Chapter Thirteen

Oh my god.

As his jaw fell open in surprise, Genrou froze on the spot, praying and disbelieving what his eyes were telling him.

It can't be true…it can't be true.

But it was, after all. There, nearly literally in front of him, was the man he had been dreaming, agonizing and hoping about since he had met him. Only, that same man was in the arms of another person.

Unable to look anymore, he tore his gaze from the window, settling instead on a gleaming red and black motorcycle parked outside the front door of the house. He took one step back. And then took another. He wanted so badly to raise his eyes and look again. Maybe, by some trick of the light, he had seen wrongly. Just maybe!

His mind, however, knew what his heart was screaming holy hell against believing. How could he compare to Tomo? Tomo was beautiful—gods, he would admit that no matter how much it hurt—and Tomo was Houjun's friend, Houjun's partner. What was he? Just a model, a face for the camera and a mask for money, that was him. There was no truth in his presence in Houjun's life, no place for him in the gorgeous, quiet photographer's heart.

Tasu Leika, he thought bitterly, dashing back the hot trails at the corners of his eyes that threatened to burst from his control. That's all he knows about me.

It was small comfort to realize that had Tomo not been present, maybe he would have stood a chance. As it was, the situation had evolved to something that remarkably resembled a laughable tragedy, because Houjun Ri didn't care for women after all, and Genrou, to him, was just that.

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He could feel Tomo's arms tight around him, encompassing him in a warm, secure embrace, long fingers playing against his hip as he was drawn in closer. And a flash of reality, so deep that it cut through him like a knife, blazed in his mind.

Because he knew the truth, that this would be all they would have, to remember and to share each other by.

It won't be enough. I don't want it to end like this.

The younger man deepened the kiss, slanting his head slightly and running his tongue along Houjun's own flushed lips.

I don't want it to start like this, either.

Gently, he lifted his hands, pressing them lightly to the broad chest of the taller man. Tomo blinked in surprise, and Houjun took the opportunity to push Tomo back slightly so that the back of the other man's calves hit the couch.

"No," he said simply, looking up at Tomo, memorizing the rise and fall of the younger man's breathing, willing the image of this man who had been his partner, porcelain cheeks stained a pale crimson, deep, emerald-green eyes wide open, the long black lashes fluttering, to stay in his mind.

We never dared to take that step in the first place. It's too late now.

"Tomo," he managed, stumbling slightly as he knelt, shaking his head, his eyes burning, "We…I…you're going to be leaving."

You didn't choose to stay, was the silent completion of his sentence, left hanging in the air.

And Tomo understood.

Warm hands moved up slowly, tentatively, to rest on Houjun's own. Curling against his palms, drawing aimless patterns lightly on skin, but going no further. For a few moments, then, there was silence between them.

"Then I guess…well…this is goodbye, Houjun." A soft, sad smile, one that rarely appeared, now seemed even more precious, but in a different sort of way. That smile would always be his to keep, but that was all it would be from now: a memory.

Less than five minutes later, Houjun pulled the curtains back, his eyes following the slender figure. Tomo didn't turn back, didn't look up. Perhaps it was for the best.

Houjun turned, moving away from the window as the sounds of the motorcycle faded into the distance, glancing at the clock as he walked to the kitchen. It was eleven-thirty. It would take him an hour to get to town, fifteen minutes to have a bath, ten minutes to walk to the bus stop…he wouldn't have time for breakfast, since he had woken up so late.

Changing his course, he headed for his room and walked to the closet, grabbing a fluffy blue towel and some clothes. He tried his best to ignore the pang in his heart, but the memory of words, spoken in a distinctively husky voice, refused to leave his mind. He pushed it away roughly as he moved into the shower, reaching out to twist the tap.

Scalding hot water cascaded down onto his shoulders, darkening his dyed blue hair as he closed his eyes and turned his face up to the spray. He could still hear it, though. Still see Tomo's face.

"Then I guess…well…this is goodbye, Houjun."

"Yes," he whispered to the empty air, brushing away the steam of the heat with the tips of his fingers. "It's goodbye, Tomo."

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I will not cry.

I will not.

He slumped down on the park bench surrounding the playground in the vicinity of where he had run to earlier, not really seeing where he was going, but determined to put sufficient distance between the house and himself. In the distance, a motorcycle engine roared to life, once, twice.

It was as though he could feel Houjun in the air, smell his distinctive cologne. In fact, all he had to do was close his eyes, and he could see stray strands of long, silky blue hair dancing in the breeze of an imagined recollection.

"I have no reason to feel like this," he snapped at himself angrily, sinking his head into his hands, burrowing his face into his palms as if shutting out the daylight would shut out the image of Houjun and Tomo together. "We met barely, what, a month ago, and the most romantic thing he's ever done is to take my picture. And that wasn't even anything. It was all professional."

He knew he was beginning to babble aloud, but the stream of muffled rants from beneath his fingers refused to stop.

"It's just a crush. I'll get over it. He won't mean anything to me a few days from now. Everything will be back to normal. I'm giving this up. No more photographs, no more competitions." He was definitely –not– turning up for the lunch with Yui.

But god knew there was something in his heart that was breaking apart, little piece by little piece. In the recent weeks, certainty had been growing in his heart. It was as though they had been meant for each other.

*Flashback

"You look tired," Houjun said sympathetically, sitting down beside Genrou and handing him a mug. "I'm sorry it's taking so long, but you know how those fashion people are. They need to doll you up in every single thing possible, from feathers to leathers."

Was that rhyme supposed to be a joke? His shoulders ached. Out of the corner of his eye, Genrou looked mournfully at the pile of clothes that was stacked up at the corner of the room, partially hidden by a curtain that was his dressing room. Yes, he knew how those fashion people were, all right.

With a start, he realized Houjun had been trying to get him to take the brown cup. "Here," Houjun was saying, "Have a drink, it'll make you feel better."

"I don't take coffee," Genrou responded automatically, and then immediately felt like kicking himself. He's offering you a drink, damn it!

Houjun laughed. It was a low, pleasant sound that echoed and tingled in Genrou's ears.

"Something about you told me you didn't, Tasu. It's warm lemonade and honey. Thank goodness for sixth senses, or I'd have to run all the way back to the vending machine, eh?"

*End of Flashback

Okay, fine. Granted that his dislike of coffee wasn't a prime example to show just how fated two people were to be together. He still thought it had counted for something, though.

I wish it did.

He was defeated. He looked at the gravel on the ground between his fingers, absentmindedly bumping over the little gray stones, his mind turning in aimless circles, until his gaze landed on…a pair of pink and white sneakers.

Wait. Pink and white sneakers?

Oh, no.

"Here's a question posed to every god above," a thoughtful voice wondered aloud from somewhere up and around.

"How in the world did I get such a dumb brother?"