Chapter Twenty Three

"I'm sorry."

Genrou's throat tightened, and he tried to brush it off with a chuckle. "It's not you, Houjun." Even to himself, the laugh sounded forced.

Houjun's gaze was locked onto his. "I made you uncomfortable."

On the contrary, the warmth of the photographer's hand was very comfortable indeed. Too comfortable, and increasingly addictive. Genrou wrenched his wrist away and stood up.

"No, you didn't. There's just some things I need to work out on my own."

Curiosity crossed Houjun's face. "Problems? Anything you'd like to talk about? Maybe I could help."

The sincere query flooded Genrou with conflicting emotions.

"Take care, Houjun," he said quietly, bowing his head slightly so that the curtain of his hair would cover his eyes. "I'll see you…at the competition?"

Houjun smiled. "Sounds like a date."

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As Genrou left the hospital wing, he rounded the corner and saw, to his chagrin, the two models lounging leisurely on the garish orange chairs and sipping cups of steaming coffee. They sat in companionable silence, and seemed to be deep in thought. Saihitei caught sight of Genrou first.

"Leika-chan!" he called out, polishing off the last of his drink and turning to toss the empty Styrofoam container into the bin behind, before rising to his feet. Nuriko turned to look at Genrou, a cheeky smile breaking out on his face as he, likewise, finished his drink and stood.

Genrou paused, unsure of what to do next. Inexplicably, he felt like a trapped hound, caught between Nuriko's friendly, well-meaning intentions and his own webs of deceit. Before he could make the decision to turn around, however, Saihitei had come forward to him.

"How is Houjun now?"

Nuriko bounded up behind Saihitei, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Leika-chan. How is Houjun now?"

Genrou prayed that the blush wasn't going to become a permanent fixture. "He seems well. Tired, but okay."

Nuriko snorted ungracefully, curving an arm casually around Saihitei's shoulders as he leaned forward. "So, you guys didn't talk about anything else?"

He fought the urge to curse as embarrassment bubbled over him. "No, we didn't. Just the national competition."

"Oh," Nuriko fell silent, his mouth working in thought. "Did you ask him out?"

"Nuriko!" Saihitei jabbed the other model's hip in consternation. "Whatever happened to 'letting nature take its course'?"

Genrou cleared his throat. "I—"

"Yes?" both men stopped mid-argument and turned expectantly to him.

"I'd really prefer it if you left this alone."

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Saihitei combed the mahogany locks with his fingers before grabbing a strand of what looked like a split-end and examining it. Nuriko's eyes trailed after the departing redhead and his slim shoulders slumped.

"Did I just blow it, Sai?"

Before his friend could formulate a reply to the obviously distressed query, Nuriko spoke again, quietly. "It's just that Houjun's always alone. And I can't help thinking that they would be good for each other. Have you seen how he makes her look in those pictures?"

"Well, Nuri…she is beautiful on her own basis," Saihitei hedged.

"Do you think she's mad at me?"

Saihitei coughed. "Well—"

Nuriko brushed it off, sighing as he contemplated further. "Houjun won't make a move. Leika-chan likes him, I know she does. They're so stubborn, and nothing is going to come out of this unless…"

Saihitei waited, but when no other information was forthcoming, he raised an eyebrow and prodded Nuriko's arm gently. "Unless what?"

The younger man grinned. "Unless I help them."

Saihitei groaned. "Nuri! What was that about you making a mess out of things? Leika told you to stay out of her business just a few seconds ago!"

"Yes, she did, didn't she?" A shrug, and then a chuckle, from the younger man as he tossed his violet hair back.

Saihitei swatted his friend on the head. "You're hopeless."

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Doukun whistled, envelopes of bills tucked under his arm as he unlocked the doors to the studio. Mentally, he went over what he had to finish today. Reports of trends in the fashion market, noting of the invitations to the usual designer events, perusals of the memberships of the agency…

He flicked on the yellow lights, walking towards his desk and setting the envelopes down. As his arm moved back, he accidentally brushed against the pewter display that sat on the corner of the table. It fell with a heavy clatter, the pewter balls rolling away merrily to the various corners of the room.

Swearing under his breath, Doukun exhaled and then bent to retrieve the errant stand first. After placing it back where it belonged, he got down on all fours, searching and groping in the dim surroundings for the other pieces.

I really need to talk to Dad about redoing the entire lighting system.

One ball…two…three…an army of dust bunnies…

Where was the last one? Blowing his hair out of his eyes, he stood, gingerly rubbing his knees as the pressure shifted. Carefully, he replaced the three metal studs in their grooves, and then turned around, scanning the ground for the fourth ball.

A glint from the far end of the room caught his eye, and he walked forward, dropping to a crouch before the small side table and reaching for the object. His fingers brushed against soft leather, and he pursed his lips, the ball momentarily forgotten as his hand closed around the unexpected find instead. He hefted it in his palm and brought it out, straining to see clearly.

It was a wallet. Who would've dropped their wallet and not noticed? Doukun's frown deepened, and he flipped open the leather case, hoping to see some form of identification. However, the wallet was close to empty, other than a few worn bills in the note-pocket and a faded, blue calling card.

He stooped lower, bending his head and finally seeing the rest of the scattered cards. Clucking under his breath, he swept the lot of items out from under the table, trying to ignore the sheer amount of dust that had built up over the months and that was now currently finding a new home on the back of his hand. How long had it been since they cleared the place out? He would have to see about hiring a cleaning lady.

"Now, let's have a look…" he ran his tongue over his teeth, flipping through what looked like random membership cards, name cards from stores he had never heard of, and, bingo, an ID pass. He turned it around, standing absentmindedly and squinting at the name, before his eyes moved to the corresponding picture. So familiar…

Doukun nearly bit his tongue off.

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Standing by the roadside as he waited for his bus to come, fishing in his bag for his wallet, Genrou had never felt such turbulent confusion. Amidst the agony of fretting, he finally decided on a course of action.

I need to fucking tell somebody.

But whom could he go to? Genrou sincerely wished that there were someone—anyone—who would not be affected by his particular revelation. Which contradicted everything, because wasn't the purpose of admitting that he was, in truth, a guy, be to finally stop telling lies to the people who mattered and who were involved in his charade?

The bus drew up to the curb, and people scuttled past him to get to the door. Only then did Genrou realize that his wallet was missing.

Oh fuuuuuuck. Just what I need right now.

Where could he have dropped it? The bag had been with him at all times, and he didn't think the wallet could have hopped out on its own. Had he dropped the bag? Gotten pushed—?

HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT!!!!