Chapter Twenty Two

It had been a while since they had last met.

Despite the welcoming smile that graced Houjun's features, the older man looked tired and gaunt, the curve of his cheekbones shadowed under slightly bloodshot dark brown eyes. Tangled blue hair, untied, fell in soft wisps over Houjun's forehead, the rest tumbling in messy not-quite ringlets past the slim shoulders.

He looked thinner too, and exhausted. Incongruously, a sudden image of Houjun, grinning impishly at him from behind the lens of the camera, hand gesturing enthusiastically for a change in position or expression, filtered into Genrou's mind.

A few more moments passed before Genrou realized that Houjun was staring at him, a quizzical look on his face. He'd been too lost in his immediate thoughts at seeing Houjun to reply to the latter's greeting.

Oops.

"Ah…hi," he answered nervously, unconsciously dusting off the too-large, flowered denim skirt that hung loosely from his hips.

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"It's good to see you, Leika," Houjun leaned back into the pillows, and his shoulder jerked a fraction as he suppressed a wince. Strangely enough, laughter bubbled into his mind, and he tried to stifle it. It wouldn't do to make Tasu Leika feel more uncomfortable than she already seemed to be, no matter how unexpected the situation had turned out. No matter that this was the last place on Earth he would have thought he'd see her again.

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Genrou crossed over to the bed, looking around before settling into one of the large chairs that flanked the bed. Carefully, he propped the borrowed handbag behind him, and then twisted back around to face Houjun.

Houjun had closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall as he inhaled. Genrou took the opportunity to let his eyes flicker over Houjun's body, checking for any more visible injuries. There were no tubes, however, and the sheet more than covered up the rest of Houjun.

"Are you okay?" the words tumbled out before Genrou could stop them.

Immediately, he felt like an idiot. What kind of a question was that? Obviously, Houjun wasn't okay! The man was lying in a hospital bed and had only a half-hour ago been practically comatose!

A smile curved Houjun's lips, and he glanced over at the visitor. "I haven't felt this good in days. How have you been?"

Genrou relaxed marginally into the chair, his arms coming up unconsciously to rest on the cushioned sides. "Normal, I guess. I haven't been doing much."

"I see."

Genrou heard the unspoken note of curiosity in the other man's noncommittal reply, and hastened to clarify. "I just dropped by the studio for a visit. I met Nuriko there, and he told me you were…you were…um…"

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"Nuriko, ever the perfect gentleman, isn't he?" Houjun interjected smoothly, laughing softly before his face turned serious. "You didn't have to. Thank you for coming."

The look on Leika's face, startled, and then happy, warmed his heart.

I've missed you, the words popped into his mind before he could stop to think, but he thankfully managed to close his mouth just in time.

It startled Houjun to realize that he really had, though.

Everything about the model before him reminded Houjun of sunshine and fire, from her burning red hair to the large, expressive amber-flecked eyes. Rarely had he left their numerous photo-shoots back then without a smile.

She blushed so easily, but her wit was razor sharp, almost bordering on the crude. He had noticed her, on a few occasions, either catching herself before anything extremely radical could be retorted to the playful jibes of a random make-up artist or a lighting technician, or choosing to simply join the rambunctious antics of the moment. Tasu Leika seemed to get along with everyone.

*Flashback

He polished off the equipment with a rag, and then tossed the cloth onto the tabletop, standing and plucking the separate lens from the shelf and hefting it to fit it into the camera. The specialized plastic had just snapped into place when the wind of a conversation from the other room caught his attention.

"Come on, Leika-chan!"

A slight pause, and then, "No way, Hiru. You keep giving me these darned trick questions, and I keep falling for them. No way."

"Well. But doesn't everything I subject you to make you laugh?"

Muffled grumbles. "Maybe too much."

Hiru giggled, his high-pitched voice a boyish contrast to the rich, husky tones of the redhead's. "Just answer it. You haven't eaten since breakfast, and I'm not going to pass you your lunch until you say it. Are you hungry, or not?"

An exasperated mumble and what sounded like a determined attempt to breathe. "All right, fine. Yes, I'm hungry."

The make-up artist giggled again. "Hello, Hungry."

Gah! Lame, Hiru, lame! Houjun rolled his eyes. Amusement filled him. There were times when the young, extremely bubbly Hiru amazed him with the apparently inexhaustible ability to crank up corny jokes and utterly useless riddles.

"Why, you—"

After what seemed like an eternity of brushes flying out through the open door, outraged squeals, and the sounds of thudding on the walls, Houjun had had enough. He reached out and twisted the doorknob.

Immediately, both artist and model froze in a tableau. Hiru brandished a large, fluffy brush from which particles of shimmering dust flaked down, and Leika wielded two ridiculously large, pink powder puffs in front of herself.

"Are we ready?" Houjun asked calmly. He eyed the both of them, and Hiru shifted uncomfortably, lowering his weapon and casting his gaze to the ground. Leika, already flushed from the 'battle', turned even redder as she nodded.

Satisfied that the reminder had been effective, Houjun turned to go, and that was when he saw, in the reflection of the mirror outside the room on the opposite wall.

She was staring after him, her arms crossed over her chest. Staring at him.

It was a look that seemed almost hungry.

*End of Flashback

Houjun banished the thoughts. He had no right to be letting his mind wander like that.

"Are you joining the national competition?" he asked instead, automatically latching onto the next plausible subject.

She blinked at him, and then nodded. "I…I signed up for it the other day. With Yui."

This time, he didn't try to hide the laugh. "Yui? Yui Hongo? When did you meet her? Or should I say, when did she ambush you?"

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Genrou had almost forgotten how the photographer could make him feel. Warm, relaxed, comfortable and happy. Sitting like they were doing now, just talking about simple, ordinary things that somehow had a way of making Genrou feel good. The cheer in Houjun's voice alone seemed special, as did the natural, laughing smiles that came along with the package.

Unnoticed, the conversation had slipped to a more personal level. Genrou couldn't believe he was discussing the previous, disastrous job at Kouji's friend's restaurant, let alone joking about it, but Houjun's chuckles made the story worthwhile.

"…you mean you just flipped the plate on him?"

He sniffed mock-angrily and looked down at his hands. "I did no such thing. It was an accident, I'm telling you!"

"Right. Of course."

Genrou tossed his head and glanced up, opening his mouth to continue defending himself, when their eyes met. Unconsciously, he shivered at the play of emotions in cinnamon depths, mirth mixed in with seriousness, wonder and—dared Genrou think it?—affection. He suddenly realized how he must seem to Houjun, and shut his mouth with an abrupt snap as he turned away.

Why did he always make a fool of himself in front of the photographer? His heart ached so badly for it to be otherwise; he wanted to be charming, gently insisting, careful and guarded all at once.

Everything he had determined, making friends with Houjun, giving himself a chance, everything faded away into the sparkle of Houjun's eyes, the sound of Houjun's laughter. Despite everything he knew, catching Tomo and Houjun together, knowing Houjun was older and far better than he could ever hope to be, nothing seemed to be able to stop the wild, tidal rush of feelings that rose in him whenever he was with him.

Genrou couldn't handle this. It was too sudden, too soon, and too deep for him to even begin to wish he could make sense of it.

Not to mention the fucking lies that I've been telling. The fucking lie that I'm living.

"I'd better go," he mumbled, ashamed of his mental gaffe and very much aware of the silence that hung between them. "You…you'll need your rest."

He fumbled behind him for his handbag and prepared to rise, when a warm hand caught his wrist and stilled him.