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Twenty-seven.
Illumi should have stopped him by now. Really, he should have stopped him when he first looked up from behind the bakery counter to see a red-headed man roll five potatoes into his pants in rapid succession, and then reach for more. In his defense, today is even duller than usual and he's working minimum wage. It's not like he won't say something before the thief leaves, after all. He just wants to know how far this is going to go.
Not that he's entirely sure the store will actually want the potatoes back afterwards, given their proximity to… Well. That is a line of thought that he will absolutely not continue. Illumi will firmly deny having taken the time to notice his athletic musculature, accented by a sleeveless crop top (because of course the man isn't wearing a jacket or even a baggy t-shirt to aid in concealing the thirty-two potatoes that are occupying his pants). He will also refute claims that he has given any attention to the way the stranger's casual stance and slightly cocked hip, somehow, despite having stuffed thirty-eight potatoes in his pants, exude an aura of easy sexuality.
Illumi has not spent even half a second noticing that the stranger trying to make off with at least half the store's potato stock is not exactly displeasing to the eye, thank you very much.
He doesn't have time to pretend he wasn't blatantly staring when the red-head straightens up and turns to look directly at him. The movement is surprisingly graceful, more reminiscent of a dancer than of someone with forty-three potatoes concealed in his pants. Illumi makes full use of his natural poker face, and simply raises an eyebrow at him and silently dares him to pretend Illumi did not just watch him stash over forty potatoes on his person.
The man is an asshole. Illumi can already tell, from the look in his golden eyes and the smirk rising to his lips as he struts over to Illumi's counter, and leans over it, resting on one elbow with the same casual arrogance that marks all of his actions. Illumi refuses to break eye contact or step back as the distance between them decreases well below the socially acceptable limit for strangers. He does not make a habit of backing down, especially not to potato thieves.
Illumi approves of the way his voice stays flat and disinterested as hours of customer service training culminate in one phrase: “May I help you?”
“Actually,” the redhead drawls, in a voice that matches his smirk perfectly, “I thought I might be able to help you.” His eyes twinkle with the punchline to some unknown joke, and his mouth widens into a grin in the ensuing pause. Illumi stares back impassively. “You seemed rather interested in what's in my pants.”
Illumi's lips thin at the blatant innuendo, voice toneless as he replies, “My interest lies exclusively in the large quantity of potatoes you have stored in them.” He is not admitting that he was sufficiently attentive to have counted.
“What potatoes?” But before Illumi can formulate a sufficiently scathing response to the sheer gall of that question, the other has leaned back from the counter and pulled his waistband outwards so an involuntary flick of Illumi's eyes can confirm that there is not, in fact, anything in his pants that shouldn't be in a pair of pants. Illumi pointedly looks away, nose wrinkling, until he hears the faint snap that indicates he is no longer being flashed.
He closes his eyes briefly, opening them to face the not-thief again. “Explain.”
The irritating grin is still in full force, and he winks at Illumi when he says, “Magic.”
“Magic.” The word is dripping with cynicism.
“Yes.” He leans into Illumi's personal space again, and Illumi holds himself rigid and absolutely refuses to describe the voice that's hot against his ear as velvety. “I'm a magician.” When he pulls back this time, he makes as if to grab something from behind Illumi's other ear – a potato appearing in his hand. Of course.
Illumi curses the existence of hormones, hates having to swallow before he speaks again, no matter how minute the motion. Something in the man's smile and the gleam of his eyes says he noticed. Illumi's voice, however, is still icy when he suggests, “Then vanish, before I summon the manager.” His eyes narrow slightly, flicking past the man to glance at the produce. “And our inventory had better match at the end of the day.”
“Oh, how scary!” he lilts, setting the potato he was holding on the counter next to Illumi. Amazingly, he doesn't seem inclined to torment Illumi further, blowing him a kiss he turns and sashays towards the exit. Asshole. Illumi waits until he is safely out of sight before letting his head hit the counter with a dull thud. When he turns his head to the side, he notices a design on the potato skin, and stands up again, picking it up to examine it.
A name – Hisoka – and a phone number are carved into the side, next to what could potentially be a spade. Illumi's forehead thunks against the counter again.
Against his better judgement, he doesn't throw it out.