“That’s my mom,” he confirmed. “She was a chuunin, too. She died when I was really little, so I don’t really remember her.” He looked across at the photograph, at a face he knew in two dimensions, but didn’t remember in three. “My dad says I take after her. She was Fire nature, too but really skilled with Earth jutsu. If she’d lived…” He shrugged. Who knew if she’d have manifested a second nature? She hadn’t by the time Genma was born, and Genma’s had come when he was still in his early teens.

Ryouma’s eyes were on Genma now, studying him intently. “Your dad’s a civilian, though.”

Genma nodded. “Yep. So it’s not just breeding that makes a ninja, no matter what the Hyuuga and Uchiha like to say.” He poured the tea into a pair of matching cups and handed them both to Ryouma to carry, while he hobbled over to the kitchen table. “My dad’s from southern Fire Country — Izena, if you know the area. My mom had a mission there when she was eighteen. My dad — well, if you ask him, he’ll tell you it was just her, but I think he likes ninja, and she happened to be the one who liked him back. Three months later they were married and back in Konoha.”

Ryouma didn’t take a chair until Genma was seated, and he chose the one with easiest access to the door. His posture and tone were anything but relaxed. “And he stayed here when she died?”

Talking to Ryouma about anything personal felt like trying to chakra-walk up a crumbling sandbank. The trigger was definitely family or fathers this time. “I’ve never really asked him why he stayed,” Genma said slowly. “His parents — my grandparents — were older when they had him. I never knew them, either, they were both dead before I was born. And my mom’s mother was still living in Konoha when I was born. Dad took the death benefits and opened the bakery.” Genma felt his gaze drawn back to the shrine and the portrait of Shiranui Etsuko. “I guess that’s kind of macabre, if you think if it as a memorial.”

Ryouma tapped a finger against the side of the pastry box. “Or a mom providing for her family the last way she could, maybe.”

“Yeah,” Genma said. “I like that better.” He yawned as he started to take a drink of his tea, making his eyes tear. When his vision cleared, Ryouma was opening the pastry box. “Anyway… Yeah. That’s how I came to be born in Konoha. When I set the bathroom towels on fire when I was little, I’m pretty sure my dad was glad he’d stayed.” He reached absently for one of the dorayaki and broke an edge off. “I can’t imagine what he’d have done if he’d realized he had a ninja kid in Izena. What do other civilian parents do in small towns? Find the closest Konoha outpost and beg for help?”

“Guess it depends on whether they find the ninja who was passing through nine months before the kid was born,” Ryouma said, crinkling his nose in wry amusement.

“Or whose great-great granny was a ninja back in the day before they retired to a life of farming.” Genma’s leg was starting to ache persistently. He groped in his pocket for the bottle of pills they’d given him when they sent him home. “Hell of a conversation to have to have, though, especially if someone was fooling around. I’ll bet there are a lot of, ‘Oh yeah, my dad’s great grandma was part of the Nara clan. Didn’t I tell you?’ conversations when that happens.”

Ryouma snorted. “Always easier to blame the ancestors, if there's no one nearer to hand.” He wrapped long fingers around his tea cup, warming his hands against the rough-textured glaze. “Your dad seems to have done okay. With you, and all.”

“I guess so,” Genma said, embarrassed at the compliment. “I’m sure if you bought him a drink or two, he’d tell you plenty of stories about how hard I’ve made his life.” He choked trying to swallow his pill, at the realization of what he’d suggested. “Please don’t. Ever.”

Mischief lit Ryouma’s rich brown eyes. “Ask for stories? Or buy your dad a drink?”

“Either. Both. I mean neither.” Genma buried his face in his hands — if he could feel the flush, Ryouma could undoubtedly see it. “Gods and saints, if he didn’t already think we were dating… Which don’t worry, I’ll set that record straight at dinner.”