| [Jun. 15th, 2009|10:34 pm] |
"Thanks." Ryouma folded up on the floor, close enough to reach Ginta at a lunge if he had to, and leaned against the side of the recliner. "I'm guessing you been here a while, then?" Except it sounded as if the mother had arrived after the grandmother, which was a few kinds of weird. Most single guys with families had their mothers down as next-of-kin, didn't they?
Maybe they didn't get along. Ryouma couldn't see why the grandmother would be any better, though. Chihiro and Ginta had their (lack of) height in common, but that was about it as far as Ryouma could see. Ginta'd complained at length about his grandmother's refusal to accept his preference for muscles instead of boobs, but he hadn't said anything about his mother. Maybe she was worse.
She didn't look like it. Mostly she looked like any of the dozen grieving mothers probably sitting vigil at their sons' hospital beds right now: reddened eyes, clumping mascara, coffee-blotted lipstick she hadn't bothered to touch up. She was a pretty woman, startlingly young. A little too well-dressed for Ryouma's tastes, but he'd always known Ginta came from old money. The grandmother's silk kimono and the mother's designer dress just confirmed it. Old money and high society, and the heir to their name had ended up in ANBU.
Ginta wasn't an orphan, like many ANBU were. He didn't need the money. He didn't seem to be in it for the thrill, either; he was vividly alive in whatever he did, whether he was playing with lives or hearts or cards. So what was he doing in ANBU making his mother cry? |
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