| [Sep. 7th, 2009|02:30 am] |
Yanagi flipped through the sex book, paused at an image, pulled the book away and twirled it to see if it made any more sense, and then -- slightly horrified -- he set it aside. "Tea. Sure. Tea sounds very..." He searched for a word, and finally settled on, "respectable." He reached down to take off his boots, then stood and set them by the door. While he was there, he opened it and peered out into the hall.
It looked like a hall. Hey, he knew this corner. A little bit farther was his door. He should really put something on his door, to say it was occupied. Then maybe everyone would think he'd died on a mission rather than that the apartment was empty, and then he could startle them by occasionally changing the door decorations. That'd be hilarious.
Except this was ANBU, and most likely no one would notice. He withdrew into Genma's apartment again, closing and locking the door, and shoved his cold hands in his back pockets. "Gods, you look like you've been living here for-fucking-ever." And yet, Yanagi knew Genma hadn't. He went back to the window and closed it, finally, then paused at a collection of knick-knacks, picking them up and examining them. He set them down and made a full circle where he stood. This apartment, like all the others, was a little studio. There wasn't much you couldn't see at first glance.
Genma stood in the kitchen, still wearing boxers and a blanket. Yanagi wandered over and leaned on the half-counter. "You look good. Compared to last time. You looked blurry last time." Yanagi grinned. "Or maybe that was me." There was no blur now; the blanket hung open, showing sharply defined muscles, the faintest trail of hair vanishing below the waistband of his boxers. His eyes had that sleepy, hazy look, and picked up the gold light from above, making them practically gleam. Weird, that Yanagi hadn't remembered he had strangely pale eyes.
Yanagi tapped one finger on the counter, realized what he was doing, and curled his fingers under his palm. He was fine. He was great. He'd spent most of the day in a debriefing room, and hadn't left until late. Late enough not to notice much of the carnage as he wound through the village to his father's house. Not much.
His handler had asked where he was going to go that night. He'd told her to his family home. And he'd gone home. To get his guitar, and now he was here, but he'd gone home. His dad would tell them where he was, if they wanted to keep tabs on him. But it was fine. He was fine.
"Got anything stronger than tea? Like, you know. Anything alcoholic?" His fingers tapped out a rhythm again. |
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