Taiga was still thinking about his home. It was svelte and stylish and very empty. The pictures of Cortez were gone, straight into the trash. He had no pictures of family or friends. The decor covered every inch with the impersonal beauty of a hotel room. He liked this place. It had character. People lived here, could live here, despite the dust. Taiga found himself reluctant to leave. He had a question at the tip of his tongue that made no sense.<br/><br/><i>Give me a picture of yourself. Something I can frame.<br/>
</i><br/>But that was impossible, ridiculous. A policeman on his mantel. Taiga didn't lead a safe life. Harm could come to Mashi if any word got out that Taiga cared. The only possibility in openly admiring Mashi was protecting him, fully, with his own hands, and that was still far more danger than simply avoiding him and keeping his feelings a secret.<br/><br/>And these feelings were impossible, ridiculous too. Liable to get them both killed, but also unwise, on more levels than could be counted.<br/><br/>Taiga had never dated anyway. Trying would be useless. And he barely knew this man, he thought, casually turning on the rice cooker. Time passed. Mashi didn't come. Taiga thought himself into circles and tied them up in knots until, when he spooned out two bowls of rice and mixed egg and soy sauce into them both to make tamago gohan, Mashi finally appeared.<br/><br/>"Tamago gohan," he said, trying to hand it to Mashi. He wasn't phased by his scar. "You shouldn't eat that sugary American shit for breakfast. You need good fuel for a good day."<br/><br/>He held it closer to Mashi. "Sit. Eat. And then I'm leaving. But at least we can remember two good meals together."