All Mitsuru had been looking to do was blend into the frilly crowd and avoid attention. He'd only left the safety of his room for Akito-kun, damn the little Wanijima and his shway pouting skills. Had it been any other person who asked (save for a very precious few), Mitsuru would have politely declined before closing the door in the hapless soul's face. He'd come to learn -the hard way- that it was nigh impossible to refuse Wanijima Akito anything.
He'd been on his way to Sano and the Flame King when he was struck. A ball of ice-cream nailed him in the arm, bits of cold, sticky stuff splattering over the white fabric of his shoulder. Who threw ice-cream!?
"The hell?" the boy found himself yelling out, indignation heavy in his voice. Laying low? Not anymore.