[h2][color=fff79a]Iwao - Sharehouse[/color][/h2]

A light mist of steam flowed up in ethereal wisps from the sink directly after dinner, the byproduct of enough reassurances by the assembled sharehousers and some pointed tapping on the fridge-mounted whiteboard regarding whose turn it was on the chores rotation. The boy stationed, clasping a suds-embossed sponge beneath the steady stream of hot water, didn't begrudge them. If the turn was his, the turn was his.

If anything, he was actually disappointed only now.

[color=fff79a][i]I oughta hold out another hour. Be safe. Drank a little.[/i][/color]

Despite being graced with the relaxing properties of hot water, a precious commodity around here, his hands staunchly refused to quit throbbing. A dull ache that started in his knuckles had been bugging him, ever since the time Sayuri had her idea to stew the fish, and it just didn't quit. It was a familiar one, too. He could draw its line from knuckle, to metacarpal, to wrist, down the forearm and capping to his elbow. They all just felt worn down, like a one big and stiff joint that no amount of stretching could get to chill out.

The ghosts of impact, really. It was anything in the bone stack that really braced the collisions when you hit the bag, or pad, or body. Now that he thought of it, there mighta been some in the shoulders, too. [i][color=fff79a]Wonderful.[/color][/i] All the pain of a first day back, with none of the pleasure.

Hadn't smacked on a bag in months.

Grimacing, he set another plate in the drying rack. Since hot water wasn't doing anything, it didn't seem muscular at all. Wasn't that lucky. He'd be calming the nerves themselves. In an hour. Another hour of living through this. Pain in the ass, but it wouldn't kill him or stop him from doing anything.

'cept maybe run, but by the time he did that, he'd have taken his way out. Didn't feel like running this early, preferred later in the night. His wraps would compress the hands too, and that always helped.

He needed something to distract himself for the last few. The more he contemplated this, the worse it got, and it was hard to properly scour a bowl's surface when it felt like you were starting to grind down your elbow with some hellish combination of hydraulic press and car buffer. His ears, normally tuning it out, now turned to the radio, quietly contemplating the rolling obituary droned out by stale, disinterested voices into the mic. Assaults in the South District? Bad, but pretty common for a "wretched hive of scum and villainy". Missing persons... in his experience, less so.

...Were they not gonna, y'know, say [i]who[/i]?

Fucked up.

If any of [i]them[/i] went missing, would they get the same treatment?

[color=fff79a][i]Mochi better get home soon.[/i][/color]

Another dish in the rack. Close to finished up now.