“You went home, didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Motoki asked, sounding even more wrecked than he had been the night before.
Mamoru ushered him into the apartment, raising his eyebrows at the way Motoki literally dragged his feet behind him. “I hoped you might realize it was a bad idea on your own.”
“I thought Unazuki should know,” Motoki explained, his shoulder resting against the foyer wall as Mamoru once again did the locks up again. “She liked Reika a lot. And Reika liked her.”
Mamoru was happy he wasn’t looking at Motoki so that his friend couldn’t see his frustration. “Motoki, please try not to talk as though Reika has died.”
“Sorry,” Motoki mumbled. “But I still thought she should know what’s going on.”
Mamoru shook his head as he turned, his hand wrapped around the doorknob. “Now you’ve upset her, and you don’t even know if it’s a permanent thing yet.”
Motoki shuffled awkwardly, both of his hands snaking into pockets. “I just thought--"
“You wanted a hug, didn’t you?” Mamoru deadpanned.
Motoki visibly deflated, and Mamoru was struck by how young he looked when his motives were so plainly stated. He gave Mamoru a dark look and said, “Well, I could hardly have Usagi do it all things considered. If Reika heard about it, then there’d really be no hope for us. And it’s not as if you’re Mr. Huggable.”
“As I have told you time and again, for a modest fee--"
“15,000 yen is not modest.”
“My hugs are a very rare beast,” Mamoru said with a shrug. “Seldom spotted and never ever photographed. Thus, they are a bit on the pricey side.”
“There are those who do not think they actually exist,” Motoki continued, his mouth almost breaking into a smile. “They say they’re nothing more than myth you concocted while you were drugged up on morphine in high school.”
Mamoru would have liked to continue this line of discussion, but he’d run out of pithy comments. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered, once again steering Motoki into the living room. He continued back to the kitchen to finish his dinner.
Motoki fell face first onto the couch as if he’d had a heart attack, but quickly decided that it was hard to talk into the cushions. He shook his head and pushed himself up on his elbows. “Unazuki cried--"
Mamoru mumbled something akin to “I told you so.”
Motoki glared but pressed on. “Dad thought the best thing to do would be to distract me by talking politics. You know, I love the man, but he’s never really known what to do when one of his children is upset. He has the same solution every time, and it always backfires. You’d think he’d learn.”
“He’s still hoping you’ll have a change of heart about running for office,” Mamoru said.
“Probably,” Motoki admitted. “But Mama was the worst.”
Mamoru nodded. He’d assumed as much.
“I don’t understand it,” Motoki snapped, aiming a punch at one of Mamoru’s throw pillows. “About any other issue, she’s the sensitive one. I could fail a course, run over a puppy, or go to jail, and there she’d be with open arms. But get her on the subject of Reika, and it’s like the woman ceases to exist.”
“I know,” Mamoru agreed. “I’ve don’t understand it either.”
“Who knows? She says she feels I fell too hard too fast, but I honestly think she just dislikes her for no reason other than to drive me to distraction.” He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. When I told them the news, I swear she looked… kind of happy. I might be reading into that too much; it might have just been relief. As if that isn’t bad enough.”
Mamoru reverted to his default head nod, once again feeling that this particular subject was too sensitive for him to tread on in case he wound up swallowing his foot.
“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” Motoki asked, finally getting to the point.
“You mind sleeping on the couch?”
Motoki shrugged. “It was comfortable enough last night.”
“Fine with me then,” Mamoru said, swallowing the last of his dinner and getting up to load his dishes into the dishwasher.
Motoki spared him a grateful smile, his lips white against his pale skin. “Thanks.”
“Any time,” Mamoru said, dropping his voice in pitch.
He was clueless about what to do in the face of emotional problems than Motoki’s father. Should he push Motoki towards a reconciliation or tell him to wash his hands of the situation once and for all? He had no idea how to stage this rescue, and he didn’t even know if that was expected of him.
“Got any more of that?” Motoki called from the living room.
Mamoru smiled to himself. “Yeah. Made enough for two.”
“Expecting company?” Motoki asked, his voice flat.
Mamoru shook his head as he began to spoon the remaining portion onto a plate. “Nah,” he answered. He paused, glancing over at Luna, who seemed to have deemed it was best to just ignore that this stupidity was continuing to happen around her and that her water bowl was in fact infinitely more interesting and far less vexing. “Leftovers.”
AUTHOR'S NOTES
I am sorry to lose this scene for two reasons: the hug exchange and the leftovers bit. Other than that, it's really pointless. There's a possibility Motoki's mother may make an appearance at some point, but right now, I don't foresee it. Since this dialogue isn't a deliberate set-up, I don't need it, so out it goes.
