the coffeepot and its murky brew sat undisturbed on the table beside the refrigerator. A number of mugs sat in a small group beside it, irregular blotches of color against the dark wall. He reached for one, the small one smooth and dull red, the one he usually took. He poured steaming coffee into it until it was full; he wanted something that might keep him going for the rest of the afternoon. He didn't want Youji appearing out of nowhere again, laughing at him for thinking too much.

"Guys! I'm calling it a day." Youji tossed his apron onto the couch, pushed up his shades and stretched. "Another afternoon wasted in this hellhole of a flower shop, with absolutely no cute girls to drop over and admire my oh-so-pretty physique. Damn, how do you guys bear this crap, anyway?"

Ken shrugged. "Aren't you gonna stay and help me put away the tulips?" The slender, bright red flowers sat in small pots on the table near the couch. Youji squinted at them a moment and shook his head.

"No can do, pal. I'm beat, and I've gotta get away from this place before it swallows me whole." He winked at Aya, who was watering the displayed cattleyas, and gave Omi a cheerful wave. "See ya." The door slammed behind him, letting in a brief gust of cold air.

Omi groaned. "I wish he'd stay and suffer just like the rest of us."

Ken grinned. "If that's the only thing he could do to help us, I wouldn't mind it, either." He put the scissors down and approached the tulips, bending over them and taking a whiff. "Not much of a smell, but they look attractive enough. Shouldn't take too long to sell, eh, Omi?"

Omi stared at the tulips. There must have been a good fifteen pots, each one holding a small cluster of around two to three flowers. He took as many pots as his arms could hold and started the long journey back and forth from the front of the shop to the back, repetitive motions of walking, carefully putting down the pots beside one another on the floor, going back to get more pots. Ken whistled a happy tune as the number of pots waiting to be put away gradually diminished; Aya went to work mechanically, like a doll being made to move with strings. Omi sighed. Either one found a reason to keep on working, whatever it was. Anything to force them to keep moving by rote, even if they loathed it.



"Aya-kun! Behind you!"

Aya whirled around and managed to block another swordsman's lunge. Strange; among the many bodyguards that their quarry for that night had hired, there was a lone swordsman wielding a katana a few inches shorter than Aya's. The two of them fought fiercely in a secluded spot at the top of the building, away from the noise of guns firing and men crying out with their last breath. Omi shivered; if it hadn't been such an important mission he would have pleaded with Birman to have it postponed. The snow dropped from the sky in a light drizzle, drifting merrily in wispy patterns to the ground, which was covered in a thick layer of cold white. With one smooth motion he reached under his jacket for his darts and hurled them at a dark figure in a black suit, which staggered and fell soon after. He could see the blood seeping quickly into the snow, dark red against stark white, vulgar dirt corrupting pure innocence. The sight of it awakened a small feeling of remorse in him, a feeling he had to push out of his head lest it take his concentration away for too long. The four of them were all there, each fighting individual battles, and as he targeted his attackers one by one he knew all too well that he must protect himself, for the other three were too busy. His sneakers crunched into the snow with each step, hollow sounds that faded suddenly. Alone, he was all alone. Again.