Dirty Laundry
Date: Tuesday, November 4, 1997, early evening.
Location: Koneko apartments
Warnings: Strong language from start?
After that, there was nothing else to do but wait for Ran's appearance, and the equally inevitable discussion regarding what the Hell that had been about. Pushing himself wearily to his feet, Youji gently pushed past Omi, still hovering in the entrance like an actor waiting to be fed a cue, and into the kitchen. There simply wasn't enough room in the reading nook for any kind of confrontation, still less for the kind of confrontation this was going to warrant if his surmises about what had caused this little situation were anywhere near accurate. He only just remembered to take his books with him.
Youji didn't look to see if Omi was following him or not. The kid could take care of himself.
As to what to do... without really thinking about it, he had gravitated toward the countertops, and now leaned against them watching the hallway through a fall of dark hair. Without really thinking about it, he had picked up his coffee cup, and lit himself the cigarette his body told him it craved. Act One, Scene Three: the stage was set, the audience held its breath, braced for inevitable ugliness. Now where the Hell was the leading man?
Youji took a drag on his cigarette, knocked the ash into a tray by his elbow. Call it occupational therapy, the point being that it stopped a guy from thinking too much. If Youji concentrated on his mug (still half-full of distressingly lukewarm coffee, but God knew he wasn't in the mood to make a fresh pot) and on the cigarette between his fingers, maybe he wouldn't think about how badly he wanted to go after the girl - God only knew where she had gotten to. The clinic? He thought he'd heard a door slamming downstairs a moment or so back. She'd either barricaded herself in the clinic - well, that answered the question of where she was sleeping, then - or she'd fled the house altogether. Fleeing could be frankly dangerous, locking herself away changed nothing, but right now Youji couldn't say he'd have blamed her for either of them.
If Ken had been around, he would have been five seconds away from catching Hell for smoking in the kitchen, but Ken probably wasn't going to be able to care about the state of the kitchen ever again and fuck it, this was an emergency.
He didn't move when he heard another footfall on the stairway - slower this time, heavier; these were clearly a man's footsteps and really, who else's could they be when everyone else in the household was accounted for? Youji simply raised his head, just a little, to regard the newcomer with a flat, hostile gaze.
"God damn it, Fujimiya, what the Hell did you just tell her?"
Location: Koneko apartments
Warnings: Strong language from start?
After that, there was nothing else to do but wait for Ran's appearance, and the equally inevitable discussion regarding what the Hell that had been about. Pushing himself wearily to his feet, Youji gently pushed past Omi, still hovering in the entrance like an actor waiting to be fed a cue, and into the kitchen. There simply wasn't enough room in the reading nook for any kind of confrontation, still less for the kind of confrontation this was going to warrant if his surmises about what had caused this little situation were anywhere near accurate. He only just remembered to take his books with him.
Youji didn't look to see if Omi was following him or not. The kid could take care of himself.
As to what to do... without really thinking about it, he had gravitated toward the countertops, and now leaned against them watching the hallway through a fall of dark hair. Without really thinking about it, he had picked up his coffee cup, and lit himself the cigarette his body told him it craved. Act One, Scene Three: the stage was set, the audience held its breath, braced for inevitable ugliness. Now where the Hell was the leading man?
Youji took a drag on his cigarette, knocked the ash into a tray by his elbow. Call it occupational therapy, the point being that it stopped a guy from thinking too much. If Youji concentrated on his mug (still half-full of distressingly lukewarm coffee, but God knew he wasn't in the mood to make a fresh pot) and on the cigarette between his fingers, maybe he wouldn't think about how badly he wanted to go after the girl - God only knew where she had gotten to. The clinic? He thought he'd heard a door slamming downstairs a moment or so back. She'd either barricaded herself in the clinic - well, that answered the question of where she was sleeping, then - or she'd fled the house altogether. Fleeing could be frankly dangerous, locking herself away changed nothing, but right now Youji couldn't say he'd have blamed her for either of them.
If Ken had been around, he would have been five seconds away from catching Hell for smoking in the kitchen, but Ken probably wasn't going to be able to care about the state of the kitchen ever again and fuck it, this was an emergency.
He didn't move when he heard another footfall on the stairway - slower this time, heavier; these were clearly a man's footsteps and really, who else's could they be when everyone else in the household was accounted for? Youji simply raised his head, just a little, to regard the newcomer with a flat, hostile gaze.
"God damn it, Fujimiya, what the Hell did you just tell her?"