There was a sliver of red on Genma’s first forkful that looked a lot like—

“Shiranui, wait,” Raidou said hurriedly.

Genma put the fork in his mouth, paused, and very slowly looked down at his plate. A crimson flush crept up his neck and over his cheeks.

“That’s garyuu,” Raidou said. “It’s, uh, spicy.”

In the same way, say, that the world was big. One stick was more than enough to give a whole pot a good fiery kick.

Genma swallowed. “You don’t say,” he rasped, eyes tearing.

“I’ll get you a drink,” Raidou said, pushing back from the table. “And something else. I’ve got, uh—” A desperate need to go grocery shopping. “Leftovers, I think? I know I cooked stir-fry the other day.”

He crouched to pull a milk carton out of the fridge.

“Don’t worry about it,” Genma said. Raidou glanced up to see him taking another bite. “This is pretty good, actually. Although if you have some leftover rice or something to buffer it a little, I wouldn't say no. What'd you say this stuff was? I thought it was dried gourd.”

“Garyuu,” Raidou said. “Dragon-fang. It’s a hybrid from Wind. They grow them about yea big,” he spread his hands apart, measuring about a foot from one palm to the milk carton, “and use ‘em to torture non-natives.” He poured a tall glass of milk, grabbed a loaf of bread in lieu of rice, and brought them both back to Genma. “You’re a crazy man, by the way.”

“So I’ve been told.” Genma gulped down half the glass in two long swallows, and picked a few of the larger garyuu pieces out of the bowl, setting them aside on the edge of Raidou’s plate. “I guess I should have asked before I used them.”

“Pretty sure you got punished for it,” Raidou said, slightly fascinated by the way Genma continued to eat without dying.

A starving ninja wasn’t a picky eater. Raidou had eaten stink-badger during the war, and worse, but Konoha had take out dining, and ANBU had its own cafe. Perhaps Genma was just lacking gastronomic adventure in his life.

Or he was verging on too tired to care. There was the definite hint of an increasing slouch in those shoulders. Genma had run border patrol all day; he was probably desperate to shower the grime off and collapse for a few hours.

“You managed to get a place sorted out yet?” Raidou asked.

Genma sighed. “I almost had a place over on Aomori Avenue, but the landlord decided she wanted to rent to a chuunin instead. I think she changed her mind because of my tattoo.”

“Probably thought you’d eat her in her sleep,” Raidou said, which was a comment that just didn’t go with Genma’s mellow attitude, or clean-cut, unthreatening face. Probably she was more concerned about her tenant failing to come back from a mission and stiffing her on rent. “Long-sleeved shirt next time? Or keep showing the tattoo. Could be your litmus test for asshole landlords.”

“Litmus test, I think,” Genma said, dragging the back of his hand over his eyes. Reflexive tears smeared with grime, making his face a faded rorschach test. “Last thing I want is a landlord who's just looking for an excuse to evict me. Like the first time I end up missing rent because I'm in hospital after a bad mission, or some shit like that.”