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Kirihara steps inside the club with smug satisfaction at being able to flash his completely real I.D. at the disbelieving doormen. He isn't especially tempted to stay, now that he has managed to get in, but then he figures if he can get in, he can stay just a little while to make sure the staff inside know he is old enough too.
When the bands come out onto the stage, he cringes and balls his hands up into fists. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes when he thinks about the good things, the one good thing he has run away from, but he tells himself things are better this way.
They wanted him to become something he was not. He had no choice but to leave.
The hardest part was keeping it a secret from Renji; it was the reason why he'd come away with little more than the clothing on his back. Any packing, any suspicious actions would have quickly tipped him off. And the worst part was letting him leave the bed in the morning with a soft smile and complete obliviousness.
Kirihara slaps himself across the face in the bathroom and tells himself fiercely that he isn't going to cry. He isn't going to give up and go back, not ever.
He is still telling himself these things twenty minutes later, believing less and less in them each time, when the door opens and the club manager himself walks into the bathroom as if he had to see it for himself to believe it; that someone had shut themself up in the bathroom for near half an hour. And happened to be talking to their reflection angrily.
Yukimura takes one long, purposeful look at Kirihara, and the rooms prickles with anticipation before he speaks.
"Wash your face," he says eventually, "and come with me. I've got a job for you, if you want it." He doesn't give Kirihara much option, or a chance to reply. "You look like you need it."
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