The door opened to reveal a drowsy Izumi-san.  He was, Hinata noted with an exasperated roll of her eyes, an utter mess once again.  His hair looked like he’d just been electrocuted and he was in nothing more than boxers.  What was with boys and answering the door in their boxers?  Shirou had done it so many times, it didn’t even phase her anymore.  Instead, she let her eyes travel his nearly naked form, getting an unexpectedly close view of his chest as he pushed it in her direction with his stretching.<br/><br/>“Leave your shoes somewhere ‘round here and come in.”  Izumi-san turned and she took a moment to evaluate the back.  Eh, too skinny for her tastes.  What a pity.  She mourned the lack of eye candy even as she slipped off her boots.  Her feet scrunched uncomfortably at the sudden change in angle but she smoothed them back out.  She may love her heels but god was it painful to be switching between them and being barefoot.  Cool hardwood soothed her feet and she noted with surprise that the place was rather neat.  Such a thought only lasted until she reached the sliding door at the end of the corridor.<br/><br/>The pink-haired woman gazed over the room.  It.. it<span style="font-style: italic">almost</span>looked worse than Misa’s room.  How was that even possible?  Clothing was scattered all over the place: floor, couch, tv, even one.. She looked upwards but there was no dresses or bras hanging from the ceiling.  At least he was better than Misa in that regard.  Oh well, at least she didn’t have to clean it up.<br/><br/>No sooner had that relieved thought crossed her mind when her phone vibrated.  She fished out her smartphone, unlocked it, and pulled up the new text message:<span style="font-family: Courier;">Tachibana-san, could you help tidy up Izumi-kun’s apartment?</span><br/><br/>… he had to be shitting her.<br/><br/><span style="font-family: Courier;">No, I’m not.  I think a clean apartment would help him focus.  Uncluttered surroundings, uncluttered mind after all, right?</span><br/><br/>There was no emoticon but she could imagine Ishida-san’s smiling face already. She angrily snapped the cover back in place and shoved it into her pocket. Son of a— Her phone vibrated with another SMS and she strangled a shout of frustration.  Irritating prick!<br/><br/>She stormed over the mess on the ground.  What did it matter? She’d have to launder and fold them all anyways!  The suitcase at the center of the room was given a scathing glare.  Somehow she just knew this mess was all its fault.  She rifled through its contents: t-shirts, baggy pants, and something that looked and felt like pleather.  Hinata stared at the bizarre piece of clothing in incomprehension before finally dropping it back into the suitcase.  She probably didn’t want to know.<br/><br/>When she entered the kitchen, Izumi-san had a container of salad in one hand and a carton of iced coffee in another.  A true breakfast of champions, she noted sourly, still annoyed that the chaos in the living room was now her problem.<span style="color: pink">“Coffee please, Izumi-san.”</span>She’d already had a cup in the morning but somehow she had a feeling she’d need more to weather the day.  She wiped off a spot on the counter to lean against without dirtying her clothes and turned to face the now half-dressed author, taking a fortifying sip of the cool liquid.<br/><br/><span style="color: pink"> “Is there anything left in your closet for me to evaluate or is it all over your living room?”</span><br/><br/><span style="color: #BFFFFF">"Ehh... You can dig through if you like treasure hunts... Without the treasure, that is, haha..."</span><br/><br/>Hinata graced the nervously chuckling man a deadpan look before sighing and closing her eyes.  Mentally, she reviewed what she’d seen in the disaster zone.    Nothing she could recall had been appropriate for a convention; even if she was stuck with a<span style="font-style: italic">manga</span>artist as her employer and going to an<span style="font-style: italic">anime</span>convention of all things, there was no way she was showing up with—the image of a smirking butler flashed through her mind—<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>next to her.  No way. No way<span style="font-weight: bold">at all</span>.<br/><br/>When she opened her eyes, there was a determined look in them that she leveled on the taller male.<span style="color: pink">“We’re going shopping.”</span>