Chapter Fourteen

He bolted upright, his head snapping up as he frantically tried to think of ways to run. Not that he could see very clearly. Through the heavy mask of tears that he had succumbed to earlier, all he could make out was a fuzzy brown bob, some blue and green below that, and then a rectangular something that was presumably being held.

With a snort that inadvertently turned into a heavy sigh, Miaka fished around in her pocket and pulled out a packet of tissue paper. Ripping it open with her thumb and index finger, she plucked out a piece and handed it to Genrou.

"Miaka?" Genrou's voice was very small.

"Shut up," she replied irritably. "Just shut up and stop crying." It discomfited her to see her loud, obnoxious twin brother like this, and somewhere deep down, she was glad she had found him. Someone was going to pay for reducing Genrou into this stupid sniveling mess. Miaka shook her head and tried to ignore the loud sniffling, the blowing of a nose, and finally a watery "Shit. How did you get here?"

She rolled her eyes. "God, don't be an idiot, Genrou. I followed you here. It took me a while because I was stuck hiding in the back of the bus when you alighted and I had to get off one stop later and walk back here."

"Why are you following me?"

Miaka threw up her hands in exasperation, and willed herself not to scream in frustration. "I have brains, contrary to what you believe, brother dearest! You've been acting too weird lately! That letter arrives for you with that stupid pet name Mom had for you when we were kids. My clothes are disappearing on more than a few occasions. Mom was ranting around the house because she couldn't find her white handbag. Now, why would I think it strange that only the women of the house start losing their things and not, say, you, when you're about five times as untidy and fifty times more careless? Soon after that, a leggy, redheaded supermodel named Tasu Leika—" she thrust a finger at the cover of the item she was holding, "—appears on the front of my favorite magazine. Funny how she looks like you, don't you think?"

"Will you quit it with the fucking sarcasm, please?"

She exhaled noisily, then nudged him in the side. In the second he looked up suspiciously, she threw her arms around him in a suffocating bear hug.

"Gah, Genrou, I never knew you could do something like that, that's all. And I'm proud of you, despite how silly this all seems! I wish I could tell the world that you're my sister! Um, I mean, my brother! But then I find you and you're acting like this!"

Genrou was beginning to turn blue from the lack of air. He spluttered helplessly, tried to wave his arms, but remained entangled as Miaka continued talking.

"I swear, I'll never forgive whoever made you cry!"

If he wasn't going to die from strangulation, than Genrou Shun would probably have passed away in the shock that followed that statement. Plus the added outrage that he had been caught…well—was there any other way to put it?—crying? It was too much.

"Tell me what's wrong, okay?" she sounded hopeful. "I promise I won't tell Mom even if you don't, though. I just…you know," her voice sounded suspiciously misty, but sincere, "I just want to let you know I'm here for you, Genrou."

He glared at her through eyes that were beginning to become slightly glazed even as he fought for breath, rasping slightly. When had that pig head become so nice? Well, maybe he could begin analyzing that as soon as she let him go.

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Houjun stepped out of the shower, holding the thick blue towel about his waist with one hand and pushing open the door to the bedroom with the other. A cloud of steam followed his exit, and he shivered involuntarily as he left the warm confines of the bathroom.

He smiled slightly as he thought of Yui. He hadn't met the exuberant woman in nearly half a year, because they had been busy with their respective jobs, he with his photography and she with her administrative work in a modeling conglomerate. She had mentioned that she wanted to go over the contestants for the National Photographic Modeling Competition, which would be held in—he did a quick mental calculation in his head—approximately a fortnight. He would be covering that event, taking the pictures for the annuals and the various magazines showcasing the event. The chief photographer for this competition had yet to be decided, and he knew reasonably that he himself was in the running. As it was, he already had so much to do, but the pay that came with the job was usually worth it.

As he raised his eyes to the wall, absentmindedly toweling himself dry and reaching down to grab the black boxers from where they had been tossed on the bed, his gaze flickered to the framed photograph beside it.

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He shot her one more dangerous look, but Miaka only beamed at him expectantly and crossed her arms, obviously waiting for him to begin. He sighed to himself, growled outwardly, and then leaned back and closed his eyes, aware that it was a lost battle.

"Where do you want me to start?"

Miaka shrugged and stuck her tongue out of the side of her mouth thoughtfully. "At the beginning is as good as anywhere, I suppose."

Genrou exhaled noisily.

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Houjun, like many other professionals in this line who enjoyed their work, often immortalized beautiful pictures in canvas and hung them in various spots around his home. The newest addition to his collection twinkled slightly down at him; lips half-curved in a playful smile, thick, silky red hair framing high cheekbones.

"That's right," he murmured aloud to himself, tearing his eyes from the enlarged photograph and walking to the closet, randomly picking out a navy blue dress shirt and silver cuffs, still thinking about the picture.

I wonder if she'll be participating?

He could just convince himself that the interest was purely work-related. Push aside the snide voice in the back of his head that told him otherwise. He suddenly remembered that he had been about to call her earlier.

Houjun's gaze moved across the room as his fingers buttoned up the shirt automatically, landing atop the plain black telephone that was half-buried under his jacket across the floor of the room.

Should I?