Preemptive Strike (Or Why Y'All Gonna Regret Coming Back)

Chapter 4

Written By: RinoaDestiny

King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, and Chizuru Kagura belong to SNK

"Kyo Kusa-fuckin'-nagi, you goddamn shithead!"

Kyo was giddy. Knowing his way around Charles de Gaulle Airport due to the tournaments involving Crimson, he found the security lines, got his details checked and basic biometrics done, and then booked it for the third floor where the major out-going transportation was. Milling with the hectic crowd, he settled himself in a dry spot, hauled out his jacket, and waited patiently for the redhead to show up. Iori still needed to undergo security – a bad temper could delay him – and if he knew anything about the other man, he'd be fastidious enough to do currency conversion before coming after him.

After all, Yagami was paying, so his rival would be considering monetary expenses and necessities.

Kyo decided he'd convert his money later. After they got settled at a hotel (he hoped Yagami got separate rooms), he was going to walk around the city despite the chill. Paris had some grand sites besides the famous Eiffel Tower and the Triumphal Arch (he couldn't pronounce it in French and had asked the team translator a Japanese approximation) like museums and some charming little shops. Walk off his jet lag, grab some pastries, or find their best seafood cuisine. Maybe even pick up something pretty for Yuki.

That's if Yagami didn't rip his head off first.

So when his rival stormed through the sliding doors, pissed off as hell and saw him, Kyo relaxed and readied himself for a fight. Yagami reminded him of those stories of Western fire-breathing dragons – none so benevolent as the Eastern ones with pearls clutched in their claws. Hell, he could see him breathing purple flames. The idea was nonsensical and funny. With both feet on the ground and the possibility of retreat from the rapidly approaching tempest if needed, Kyo's confidence returned hand-in-hand with his cockiness.

When Iori closed the distance, Kyo was ready for him.

"You little shit! Why didn't you wait for me?"

"Thirteen hours, Yagami. Your boring music theory. You fried my screen. Told me to shut up. Couldn't wait to get the hell away from you."

The other man was furious. The tendon in his neck protruded and tautened like a cord. "Where were you planning to go, huh? You agreed, Kusanagi. Together!"

"Oh, stop breathing down my neck. You'll pop a blood vessel. 'Sides, people are looking."

"Let them look," Iori snarled. "You planned to ditch my ass?"

"If I wanted to do that, I'd be gone. Waited for you, didn't I?" Kyo grinned, seeing his rival color, become apoplectic. "How was security?"

The fact that Iori Yagami didn't kill him right there and then was a testament to self-control and how important it was that they did this together. Besides, the other fighter wanted to kill him on even grounds in an actual fight and battling in the airport probably wasn't ideal. Instead, the soberly-dressed man stalked away from him, barked for a taxi, and shot him a venomous glare. "You coming or not, Kusanagi?"

Of course he was.

The taxi driver recognized them on sight and apparently was a fan, which made Kyo grin even wider and made Iori scowl. Tons of excited French filled the small vehicle along with a lot of enthusiastic gesticulation. The driver's name was Marc (it was repeated three times in the beginning), Kyo heard his name slightly mangled, and Yagami's given name was completely butchered. He started laughing, quivering in his seat while the redhead, expression moody, handed Marc a piece of paper with what looked like copied French. Kyo couldn't read it but it looked like an address. Their hotel? That would be great.

"Oui!" Marc said with great aplomb. Well, someone was happy. Not every day you ran into the two biggest rivals in King of Fighters history and have both of them as passengers in your taxi. Kyo placed Marc at about twenty-seven, dressed for the weather with a dark-colored jacket, scarf, and gloves. He also needed a shave with that five-o'-clock shadow. A light scar crossed his brow. He wondered what the story behind that was. With a good-natured chuckle, Marc started driving and they were off.

"Oi, Yagami."

"What?"

"Where are we headed?"

"Montmartre. Heard of it?"

"Can't even pronounce it. Your accent's terrible, too."

"We're going to the hostel." Now that they were comfortably seated in the taxi – Marc was whistling – Iori seemed more relaxed, as if his previous rage had leeched from him. The redhead looked at the passing scenery, which Kyo admitted still looked nice even though he'd been here before. They'd never stayed in Montmartre during the tournaments, so after some time went by, the city changed. Iori, he noticed, stared out the window; hand pressed against the side of his face, as if lost in thought. Kyo was struck by the odd impression that with his getup, Yagami gave off a distinctly Parisian vibe.

"Was that hotel or –"

"Hostel. Not hotel. It's cheaper."

"Great. Hope I'm not stuck in the same room as you."

"You are. They have bunk beds, Kyo. Sharing with six other people."

"Fuck you get us in the same room for?" Why was Yagami doing this? Was this payback for all his losses during their fights? "Can't even sit next to you on a plane without incident. Why –"

"Oh, it could've been worse, Kyo." Was that an amused chuckle from the other fighter? "One of their rooms had only one bed. Go ahead and cringe. I know you're doing it."

"At least you –"

"I want to fight you, Kyo, not fuck you. Let's be clear on that, okay?"

"Great. So we agree on that point. As if I see you that way, Yagami."

"Don't want to give them any ideas." Yagami wasn't looking at him while saying any of this. His reflection in the window was strangely serene; Kyo wondered if this was why he lugged that bass guitar around with him all the time back home in Osaka. Did certain things make him less crazy? "You know the French. Don't need them to assume things."

"Well, I claim bunk furthest from yours."

"You'd best hope the other guests haven't claimed your spot already, Kyo."

"Damn." He hadn't thought of that.

Marc said something, then, and that apparently got his rival's attention as Iori stirred from his relaxed demeanor. There was a language barrier, though, so how was Yagami going to cross it? The hand with the silver ring dipped into the overcoat pocket, pulled out the phone, and from where he sat, Kyo glimpsed the other man tap at what appeared to be an app. Brought it up to his lips and spoke in their native tongue, "What are you asking me?"

There was a brief delay and then the same question came out in French.

Kyo's eyebrows shot up. That was cool.

Their driver chuckled. Said a word, which knotted Yagami's brow with confusion.

"Les amis?"

"Ah-mizu?"

Actually, Kyo thought that wasn't half-bad. It was apparent Yagami was making an effort; Marc's face lit up. Their young driver made a gesture at Iori's phone. They were at a light that just turned red. Then Marc, who made his familiarity with the app obvious, repeated that same word and Kyo heard the translation and chuckled.

Tomodachi. Of course.

Iori looked nonplussed. They weren't friends. Hell, they couldn't refer to each other as acquaintances, either. Not after fighting each other for so long. Yagami had been ready to smoke him earlier and Kyo had annoyed him on the plane. No one would mistake them for anything but rivals. Since Marc was a fan of theirs, surely he knew. But with the rainy Parisian weather turning Yagami's mood strangely bearable and even easing him during the ride, Kyo supposed their discussion was pleasant.

He saw Yagami shake his head as Marc handed the phone back.

Their driver mumbled something, laughed softly and hit the gas as the light turned green. Other taxis sped past them. There were a few intrepid pedestrians on the streets and sidewalks. Paris in rainy weather, cold as it was, carried a beauty to its streets and shops that differed from Osaka. Kyo wasn't sure if it was the architecture, the people, or just the fact that France was still foreign and mysterious to him.

Yagami's expression hadn't changed, as if unsure how to process Marc's interpretation of their relationship. The other man had quietly put away his phone. A moment later, Iori turned to him; the question in his voice even before he asked it.

"Friends? We look like friends, Kyo?"

"Well, you haven't been biting my head off. I haven't sworn at you in the last…oh, few seconds. Guess that's enough for our friend here, huh?"

"Damn." The redhead frowned. "If he assumes that…"

"What?"

"We better hope our roommates don't assume the same."

"Oh."

"Or worse."

"Shit, Yagami. Don't go there."

"Hope for the naïve and innocent, Kyo. Or…" Iori shrugged; the casual gesture almost sophisticated with that long coat of his. "It's gonna be hell."

Hell didn't describe in adequate terms anything about their roommates. It was, if Kyo let himself get poetic, going from the divine in Marc's taxi where their driver's cheerful attitude affected them both (Yagami gave him pay for distance traveled and then some) to the hellpit in some Buddhist lore where the demons were their co-inhabitants.

Le Regent Montmartre itself was a rather nice hostel. Kyo didn't expect it to be neat, quaint, or comfortable compared to some horror stories he'd heard about other places, but Yagami seemed to have picked a decent spot. There was some nice neutral stonework, bright blues (the front desk was an immediate draw), friendly staff (who lit up like Marc when Yagami tried some minimal, horribly-accented French), and there were vending machines.

So, first impressions were great.

What came after wasn't so nice and confirmed his rival's worst suspicions, but in an entirely different way. Not that it was much better.

The good thing was that there were two rooms joined by a common area: four beds in one and four in the other. If Kyo had his way, he'd be in one and Yagami would be in the other. But, the other six had already arrived and claimed their spots. The first four spots in the foremost room belonged to an American couple – young, athletic, the man and woman looking ready to test the sheets – and a giggling pair of European girls who made eyes at them when they first arrived. Kyo heard Iori mutter, "Bunch of idiots" before trying the second room.

They found themselves confronting a middle-aged bespectacled German man who thought he was king of the room (opened fire with his voice) and a nutcase who lay on the rightmost top bunk singing what sounded like children's songs. "Hey, Yagami – looks like you have company."

"Go get fucked."

The other man's mood had soured considerably since the German man started yelling at him; the insult told Kyo they were back to known territory. Not only was the German's language incomprehensible to them – Yagami looked downright irritated – but his rival began snapping back in Japanese. That left two foreigners screaming at each other, the nutcase still singing in his own tongue, himself standing there like a moron, and the known presence of the other four in the first room.

After two minutes of this, Kyo had enough. He was going to take a walk around town.

"Kusanagi, where are you going?"

"Getting away from you crazies. I'll get my own dinner."

"Convert your money first, asshole!"

"If I needed advice, I'd ask. Later, Yagami."

A loud, strident torrent of German spewed behind him. His rival's voice followed.

"Hey, fuckhead! Yeah, I'm talking to you! Don't know the hell you yelling at me for, but keep going! I can do this all fucking night! Go ahead! Lose your voice! Maybe I'll get a good fucking night's sleep!"

Kyo shook his head and kept moving. The traveler's pouch slung around his chest – now under his jacket – contained enough money for food and other niceties. He was out the door so fast that the girls' giggling trailed after him and then disappeared like the fading tendrils of a nightmare.

He could've slammed the door.

He didn't.

Montmartre charmed him. By the time he left the hostel, it was already close to 5:30 and darkening quickly with the overcast sky and light drizzling. The storefronts lit the cobblestones, warm and bright yellow against the wet cool grays and icy blues. Kyo found a money changer after walking downhill into the active center of Montmartre. They converted yen, which was perfect. He had a fourth of his money converted into euros – if he needed more, he'd be back – and departed in better spirits.

The first thing he did was find a clothing shop, adding a more suitable long coat along with a collapsible umbrella to his possessions. If France was undergoing winter or just a cold spell, he didn't want to get sick and drag his ill ass around with Yagami snarling the entire way. Not only would that suck but it would cramp his style when fighting (How well did anyone fight with runny noses, body aches, coughing, and sneezing? Or with a high temperature?).

Once he was warm and dry, he went for the next priority on his short list.

Food.

It wasn't Japanese cuisine – not the comfort food of curry, ramen, udon, or any of his mom's home-cooking – but what he'd tried the last time he was here got his attention. Fortunately, several inexpensive-looking places were open, even though he couldn't read the menus. He'd look around, see something he liked, and literally point it out to either the person behind the counter or his server (if that was how it worked). It made him miss the plastic food displays back home – was that a pang of homesickness? – reminding him that he was in the middle of the world, in Europe, stuck here on a wet cold drizzly night trying to decide what to eat.

What was Yagami doing? Was he still having a screaming match with that irate German man? Would that get them kicked out of the hostel? Why was the guy so offended by them? Were they ever going to know (since neither he nor Yagami spoke a lick of German)?

Kyo finally hedged his bets on a smaller establishment, opened the heavy door, and found himself greeted with warmer temperatures, curious faces (not many because of the weather) and the smiling face of the greeter. The scent of cooked meats and other savories filled the air; he was ravenous. The greeter said something to him in two languages (was it French and English?) but he couldn't understand any of it. Were there any Japanese tourists here? He didn't see anyone with cameras and the bright rain ponchos. Was he the only Asian here? Just as he was getting desperate, one of the waitresses passing by saw him, murmured something to the greeter, and then asked, "How many, sir?" in Japanese.

He was so startled that it took his brain a full minute to catch up with his tongue and kick-start it into action. "Uh, one. Just me."

The waitress smiled – coppery hair, hazel eyes, a nice figure – as if understanding his confusion. "I'll take you to your table, sir. If you'll follow me, please." Her Japanese was tinged by a distinct French accent, which he found charming. That appeared to be the word of the day for him. Was she learning the language by herself? It had a different air from when Ash Crimson arrogantly flung his mother tongue at him (the guy rankled everyone). Somehow, the woman seating him, serving him, pointing out items on the menu made his own familiar language sound unfamiliar.

If, by some remarkable chance, Yagami experienced the same, Kyo wanted to know.

He returned his waitress's vivacious smile, mentioned that he wanted to try the soup of the day, that fish dish she'd recommended, and oh, could she also give suggestions for dessert once he was done with the main course? She would. He asked if she was learning Japanese. She was considering the JET program – please call her Marie – and asked if her accent was bad. Kyo chuckled, let her know it wasn't (compared to his in her language), and said it actually sounded pretty.

If he'd thought Marc lit up, Marie was luminous.

The rest of his evening went well. The food was excellent – Marie's recommendations were on point – which made returning to the hellpit a daunting prospect. He tipped her in addition to the service charge in his check (Marie said this was by law), wished her luck with the JET program, and left the cozy comfort of the restaurant. He'd grabbed the hostel's business card before leaving, so after getting some straightforward directions, he began his slow walk back.

He was in no rush. At all.

It was close to 9:30 when Kyo braced himself, opened the door to their shared rooms and entered, feeling as though he'd crossed into the field of battle. The American couple were getting amorous (there were locked bedrooms for that, or in Japan's case, love hotels), the two girls were exchanging texts on their phones while sitting across from each other, and his and Yagami's shared room was silent (that was ominous). At least he didn't hear screaming in Japanese and guttural German anymore.

Yagami was nowhere in sight. The nutcase wasn't on his bunk bed, singing. However, there were loud splashes from the shared bathroom – what the hell? – leaving only the deranged German, who was reading while lying down on the rightmost bottom bunk. There was a little light angled over his book, throwing bright flashes off his glasses. So long as the reading didn't interfere with his sleep, Kyo was willing to let it slide.

Ditching his new coat and tossing his umbrella next to his bag, he kicked off his shoes, plopped himself onto the bottom bunk that was his (Yagami had claimed the top), and waited for the nutcase to finish washing. He wanted a nice hot shower, so that he could go to sleep warm, comfortable, and clean. After that walk and pleasant dinner, the effects of the jet lag had finally caught up. If he went lights out and didn't wake up till morning, great.

Last thing he needed was insomnia or to wake up too early.

It'd happened to him before.

He must've zoned out or fallen asleep ahead of schedule, because it was the sound of something breaking and loud German that awoke him. Bleary-eyed, he arose from the bed and glimpsed the German man berating the younger one (the nutcase) off to the side. Did he miss something?

The older man stomped off. A door slammed a few seconds later.

Greeaaat. Maybe he needed to pass on the shower tonight.

His body seemed to agree, as he was out again for some indeterminable amount of time before someone rudely shook him awake. "Kusanagi!"

Oh. Yagami was back. "Trying to sleep, ya fuck. Lemme."

"Blanctorche. What'd you know about her?"

"She's French, knows Crimson, and would rather not see us pound his face in. Lemme sleep, Yagami."

"Been asking around. The locals say she lives in the countryside."

"She's nobility, Yagami. Of course she would." Kyo smelled smoke wafting off his rival, who continued to stand there like some red-haired sentinel. "Where'd you go off to?"

"Left the crazy to yell at someone else. Food. Music. Some smokes."

"You found a club?"

"Yeah." Iori glanced away from him for a moment, tension lines appearing on his face. "Oh, good. That's not him."

"The German guy?"

"Yeah. Motherfucker can shout. I miss anything?"

"Nutcase from that bunk broke something, I think." Kyo scrunched his face, trying to remember with the haziness of sleep clinging to him. "I saw German guy yell at him and then stomp off. Maybe he's in the bathroom."

"Shit."

"Welcome to my world, Yagami." Kyo yawned, letting his body sink further into the welcoming softness and warmth of the bed. "Lemme sleep. Oh…German guy likes reading. Has a small light. Maybe you can do your music theory…keep him company."

"Fuck no."

"Well, don't wake me. You gotta yell…somewhere else. Couple next room…"

"I know." His rival's voice was deadpan. "They newlyweds? Got a lot of stamina."

"What…you looked?"

"No. I heard."

"Hahaha," Kyo laughed, amusement in the mellowing timbres of his sleep-addled voice. "Go away, Yagami. Try not to be loud."

"Fuck you."

"Whatever."

Kyo slept, deep and content and warm. It was silent – blissfully so – after some tirade in German and snappish retorts in Japanese flew right by him way earlier. The voices had been disembodied but one was pissed as hell and the other losing patience. There was shouting in the distance, too, after a while – a male voice and a female one – towards their direction. It was only after that when the screaming above him stopped.

Not too long after, he heard a door open and close. Someone shouted something in Japanese. That had to be Yagami. He wondered what the nutcase mumbling in his sleep in the other bunk had done. Maybe he'd find out tomorrow.

A while later, before his ears shut out all sounds, the bunk above his creaked.

Then, silence.

Long, comfortable, welcoming silence.

Enduring quiet that stretched into the expanses of the night –

"KYYYYYOOOOOOOO!"

Kyo startled awake, shot one look at the bunk above his, grabbed his pillow, bounded on the edges of his bed in one fluid motion, and smacked Iori one right in the face. His eyes adjusted to the dark – there was light spilling from around the edges of the drawn window curtain – which allowed him a good look at his rival's surprised expression. Surprised and unguarded.

"The hell, Yagami?" he snarled, trying to keep his voice down. "You do that all the time?"

"Fuck."

"What the hell time is it…goddammit. It's four in the morning."

Several yells from the other room and an angry muttering from the rightmost bottom bunk. Uh oh.

"Shit, Yagami. Go back to sleep. Can you not shout my name, fucking please?"

"Can't sleep. Going out for a smoke."

"You what? Hey, wait."

Iori ignored him, climbed down his bunk, threw his overcoat on, and left. Kyo expected the door to slam. It didn't.

There was a glint in the glowering German man's eyes – sinister at this time of night. Kyo wished he was in the other room. Maybe not with the horny couple, but he could take two giggling girls. Actually, forget that. Two giggling girls in the dead of night? That was what horror stories were made of – creepy-ass childish giggles in a dark room. Brrrrr…better not.

He wanted to go back to sleep, but Yagami's nocturnal howling put him on full alert. Even nestled back under the blankets again, he resorted to thinking about the most boring subjects his teachers taught him (hated history) before his mind finally shut down.

Yagami still hadn't returned.

Awkward. That'd be the best way to describe this morning, as he discovered firsthand the damage done to the bathroom. There were several ceramic or porcelain fixtures, such as the shelf, the toilet, and the sink. The shelf was broken – fuck did the guy do that for? – leaving remnants of dirt and small ceramic chips on the tile floor. One look in the wastebasket confirmed the late remains of a tiny houseplant. The toilet was okay. The sink was not. Kyo carefully brushed his teeth, washed his face, and combed his hair, ever wary of the razor-sharp edges of the once-smooth ceramic surface. Last thing he wanted was to cut himself and bleed all over the place.

There was even a hairline fracture down the side. Who was paying for that damage?

Never mind the smears of blood on the glazed walls.

He didn't want to know. He didn't see cuts on Yagami's hands this morning.

Getting out of the bathroom only met him and Iori with more awkwardness. The redhead was ready to leave and was checking his phone when he re-entered their room. Yagami didn't say a word or look at him. Yeah, after what happened last night – damn, he had lungs – it was best they didn't bring it up unless they had to. Kyo didn't want to know why his rival yelled his name in his sleep or if this was a regular habit. He was already a stalker. That brought it up to creeper levels of psycho-stalker.

Then, things got worse because their favorite roommate barged in, barreling down on them like a man ready for war.

Because Kyo was watching, he noticed Iori stiffen, put his phone away, and grit his teeth as the German got right into his face. The man had to be mental or just had a pair of big ones, since no one did that to Yagami just like that and lived. The lenses on his glasses flashed, menacing and although the German only hit Yagami's shoulder and should've been small fry, he wasn't. Kyo had witnessed the barrage his rival underwent from yesterday until now and couldn't place why the other foreigner seemed to hate him. It wasn't as if Iori did anything to him or knew him. Why the constant harassment?

Yagami moved, as if to push the other man aside, but was stopped in his tracks by an obscene gesture that even Kyo understood. Kyo blinked, unsure if he comprehended it correctly. What was the man insinuating and how? Why? How the fuck did that make any sense? If the other man didn't understand their language – Kyo was sure he didn't – then last night's incident would've made no sense. It would've looked like two crazy young guys being stupid, with one bashing the other's head in with his pillow.

But then again, his rival did prefer to go on a given name basis and if the German had figured that out, then incorrect conclusions could've – had been – drawn.

This was exactly what Yagami feared; although, Kyo didn't know why it mattered so much to him that it did. Yeah, he found it weird – their conversation in the taxi found them agreeing on that point – but it wasn't like it mattered. But to Yagami, it did, so…

Speaking of Yagami…

The redhead had gone still, quiet, and ice-cold. That was dangerous. If the idiot in Yagami's face was wise (he wasn't), he needed to turn around right now and run. While Kyo couldn't read Iori's mind, years of fighting him attuned him to certain signs which were all apparent now. The narrowed eyes, the thinned lips, the slight jut forward of his head, and the right hand opening and closing, opening and closing. Iori Yagami was one step away from murder.

Kyo had to stop this before it spun out of control.

They were here to get Ash Crimson, not kill other tourists or civilians.

Even if the other man richly deserved it for somehow being an even bigger asshole than the one looming over him. The guy should thank his gods Kyo was here.

"Hey!" he shouted, redirecting the man's attention. "You insane? Get away from him!"

It worked. The man stalked in his direction, already yelling.

Yeah, he'd had it.

"Oi, Yagami! Let's get outta here!"

The other fighter didn't say anything. Simply shoved the German aside, hauling their carry-ons in one hand and shoved Kyo's coat and umbrella at him. Kyo put the coat on as they left, pocketed the umbrella and didn't look back. That didn't stop the two gigglers from staring wide-eyed at them or the American couple from rolling their eyes and shouting something. It was just as well he didn't know English. From their tone, it was likely similar to the German's insinuation and they didn't need any more of that.

Hell, Yagami didn't need any more of that.

In front of him, Iori was livid. The other man's posture was rigid, as if keeping himself in check. Somehow, when it came time to settle their bill, his rival managed to do it through clenched teeth and forced politeness. It was unsettling to watch, knowing how close someone came to being gutted or having their throat cut just a moment ago. Money changed hands, a receipt was given, and Yagami was out the door so fast that Kyo sprinted after him. The cobblestones were damp but it wasn't rainy. Just overcast and misty.

"Hey, Yagami! Slow down!"

"Fuck you bothering me for, Kyo? Get a taxi."

It was the first time the redhead had spoken to him since last night's unexpected wake-up call. Iori was still angry; however, Kyo sensed the other's effort to calm down. His teeth were clenched, lines of rage etched his face, veins stood from the back of his hands, but he was talking. If Yagami swore at him after a morning's silence, that was a good sign. "Sure. Give me my bag. Maybe we'll get lucky and see Marc again."

He got his bag back. Slung it over his shoulder.

"Guy's an idiot. You know that."

"Shut up, Kyo."

"Not this time, Yagami." He met Iori's dead-on glare without flinching. "That bothered you, didn't it?"

"Told you they'd assume."

"Well, it wasn't the French. It was that nutty German. He hates you. Us. Who knows what the fuck was his problem?"

"I'd have killed him."

"Yeah, I saw. Got us out of there before you did."

Silence.

"Yagami, you do that all the time? Maybe that's why he assumed." Hell, since they had broached the issue…

"It was Orochi."

"Huh?"

"You know why I left, Kyo? It wasn't just the smoke break. I had to get the fuck away from you."

"Why?"

The other man snorted, the sound derisive. "Orochi likes telling me things. One of them is to kill you. To kill Kyo Kusanagi. Kill Kyo. Kill Kyo. You get my drift?"

"That's why you weren't back –"

"Takes a long time to shut that motherfucker up. Takes longer to get ahold of myself."

"Huh."

There was a stream of taxis going past them. Kyo saw most of the vehicles had passengers. He tried flagging one down, but a Parisian couple got the jump ahead of him. Iori let out an exasperated sigh, lugged his carry-on over, looked at him, and muttered what sounded like an uncomplimentary "Fucking useless" under his breath. Kyo didn't grin, although a part of him wanted to. That was more like the Yagami he knew, which meant that while everything wasn't quite okay (was this temporary?), his rival was probably going to be fine.

Kyo just needed to keep him from driving him nuts once he regained his equilibrium.

"Get a hotel suite next time. No one to mess with us."

"More expensive."

"Less hassle. Come on, Yagami! You can even scream and I'll turn a deaf ear."

"I got a pillow in the face. What's next? You gonna punch me?"

"It was four in the morning, Yagami. Not a cool way to wake up."

"Tch."

He tried again. This time, a taxi pulled over. While the driver wasn't Marc (Kyo realized how much he missed the guy's openheartedness), this guy wasn't rude – just preoccupied with Parisian traffic. Iori had gone back to his staring out the window routine, which Kyo decided was just a side-effect of France (perhaps Paris in general). They had dashed out of the hostel without breakfast. He was hungry. Wanted coffee and something hearty. Didn't they have some dish with eggs on toast? That sounded good about now.

"Yagami."

"What?"

"Get some breakfast. Then, we'll talk about Elisabeth Blanctorche. If Crimson returned, she'd likely know where he is."

"That's if she doesn't already have him under her protection."

Right. There was that, too. "A fight, then."

"Yes."

"Been a long time. You thinking that?"

"That's why we're here. Maybe we'll find out some other leads."

"Don't think she'll spill after we bloody up her friend."

"She'll talk. I'll make her."

Yeah, that was good ol' Yagami back again. "Breakfast first, Yagami. I'm starving over here."

"Ha. Deal with it, Kyo. It'll take a bit for me to find a good spot."

"Deal with it? You don't have holes in your stomach?"

"There you go whining again. Do I need to call your mom and tell her to pick up her little princess?"

He feigned a punch, which Iori easily turned aside. That's more like it. Okay. Now they were ready. Yagami's comment also reminded him that he needed to check his phone and see if his mom or Kagura-san had texted back. He'd do it while stuffing his face. "I wasn't the one rumored to be wearing a dress."

"Just a fucking rumor."

After what happened this morning, Kyo decided to tread lightly.

"Okay. Whatever you say, Yagami."

Notes: Most of the French was Google-fu'd, so how much of it is accurate, I have no clue. I did take French in 7th and 8th grade, but I don't remember much of anything at this point.

* "Les amis?" – "Friends?" (reserved for males or a mix of males and females).

* Le Regent Montmartre is an actual hostel in Montmartre, Paris, France. Montmartre itself apparently is only half-an-hour away from the Charles de Gaulle Airport. Kyo and Iori just have some equally "interesting" roomies in this fic – the hostel itself has terrific reviews on its official website. Looks like a lovely spot.

* JET program is an international program for people outside of Japan to come to Japan, teach English, and also learn about Japanese culture, etc. A cultural exchange of sorts. I remember reading up on this when I was in college, back when I was super-interested in all things Japanese.