Chapter Twelve

As he listened to the phone ringing, Houjun heard a honk from outside. Rising, he slipped out from between the sheets and walked to the full glass window. And promptly dropped the phone in surprise.

"Shit!" he bent down and picked it up, but the phone had already flipped shut, cutting off the line. Disappointed, he slipped the phone into his pocket just as another honk sounded. He straightened, blinking to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Tomo stood outside, lounging casually against the gleaming dark red motorcycle, his helmet under his arm, his long black hair tossed this way and that in the breeze. Houjun was, the least to say, amazed. Tomo had never come by before. Houjun had begun to get used to thinking of the younger man as simply the persona and friend he only saw in the darkroom.

So he stood there, dumbly looking down at Tomo, subconsciously noting the play of sunlight on ebony locks, on skin that was as white and flawless as china, on the half-smile that lurked at the corners of full red lips.

Stop staring, idiot.

He pulled himself together, waving and gesturing for Tomo to come up, glancing at the clock as he did so. Ten thirty. He had time enough anyway, before his lunch appointment with Yui at one.

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Alighting from the bus, the sun beat down on his head relentlessly, and Genrou scowled, feeling the perspiration beginning to bead on his brow.

"Where am I anyway?" he muttered, looking around. It seemed like a fairly quaint, quiet neighborhood, but it looked downright alien in landscape and landmark. He berated himself for taking Bus Number 62 when he had had no idea where it was going.

Now how in the world was he going to get back?

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Houjun fiddled with the latch a moment, before he opened the door and stepped aside. Tomo inclined his head slightly, and then brushed past him in an intoxicating scent of wine and, incongruously enough, roses.

Back up a moment, Houjun. You did –not– just think about how good Tomo smells.

"What brings you here?" he asked instead, shaking his head quickly to clear his thoughts. "This is a rare occasion."

Tomo paused and turned his head. A small smile curved his lips.

It was breathtaking.

No! What's going on?

It's like I've got a spell cast on me.

"I just wanted to drop by and…well…talk."

"You want to talk?" Houjun's shock was evident, and he blushed almost immediately, kicking himself for the uncharacteristic outburst. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

"It's okay," Tomo smiled again, ambling forward and setting his helmet down on the low black table. The younger man slipped easily onto the couch, sitting up as he rested his loosely clasped hands on his knees. He looked up directly at his mentor.

"I've been offered another job, Houjun. I'm going to America."

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Genrou whistled under his breath as he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying his best to ignore the scorching sun and just about succeeding. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Fifteen minutes to eleven.

He reminded himself that he liked to see new places.

But you're kind of lost right now, the voice in his head chimed.

In more ways than one, huh?

Genrou growled. For some strange reason, he was still feeling depressed, angry, confused and just about as sulky as any man could get. It couldn't be the hour; he was pretty sure he was awake by now. And he was mostly certain it had nothing to do with the sun, annoying as the yellow rays were.

With a despondent sigh, he finally gave up his aimless walking, slumping down onto the pavement under the shade of a neatly pruned tree.

Let's figure this out. How did I get myself into this mess?

"I wanted money," he muttered to himself, ticking off his fingers. That was one.

Then suddenly, everyone else wants me. I get greedy. I agree and go along with it for the money.

Oh…only for the money? There was that pesky voice again. He scowled.

"This is so screwed up," he grumbled to himself, burying his face in his hands. Another image of Houjun flashed in his memory. The photographer had been dressed in the yellow shirt he remembered from the first time he had seen him, his hair tied up in a ponytail at the base of his neck, a few strands escaping from the day's work, smiling, slanted mahogany eyes….

And who was the one who had said that yellow was the color for sexual warmth and country love and all that crap?

I have got it –so– bad.

He flopped back onto his back, shading his eyes with one hand, his attention suddenly caught by movements at the window of the house to his right. His eyes widened.

Hey…that looks like…

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"Another job?" Houjun parroted foolishly.

As he stared at the younger man, focussed only on that lovely face on which the traces of a sad, sad smile lurked, a rush of feelings flooded him, so mixed up that he couldn't begin to decipher them. It was only bewilderment. Shock. It was understandable.

But he was hardly prepared for hurt.

"Yea. They called me, asked me to go over to the new company they're setting up there. Diamante Photographs headed by one Amiboshi—well he goes by Alain now, actually—and his brother. They were my middle school best friends, so…well…"

"Well." Houjun echoed.

Tomo rose from the couch, so that the older man was suddenly very much aware of the difference in height between them. Warm arms slipped around Houjun and unthinkingly, he leaned forward, his own hands coming up to rest comfortably on the small of Tomo's back.

"I'm sorry, Houjun."

His heart twisted slightly. Because somehow, Houjun knew that it wasn't just leaving that Tomo was sorry about.

Had he been aware of the amber gaze that was fixed on him from outside, he might have reacted differently when Tomo reached out and tilted his chin up. Had he only stopped to think clearly, and not succumbed to blind emotion that was built-up of years past, he might not have responded the way he did.

As it was, Tomo's lips felt so soft.