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A man could take a lot. He really, really could. Being raised with four sisters and a quiet, often inaccessible father had left Yuudai with mostly feminine influences for the majority of his life, and if it hadn't been for him making fast friends with Ran and spending much of his spare time in his boyhood romping with him and his brothers, he might have been a lost cause. He had feminine habits, certainly, and the domestic chores that he was most accomplished in were largely performed by women, but he hardly thought this warranted the snide remarks about his sexual identity that he often received. He was happy being a man. He was a man, regardless of what everyone else seemed to think: Koga Yuudai was the only son of the family, he would one day inherit the inn, marry, and father children. That was simply how it went.

He cooked and cleaned, but those were essential parts of running a ryokan. It was wise to know all the workings of one's own business -- he could help anywhere, at any point, fill a need if there was one. He would always be aware of what his employees were doing, would know the most efficient ways to perform tasks and would know exactly what to expect from them. Perhaps he wasn't the biggest, brawnest man in the world, but he could hold his own in a fight and all of his daily chores had strengthened his endurance to the point that it was almost impossible to overwork him these days. He was a respectable man.

He was a man, god damn it.

Bataar took his hands, and whether he was examining the scars or not, Yuudai was unaware. He was very aware that he was pissed off, however. Here was Bataar, his friend, yes, but -- but here was Bataar, standing in his kitchen wearing next to nothing, degrading and demeaning him in his own home. He was demanding food and attempting flattery after insult as though Yuudai were as simple-minded as he, as though he would simply forget that Bataar was taking advantage of his generosity and expecting to get his own way, childishly, when Yuudai was being perfectly reasonable. It was too much.

On top of everything else, it was too much.

Color flooding his face, cornflower blue eyes overbright with annoyance, he said slowly, measuringly, "I am not a woman."

Then, after he paused for just a moment, he said again, a little louder, "I am not a woman, Bataar." When his hands were returned to him he balled them into fists, arms stiff and rigid at his sides. "I am not at your beck and call. I am not your little wife, not your sister, not your servant. I do not simply perform on demand."

His voice was rising, little by little, and though he wasn't yelling -- he so rarely yelled -- it was obvious that Bataar had gone too far. Were he to look for the line, it would be about three feet behind him: crossed, sentences ago. He had worked the blond into high dudgeon and there was no going back now.

"I will not bake you a cake simply because you said so. You can't expect to march into my home, make demands, insult me, and then try to -- to flatter me into submission! I am a god damned man, Bataar, and there is only so much my pride will take."

He took a moment to simply breathe, his teeth clenched tight, all five-foot-five inches of him practically emanating barely restrained fury.

He was good and sick and tired of this bullshit.

And, finally, Bataar had gone too far.

All the color leeched out of his face, the his breath left him in a rush; his knees went a little bit weak, not out of desire, but actual, consuming fury. It swelled in his chest, wrapped around his heart and squeezed it, burned through his lungs as his thoughts all raced to one point and converged, violently. He had finally had enough.

Shaking hands gripped Bataar's wrist, closing around it and yanking it away from his genitals, his bright blue nails digging into the Mongol's wrist as an anchor to keep his grip from trembling and falling. He opened his mouth, closed it; bit down so hard on his lip that he drew blood. For once, he didn't even have words.

So he stared for two full beats, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, and then he finally spoke.

It was strange for Yuudai to yell. He almost never did, for all he lost his temper with Ran or Jianyu. His temper was quiet and seething, a slow-building pressure that had to be released in quiet, hissing streams or it would explode everywhere. Unfortunately, that was exactly what it did.

"I AM NOT JIANYU!" he shouted, his voice ringing so loudly and clearly across the inn that a brief, startled hush fell over it. There wasn't just anger in his face, not just a fury so overwhelming that it caused him to lose his sense of self for a moment; there was hurt behind it all, and a kind of yearning that even he didn't understand.

Uncomfortable, unsure of even why he felt like he wanted to scream and cry all at the same time, but entirely certain that he was pissed beyond mortal reason, he added, "GET OUT!"

No apologies. No laughing it off. No grudging smile.

He wanted Bataar out and gone.