Briefly, Asuma indulged himself in the wildly ironic idea of flinging himself from the Hokage's monument.

"You," he said to both of them, "have a seriously screwed up idea of fun. Fun is..." He gestured with both hands, winning a protest from his flogged shoulders. "Drinking. And dancing. Actual, proper dancing, mind you, not parading around in gender-segregated circles." Tsume's eyebrows arched. "And drugs. And friends. And sex."

Kuromaru made a low-throated, laughing sort of sound that might have been agreement.

"And if politics are involved," Asuma went on, in wild-but-doomed tones, "it'll be death on toast. Prolonged death, that'll require me to wear a kimono. I do not suit a kimono. And there'll be women with mothers. Mothers who'll want me to marry their daughters. Honorably!"

From the look on Tsume's face, she did not appreciate the depths of his suffering. It was a look remarkably similar to the one she'd worn during their stay at the Salted Goose Hotel, when he'd complained about everything available, including the quality of the air, for the sake of conversation. And also because his head had hurt, what with the fractured skull and all.

Asuma's ears caught up with his brain.

"How the hell do you know Itsuki-san? In fact, never mind -- if you know one then you know all of them." He grinned, sharp and sudden. The grin of a man with an angle. "You can go with me."