A/N: I'm sorry I don't know what happened here :D The last few hundred words are just endless bantering, which is probably what the rest of this fanfiction will turn into. Prompt credit to reddit! I rhymed (: Enjoy~

Act I: Genesis

/

He's had his fair share of luck over the years.

Not everyone is born to a somewhat well-off family, has two parents, and has a pro tennis player as a father- although recently he's begun to question the last point, especially after the discovery of more perverted magazines.

But sometimes he feels really unlucky.

He never wanted to see death's personal timer. Alright, so everyone can just a little bit. When a man goes into cardiac arrest, almost everyone can see that his death timer has already started; even if they don't know exactly when he's going to die, just that it's probably soon. And when an old grandmother in the hospital flat-lines, everyone notices that her death timer is very nearly finished.

But he, Echizen Ryoma, can count numbers, days, and seconds- because whenever someone is about to die, a small countdown begins above their heads. It always seems to start at the three-day mark; he'll be walking down a grocery aisle, and suddenly he'll see a woman passing by when numbers fade in with a flash over her head. Or he'll just be riding Momoshiro's bike down the street before he notices a business man bend down and pick up a loose leaflet; when he stands back up again, he's already a prisoner of floating digits dancing mockingly over his neatly slicked back hair.

What irks him is the fact that no matter what he does, death arrives. He's tried so many times to save people- catching a person who falls off a bridge, pushing a person out of the way- hell, he's even tried throwing himself in front of an incoming train to save the small child on the tracks. But after all of that, he's learned that death is inevitable. It comes and goes in a perpetual cycle that never stops, never ends, never waits, not for anyone. He's seen the anguished faces, the empty eyes, the chilled souls. They haunt him in his dreams.

/

/

Ryoma sits up out of bed and tugs his pajamas off, revealing his bare chest. It's a Tuesday, so he'll probably have to work overtime. He yawns and stretches his arms before reaching out to grab a ragged t-shirt with some band name strewn messily over it in a barely legible scrawl. Ryoma's fingers trace absentmindedly over the fading white letters, when his phone rings.

"…Hello? What do you want?" He's an absolute grump in the mornings, especially without any caffeine.

"Whoa, who died under your bed last night?" Momoshiro jokes, sounding slightly miffed. "I just wanted to ask if you were interested in-"

"No." Ryoma shuts him up before he even has a chance to ask his question.

"Hey, but-"

"I'm busy. Call later."

"So An asked me if the skirt she was wearing made her look fat-"

"Tell her to stop blaming the skirt then."

"Wai-"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ryoma grumbles under his breath as he tugs on a pair of black skinny jeans. He hates Tuesdays. He makes a half hearted attempt to start the toaster, but apparently it's not working. It's obviously the toaster. Definitely the toaster. Absolutely not his inability to cook. Everything should be blamed on the shitty piece of silver metal, Ryoma thinks.

He brushes his teeth slowly and sloppily, not even bothering to wash his face. He's not sure exactly when everything became such a monotonous gray in his life. If he tries, he can almost remember when he used to play tennis. Or when he used to… read? No, he never read books. Maybe he used to draw.

Without the permission of his mind, Ryoma's fingers reach out to touch the mirror, brushing lightly over his gaunt reflection. He looks almost as shitty as Tuesday's are.

/

/

He's at the local café when a second call comes.

Ryoma frowns. Clearly he wasn't as intimidating as he thought, because Momoshiro seems to have worked up enough courage to call again.

"Hey, Echizen, I-"

"Please. Just don't." Ryoma doesn't want to talk about anything today. He doesn't want to talk to anyone today. He just doesn't want anything other than coffee and food and maybe some Ponta. And his cat Karupin. Definitely Karupin.

"Hey, this is only the 20th time in two days, it was thirty calls last week!"

"Yes, but hasn't it ever occurred to you that I don't want to help you ask out Kaidoh, or get An to forgive you? Or maybe you never realized that I don't want your help moving into my new flat? Or did you think that I knew someone who wanted to buy your furniture?" Ryoma snaps, feeling a vein pop on his forehead.

"But I got sunburnt yesterday on the beach and my skin is peeling, what-"

"That's just all of your obnoxious ugliness trying to get off."

Silence.

Ryoma sighs. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that I've grown up, ok? I don't… I don't appreciate or need you nagging behind me like my mother. I'm fine."

There's a very pregnant pause on the other end of the line. "That is the biggest lie you've ever told."

"Excuse me?" He makes a conscious effort to keep the scowl off of his face.

"Never mind, I have to go. Training with Kaidoh in the gym today. But really, look at yourself in the mirror for once. You're a shell."

"I'm not a shell."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ryoma stares. There is no way Momoshiro just hung up on him.

"Sir? Sir? Sir… Sir! Your coffee is ready?"

He starts. "And so is your grave," he snaps. The waitress jumps and lets out a squeak before darting away in fright.

He bumps into someone on his way to the coffee counter. "Sorry," he mutters tersely. "Wasn't paying attention." He pays quickly and lets the store keep the change (kind of like compensation?) before exiting and starting leisurely down the sidewalk, purposely walking in the middle of the road to inconvenience those behind him. He blames Tuesdays; they just turn him into that kind of person.

It's all fine and dandy and beautiful until someone bumps into him, shouldering his chest hard. Ryoma turns to snarl at the person before freezing, watching the younger boy apologize and dart away; he seems to be in a rush. Slowly, Ryoma blinks. And stares. And blinks again.

And then his legs kick into motion, sprinting faster than he can count.

/

/

His chest hurts. He can barely remember anything. And why the hell is everything around him so blurry? He slowly begins to sit up, but puzzles at the weird black strap across his torso keeping him down. What is he doing here? His fingers are numb, but he can feel himself trying to maneuver his hand into a more comfortable position. Voices are getting louder, pounding in his head.

Blearily, he looks around, eyes stopping on a few blurred drops of blood. Are his eyes bleeding, or is that his… hand? He must have scraped it on the asphalt. He feels the rough black road's texture press hard into his back. But… why is he on the ground? His leg twitches and jerks, like it wants to run. And he thrashes.

It's all coming back to him now.

He manages to produce two thoughts before everything blacks out; Why?

And:

God dammit, of course it's on a Tuesday.

/

/

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ryoma groans. He's been hearing that noise much too often lately. His eyelids peel themselves apart, only to snap shut again at the overwhelmingly bright lights. It better not be Tuesday. His arms seem to have regained feeling, but his head hasn't lost any of its throbbing. Such a shame. Sitting up, he brushes his fingers against the smooth white linens.

A hospital.

Or is it? The room is… strangely… nice. It's clean, and cozy. But most importantly, it's calm and isolated. He's alone. Thankfully.

He sits up, ignoring the prickles of pain that travel up his spine. He'll live. Pain isn't the most important thing to him right now; what he's really thinking over is why the hell he threw himself onto the road in front of another person who was jaywalking.

Why.

And then it comes back to him in a mangled bundle of messy, non-chronological memories that slap him in the face. Not literally, of course. His fingers leave the sheets to clench at his head, frantically kneading his temples to the point where he feels the need to leave imprints in his skull forever. Lord, it's painful.

Too many numbers, too little time, and just enough bad luck.

And after his mental memory banking system manages to sort things out, he wishes that he never saw anything, or even knew anything. He wishes that the boy never bumped into him, and that he never turned around. He checks the date- Sunday. Five days since it happened.

He grimaces;

Because no matter how much his arm hurts right now, he knows the boy is worse off. The boy in the harry potter shirt…

…is probably nothing more than another box of ashes buried under six feet of dirt and stuck under a big stone slab. Marble if his family cares.

Not that a corpse has discriminating tastes.

/

/

When he comes to again, his room is a good deal more… golden? It's certainly dimmer, that's for sure. Someone has closed the curtains, and Ryoma isn't sure if he should be thankful for that. And then, with a start, he realizes that this time he isn't alone.

"I see you're finally awake."

"Who the fuck are you?"

The man's lips twitch. "Such interesting language you use. It's rather… rogue if I do say so myself."

"Rogue? Nah. But no seriously, who are you?" Ryoma growls.

"Who am I? Such an interesting question. I'm many things; a business man, a husband, a father, just to name a few. So many things, so little time."

And Ryoma is struck by how close to home that last line hits. "Give me a straight answer, god dammit."

"A straight answer? Why, my answer was straight… as a circle!" The man chuckles flippantly. "But please, sit back and relax. You're still unwell."

"I'm not unwell, you imbecile."

The stranger's eyes sharpen suddenly, and his voice has lost its previously amused tone. "Please, take that back if you so kindly would? It's such an… unflattering word." Ryoma gets the feeling that the first part is merely for the sake of proper etiquette.

But he acquiesces. Or at least fakes it well by nodding humbly. Hopefully his true intentions don't show on his face.

"I hope you realize your resent is present in the features of your face."

This man is the epitome of a jerk. Ryoma doesn't respond.

"Anyways. I was wondering. Have you perhaps a particular reason why you chose to jump onto the road?"

Ryoma's face darkens. "I didn't jump, I tripped."

"On air?"

"…"

"Straight into the path of a car?"

"…"

"Just in time to save a boy?"

"Wait he's alive?"

"No, he was hit by a flying piece of debris from your unfortunate accident. Died of bloodloss on his way to the hospital."

"…" Ryoma looks down, acting nonchalant.

"Now. Do you continue to deny your ridiculously stupid stunt?"

"Is there something you need?" Ryoma demands rather rudely. "I should get going."

"Oh no, that certainly wouldn't do, you've just woken up!"

"It's been four damn days, let me go."

"Well, if you insist. I will let you out if you can answer one small little question for me."

"It can't be a why question," Ryoma bargains.

"Of course, as you wish."

"Fine, shoot," He grumbles. This man with silver blonde hair is starting to get on his nerves. Not everyone can speak with what is probably called 'poise'. Ryoma refuses to acknowledge it as 'elegance' or 'class'.

The man sits up a bit straighter- not that he was remotely slouched in the beginning. It only serves to exaggerate their height differences. He opens his mouth, and carefully enunciates every single word cleanly and clearly. "Did you see something before you ran?"

Ryoma's entire body freezes up. He feels his cold, clammy hands fly into a clasped position in his lap before he responds.

"…Yes. Yes, I did."

/

/

He manages to get out without revealing anything about the numbers. To be fair, their deal did only include him being asked one question. Not two, not three, not a hundred, just one.

And he hadn't even lied in his answer. So why did he feel uneasy?

At least that creepy old man is gone, he decides as he continues down the sidewalk to his house. The wind blows chilly air into his face, making him almost regret forcing the chauffer he was assigned drop him off three blocks before his actual house. Key word being 'almost'. The majority of him is just glad that the other man doesn't know where he lives.

/

/

Or so he thought.

Because according to his calculations, this man should definitely not be standing on his doorstep surrounded by ten bodyguards dressed in black suits.

"How the hell did you find this place?"

It's just a coincidence. Absolutely a coincidence. Definitely…

"I found your name in the address book, of course."

…not a coincidence.

"I can file a restraining order, you know. This is harassment. You're stalking me. I could sue you." He tries to keep the panic out of his voice. What has he gotten himself into?

"Of course, you can. It's one of your rights, after all." The man isn't even phased. Is he made of stone?

"Please. Leave me alone." It sounds weak, even to Ryoma.

"You saw something the other day. I want to know what it is that made you willing to commit suicide."

It's not suicide if you know you won't die. That's what Ryoma wants to say. But it's not true. Sometimes, he thinks he does it because he doesn't know- and at this point, he doesn't care if he dies. It's just a matter of time. Perhaps the space he wastes in the world can be better used by someone else with purpose. But like usual, he curbs his tongue back, and sticks with a simple, "Dunno."

"What do you want?"

"Huh?" He tries once again to pretend as if his jaw isn't on the ground at the moment.

"I said, what do you want?"

"You can't say that, it's a question."

The man's gaze hardens, and Ryoma decides to stop harassing him. He doesn't want a restraining order, after all.

"I will ask you again. What do you want?"

"Are you kidding me? Shouldn't I be asking that question? You're the stalker and the harasser, what do you think? I just want you to leave me alone."

"If you could have anything in the world right now, what would you want?" The man clarifies. Even his body guards look lost at this question.

"It's nothing you would be able to give."

"Hm, interesting. Try me."

Ryoma looks away before turning back slowly. He's still not sure what compels him to actually tell the truth, but the words are sliding out like jell-O from a plate before he can stop any of them. And just like jell-O, they splatter heavily against the ground. "I want to see my brother."

The older man nods. "Amusing. And what makes you think this is impossible?"

"He'll never be able to get here," Ryoma shrugs.

The man cocks his head. "And why can't he just walk in?"

Ryoma looks up bitterly and mockingly. "Oh please sir, we both know the dead can't walk."

/

/

Ryoma doesn't know what he's doing here. Arguments don't normally land anyone job interviews.

His eyes dart over the sleek golden name plate stuck to one of the dark mahogany doors.

Atobe Keitaro. That's his name. Current owner of a large business chain that is the favorite for taking over the world. All in due time, perhaps. Would he want to take part in that?

Ryoma's mind wanders. It's a butterfly, flitting from a sweet daisy of his brother to the cold, petal-less lily of yesterday. He can't stop it. Why in the world did he agree to this? And why the fuck does it have to be him?

/

"What is your current occupation?"

"Café worker."

"Waiter?"

"…No, but I make a mean coffee."

The man doesn't laugh; he merely scrutinizes him heavily. "Smoker?"

"No, my lungs are healthy as an elephant's." The sarcasm is just so ridiculous by now, it's not even funny.

"Any idols?"

"On yeah, thousands. Millions. Gotta spread the love." He takes pleasure in the way the man's veins tick visibly on his temples.

"Any family in proximity?"

"Well, my dad's closer than Jupiter, so if you consider-"

"No, any in Japan at the moment."

"My mom?"

"Does she cook?"

"How the fuck is that even relevant?"

"Please, language."

Ryoma just snorts; he doesn't see the point of a half-hearted response.

"Alright, final question. Do you gamble?"

"I wish I did. Maybe I wouldn't be stuck in the equivalent of a shack then." He finds the repeated questioning sick. Some of these are probably just to piss him off. Why would the man care about his mother? He's the one interviewing for a job, not her. And that brings him to the question- why the hell is he interviewing for a job?

He just really doesn't know what he's doing here.

"Mhm excellent. When are you available to start working?"

"You said last question."

"This isn't a part of the interview, sweet child." The mocking tone rears its ugly head again.

"…I told you already, I don't want this job. I don't want any money you have to offer me. Hell, I don't want anything to do with you. Why can no one just accept the fact that I want to be left alone?"

"Alone, to your own vices? I guarantee you that I will stop all of your harrassers."

"Including yourself?"

"Hm?"

Ryoma sighs. Even regaining his privacy isn't worth taking a job offered by this rich man who stinks of filthy money and corruption. "Look, I'm not-"

"Interested? Oh, don't pretend now. I know who you are."

"…You do?" Ryoma finds himself oddly amused. This man claims to know who he is, when he himself can't even comprehend his complexity. Maybe that's just his inner self speaking.

"Of course. Echizen Ryoma, son of a tennis genius, known as a prodigy himself, born in the United States before moving to Japan, drinks Ponta, owns a cat he calls Karupin, is friends with-"

"Whoa stop stop stop." Ryoma holds his hands up, palms away from himself. "You really are a stalker."

"Please, I prefer the term… research. Anyways, I know so much about you. So much information." Ryoma senses the threat creeping up his words. "And of course, if I were to, use… that information… well, I doubt you would live to see the consequences, now, would you?"

"I'm sorry, but next time you try blackmailing someone, don't wear that tie. It's horrid and unflattering." Ryoma gestures rudely to the man's bright green necktie. The color is really rather distracting. And not in a good way. "But please, would you be ever so kind as to enlighten me regarding your choices for employees? It's obvious I don't want this job, go hire someone else."

"Someone else? You make it sound so easy. Not everyone can do what you can. Yes, I've done my research. It's highly unusual for someone at your age to be involved in multiple car crashes over the course of six months Of course, this traces perfectly back to a certain death. Any normal person would find you suicidal. But then, how peculiar is it, that you seem perfectly fine?"

"Look, I can't predict death or anything if that's what you're hinting at." This isn't a lie, Ryoma insists. And why should he feel guilty for lying to a stalker anyways?

"Hm. Perhaps you are still young. I am successful, rich, and renowned, you see."

"You know, your ego is higher than my apartment building."

Ignoring him, the man continues, a sly glint appearing in his eyes. "I need an heir. Of course, I have a son. But that is the exact issue- I have a son. Only one. And he is the only one to continue my legacy. I need to be able to keep him safe from the threats."

"...It's not like I can do anything for you then," Ryoma spits bitterly. "Death is inevitable."

"I see that my words have no effect on you. Why do you insist on lying? Will I need to use actions instead?"

"Uh… what?"

"You're cousin Nanako is living in… hm…" Keitaro flips over a leaf of paper on his clipboard. "Aha, here it is. Los Angeles. Such a lovely place! Shame it might be seeing a sudden increase in crime rates… And aha, she just moved in with her fiancé, did she not? Shall I ring up someone to find out what firm he's linked to? Would be a real shame for him to run out of business anytime soon. I hear he's an upcoming entrepreneur too."

Ryoma's eyes immediately narrow and darken, becoming hooded. "That's low. You're using my family now?"

"One of them is already dead, no?"

Every word before was like a knife, but the last line is a bomb. Shooter, hooker, and sinker. He wants to stop the onslaught of images that flood into his mind- a confusing montage of moments all jumbled together- but it's as if mere words have broken his mental dam.

A pale white hand reaching towards him, accompanied by a sickening gurgling noise. And then the whimpering, the groaning. The pleading. The "Run". It's all too much for him and he reels back, glaring. But the fragmented flashbacks don't stop. They tug him deeper into the past, flashbacks darting around his mind like shadows flickering in and out in candlelight. Footsteps and gun shots are followed by screaming and sobbing.

And then just a last forlorn memory of himself dressed in black, staring in a broken mirror.

He holds a basket of white flowers.

Ryoma wrenches himself out of the past and is about to spit at Keitaro's feet when he realizes that the rich business owner is laughing. Ryoma shakes his head. "You're crazy," he whispers half-numbly. "You're absolutely insane."

The million- no, billionaire laughs harder. "Maybe I am. But you should look at yourself. Normal people don't live your kind of life."

Ryoma hates how absolutely correct, spot on, accurate his analysis is. "Fine. I'll do it."

/

So maybe it's generally a good idea to ask what a job entails before signing on to it.

And maybe Ryoma forgot to do just that.

Because if he had remembered, he certainly wouldn't be here listening to the particularities of a certain rich boy heir. Is knowing how the other likes his coffee even important? And who wears purple every day?

"There is one final thing you must know. It is absolutely imperative that you keep tabs on the young master's location at all times. He is known to be rather tricky."

"Alright, alright," Ryoma rolls his eyes and waves his hand flippantly. "Got it. Keep tabs."

"Excellent. Now, here is a quick test. If you don't pass, you'll just have to keep trying."

Wait. What?

/

He has officially wasted three hours of his life learning this much useless information.

"Shirts?"

"Must be sorted according to fabric, and then color, never put shirts from the first drawer with shirts from the fourth drawer. Remind me why I need to know this again?"

The butler (who's name Ryoma now knows is Michael) ignores him completely. "Travel and transportation?"

"Private jet at all possible times, trains over commercial airline flights, buy out two seats in all directions, and make sure to bring bottled mineral water," Ryoma lists boringly. "I still don't understand the point of these exercise questions. I'm a bodyguard, not a maid."

"Apologies, but the proper term would be… accompaniment. You accompany the young master wherever he goes."

"I know, I know. I hope you don't expect me to follow him into the shower stalls," he snarls.

The butler rolls his eyes and seems to ignore all of Ryoma's complains. "Alright, final question."

"Oh lord, finally," Ryoma moans.

"Coffee?"

"Only Italian roast, absolutely no French roast, two shots of expresso on Mondays, half on normal days."

"Is that your final answer?"

Ryoma sighs, reflects, and tips his head back with a groan. "And three shots on days with conference calls past eleven."

"Excellent. You pass."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Ryoma claps sarcastically.

The butler bows and holds the door open for him, gesturing grandly. "I will personally direct you to your room, where all your instructions and… utilities will be located. This way, if you would."

Exiting the room, Ryoma is struck by just how fancy his surroundings are. Of course, he somewhat noticed it when he first entered the mansion, but at that time he was more concerned over what exactly his job was going to be. His slightly dirty, scruffed up tennis shoes seem out of place as they sink into the velvety red carpet sprawled out over the cold marble floors. As he passes through foyers and foyers of draperies, it hits him that he'll probably end up getting lost within the first week of his career.

…And that the style drastically changes through the mansion's multiple wings. By the time he reaches his room, his feet are tapping lightly on creaky, traditional wooden floors and his eyes are drawn to Japanese decorations adorning the walls.

Michael slides open a screen door and gestures him inside. "Here is your room. All the necessary materials you will need are here, including all sanitary needs. If there is anything you lack or require, please ring one of the maids using this button on the wall here. Do you have any questions?"

Ryoma is confused. "Wait wait wait. Why is there a bed in here? And a bathroom? This looks like a hotel room."

Michael turns, looking equally as confused. "Why, I thought that was obvious."

"…What is obvious?"

"You are to be living here for the time between now and the termination of your contract."

Alright, so once again, Ryoma should probably read contracts before he signs.

"But I like my current flat," he protests in a last ditch attempt to get out of this terribly unappealing living situation.

"Hm? Name what you enjoy about it. The Atobe family can easily supply resources towards recreating that environment in the Atobe mansion." Atobe Keitaro spins around in his chair and cocks an eyebrow.

Ryoma blinks and nods mutely. He's now just kicking up a fuss to be difficult and deplete the rich ass family's resources. Not that it will make that much of a difference, but still. It's important to him.

"Alright, I will send two inspectors over to where you live early tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, due to the nature of our contract, you will be required to move in tonight. I hope this is not too inconvenient for you?"

Ryoma finds the meaningless, empty formalities of this family ridiculous. He nods though. Might as well make as much trouble as possible. And shit, now he needs to clean his flat.

"Excellent. Well, my son should be coming home from his Hong Kong business trip in a few hours. You two will be introduced over a dinner that has already been booked. If you wish to gain his approval, I advise you… to…" Here, he looks down at Ryoma with a rather disgusted look. "Clean up, so to speak. A variety of suits have been left in your closet, the measurements of which should be proper. If they do not fit, please let Michael know."

Ryoma nods (again).

"I believe we have everything sorted out then. The restaurant you will be going to is the Spiaggia. I hope you enjoy Italian cuisine."

Dammit, his wallet is going to take a real hit. Maybe he can just get a light soup or something?

As he exits the older man's study, Michael opens the door and says, "Make sure you aren't late. You'll be expected in the lower parlor by six."

/

/

"Such a situation is absolutely horrendous. Ore-sama finds this brat's lack of punctuality atrocious. Where is he?"

"I apologize sir. Perhaps he is merely lost in the mansion. It is his first day, after all." Michael bows low, wondering where the other boy even is.

"This is unacceptable. Please, send Mary down to find him this instant."

"Of course, at once."

Ryoma turns around a few times, watching himself in the mirror. There's a reason he doesn't wear suits. The limitation on his range of motion just irks him to no end.

A knock sounds at the door and a shy voice rings out. "Um…Echizen-san? It is unfitting for us to make Atobe-sama wait."

A smirk graces his lips. He's definitely just late because… well, he's late. Not because he feels an incessant need to piss off someone he despises but hasn't even met. Oh, of course. "Yeah, I know. I'm coming." He hustles over and opens the door, closing it behind him. "So… where am I meeting this… kid?"

The maid's eyes widen at his referral to the Atobe heir as 'kid'. "U-um, he's waiting for you in the parlor."

As expected, his supposed 'employer' isn't happy when he half waltzes half saunters into the parlor at 6:45, an entire three-quarters of an hour late. And the more upset the boy and the butler are, the happier Ryoma is. He grins cockily. "Hey."

A very pregnant pause ensues.

Until… "How dare you make ore-sama sit here for a total of forty-five minutes? Thank goodness ore-sama had the foresight to make a reservation for seven instead of six thirty."

Ryoma does a double take and forcibly tries to restrain himself from snorting out loud. Ore-sama? This guy is rich. "Well," he says, steadying his voice as much as he can. "I must have lost track of time. Such a shame."

The other boy's eyes narrow. He gestures for Michael. "We will become acquaintances over dinner. Prepare the limo immediately and bring the chauffeur."

"Fancy, fancy," Ryoma mocks. "Looks like little Atobe doesn't even know how to drive! Shocking for someone so old," he taunts.

"How dare you!" Atobe looks just ever so slightly insulted. "Ore-sama's driving abilities are absolute perfection in themselves."

"You mean, by being non-existent?"

Atobe narrows his eyes. "Apologies, but do you make an effort to be an absolute brat to everyone you meet?"

"Hm?"

"Ore-sama does not approve."

"Why don't you fire me then?" Ryoma suggests, albeit a bit too eagerly. "I mean, isn't your happiness just ever so important?"

"That blunt tongue of yours speaks in such a tone of mockery, ore-sama is disgusted." Atobe turns his nose up, looking disgruntled.

"I see, you clearly can't stand me."

"Must you state the obvious?" Atobe challenges.

"The obvious? Of course I must, for one would be afraid you might not understand otherwise," Ryoma sneers.

"This way, if you will," Michael hastens, the ongoing aggressive banter making him slightly nervous. "The chauffer is waiting for you out-"

"No need, dismiss him immediately. Ore-sama will drive," Atobe declares, giving Ryoma a pointed glare.

The ride to the restaurant is just as awful and intolerable as the minutes that precede it. Ryoma tries (unsuccessfully) to inflict severe pain upon Atobe's foot with his own, but scowls after being called childish. It's rather irritating that Atobe can avoid his attacks even while driving a car, but Ryoma finds comfort in the fact that the suit is really limiting his range of motion.

Atobe proceeds to snottily point out that his expression is so scary, he probably doesn't come off as attractive to any girls. That comes as a rather stinging blow.

But, again, Ryoma is satisfied with his retaliation- a new nickname.

"Humph, ore-sama finds you absolutely insufferable, brat."

"Oho, the monkey king is unsatisfied!" Ryoma gasps mockingly. "What ever shall we do?"

"E-excuse me?" Atobe splutters, looking furious. "Ore-sama demands that you retract that unfitting, inaccurate, misleading nickname immediately!"

"Che," Ryoma scoffs. "I think it's rather reflective of your personality."

Atobe glares.

"Ooo, no response now? Are you sulking, dear?"

Atobe smirks. "Apologies, please do not refer to ore-sama with such names. Ore-sama will never be able to return the affections of an imbecile such as yourself, as he just does not 'swing that way', you see."

Ryoma laughs. "As if anyone would want to come within a mile of you. Your primate instincts are probably rather off-putting."

Atobe scowls. "You, brat, are one to talk. If we were ever romantically involved, I would stab you."

They arrive at the restaurant, and as he's stepping out of the car, Ryoma turns back with a sly, mocking cheerful smile: "Yes, well, if we ever dated, I would gladly let you." He makes a slicing gesture over his heart for good measure. Hopefully that gets his point across.

Atobe steps out and shuts the door behind him with a roll of his eyes. "Oh please, as if you would have the honor of staining ore-sama's beautiful hands with your filthy blood."

"At least my blood would be human blood."

Atobe glares.

"And yes, that was a dig at you being a monkey," Ryoma sings cheerfully as they enter the restaurant.

Sundays happen to be very excellent days for him.

A/N: I'm sorry that I made Ryoma such a douchebag . it's necessary sometimes for quality banter, though :D

And also it's imperative to the advancement of plot- god dammit I sound like Atobe now with all this fancy vocabulary T_T Also, for those of you who are still really confused- don't worry, everything shall be cleared up in chapter two (:

Anyways, I'm on break so this should be updated pretty soon (: Let me know what you guys think!