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As far as things went, Yuudai was actually rather pleased with his life as of late. His sisters were mysteriously behaving, Kiran was showing up regularly for his cooking lessons, and he hadn't had any catastrophic encounters in the night. While he sometimes wondered when the tide would turn, he tried to remain optimistic each night as he penned in his journal. There was something to be said for preparing for the worst, of course, but there was also something to be said for enjoying life's peaceful times as they came.

All he really wanted in life was peace. A home, a steady income, eventually a wife and children. While these things seemed very far away from him at times, and he was fully aware that there could come a day where he would fall in battle, that hardly stopped him from planning for the future. Doing so would be irresponsible, and that simply wasn't part of who he was.

Untying his apron, he hung it on a peg, stretching his arms above his head. His shift had been short that day and he wasn't expecting Kiran, so he found himself with an afternoon to do largely what he wanted. A walk through town seemed nice enough; he could do some shopping, perhaps pick out a trinket or two for Shizuka. She had been behaving exceptionally well lately, and that ought to be rewarded.

Outside, he heard sudden, unrestrained laughter, and moments later, the door to the kitchen burst open. Startled, he stared at Natsuko, taking in her flushed face as giggles poured out around her fingers.

"Your f-friend," she managed, bright eyes dancing with fun, "is l-looking for you."

With that, she began to laugh wildly again, darting through the inn. Wondering just what could have caused Natsuko to behave in such a manner, and highly disapproving, Yuudai adjusted the collar of his shirt and stalked outside.

He blamed his utter lack of response on the sheer shock of seeing Bataar standing outside his family's inn wearing virtually nothing. The fact that he'd had the sense to go around the back did little to keep him from staring in abject horror at his friend, his mind whirling a thousand miles a moment while his mouth struggled to find words to adequately express his displeasure. It wasn't that Bataar was a grotesque figure to behold -- no, it wasn't that -- it was simply -- this was his family's inn. There were customers, some milling about in the courtyard, others passing by on the streets. His sisters, too, could obviously stumble upon him in such garb, as one of them already had. It was wildly inappropriate. It was disrespectful. It was downright insulting.

Opening his mouth wide, he inhaled, realized swiftly what a mistake this was, and brought one hand up to cover his mouth as he attempted to stave off a coughing fit. Bataar's usual musk was infinitely worse today than even usual, and it couldn't be blamed on his clothing; he was hardly wearing any clothes. Crushed against his side, Yuudai could barely keep himself from gagging, and wouldn't have been surprised if his eyes teared up.

He knew very well what men smelled like when they worked out. He and Ran sparred often enough that he could smell downright unpleasant himself. Of course, the enormous difference here was that when he smelled like a sweatshop he didn't go about dragging people into uncomfortable embraces.

Planting his hands against Bataar's chest, he went to shove him away, a frown knit heavily onto his features, when he hesitated a moment. His fingers fanned out, going lax against sweat-slicked skin over taut muscle, and his expression faltered.

He didn't have long to marvel over the sudden weakness in his arms, however, because he was summarily swept off his feet with a surprising amount of grace. Face flushing bright red, he managed a strangled, "Bataar, what are you doing--" in his angriest tone, but Bataar didn't even break stride. Almost as quickly as he was lifted he was set back down, his stomach turning flips and a blush burning eternally on his face.

He had never been treated with so much indignity in his life, not even while he was getting his a** handed to him in battle. Bataar had -- had lifted him off the ground like he was a sack of feathers, had violated his personal space, had manhandled him without consent and seemed to find no error with his actions. At all.

Chest rising and falling in an unnatural pattern, he curled his hands into fists, wondering why his palms had sprang damp. Though he was annoyed beyond reasonable measure, he was having difficulty translating that into words; he opened his mouth, snapped it closed, seethed silently.

Finally, in a strange, choked voice, he managed, "What right do you think you have to -- to waltz in here wearing practically nothing at all, disturb the peace of the inn, and... and handle me like that without my express permission?!"

His face would be red forever. Forever. "I have never in my life... I..."

Words failed him, again, and he flexed his hands, running his palms over the front of his pants to try to chafe away the feeling of Bataar's disgusting, sweaty chest from his palms.

If there was a small blessing to be had, it was that the kitchen was relatively empty. He was fervently glad that Bataar only knew the way to his family's small kitchen rather than the wide, sweeping one used for the ryokan, or he would have had a lot more explaining to do. As it was, he was attempting to scrounge what remained of his dignity long enough to properly express why he was so livid with Bataar, but he was having a remarkably difficult time doing so. He was embarrassed, certainly, but he was also a little confused, and more than a little distracted every time Bataar shifted closer and fussed with some part of his person.

He usually did the fussing! It was strange for others to do it! It set him off balance, and he didn't like being off balance in the least. Scowling further, he brought his hands up, closing both of them around Bataar's larger one, pulling it away from his forehead. He felt strange and unsteady, and it didn't help that he was sure his face would be glowing until he dumped his head in a bucket of ice water.

"I am not sick, I am fine." His tone was a lot harsher than he intended, words quick, biting snaps more suited to someone who had been a lot less rude than Bataar. He had been out of line, of course, but this was Bataar; he barely knew where the line was most of the time. "And of course I can still cook, though after your unsettling entrance I'm not certain you deserve to have a meal handed to you."

He realized, belatedly, that he was still holding Bataar's hand, and he nearly jumped when he released it, drawing his own back to his chest in a fast, embarrassed motion. The last thing he needed was for someone to happen by and see him clinging to the other man, red-faced and distracted, while he was in such a state. Why, it would inspire all kinds of questions... about things... that were simply not true!

Casting a critical eye over Bataar's appearance, he muttered, "Wrestling costume..." tucking his arms high on his chest.

No person in their right mind would wander around in such limited garb, not even if they looked as good in it as Bataar did. Oh, he had a nice body, of course -- he had a wonderful body, obviously very fit and toned from all manner of rigorous physical exercise -- but that didn't mean he had to parade it about as though it was anyone's business to look at it! Briefly, Yuudai wondered how Jianyu felt about it, and then quickly squashed any sympathy he might have had for the other man.

Instead, he smirked widely, and glanced back, taking an extra, long look just to spite him. Even if Jianyu wouldn't know.

And damn it all, if he didn't lose his train of thought again.

Blinking a couple of times, he rubbed the back of one hand over his face, mumbling, "What do you want to eat?" having already forgotten that he'd just said he wouldn't feed Bataar.

Bataar was touching him an awfully lot, and it surprised him a bit to realize that it bothered him. He'd always been casually physically affectionate, a byproduct of being raised around so many women; touches were as common as the spoken word, sometimes moreso. It was second-nature to him to communicate with the brush of a hand across a cheek, arm, down the back of the head, whether it was family or simply friends. He couldn't count the number of times he'd conveyed a message to Ran by a look or touch alone, and it was natural, easy.

Touching, or being touched by Bataar, felt neither today. It made him want to either shrink back or jump out of his skin, two impulses that were uncomfortable at the least, annoying to be certain. He didn't like feeling like he was out of control of his own behavior, and the irritation of that was enough to trump his embarrassment at the entire situation.

Feeling jumpy and jittery, he chose to largely ignore Bataar's comments, brows etched together in a permanent frown. He had seen Bataar naked, of course, but that was in a bath, where it was expected and appropriate to be naked. It wasn't as though he even cared; that would be strange, and wildly inappropriate, and just... well, it would be strange!

Here, however, in his family's kitchen, it was disrespectful and completely out of place to be mostly naked. Natsuko had already seen much more of Bataar than Yuudai would have ever liked for her to see, and gods knew what his parents would think if they walked in to see the Mongol standing in such a state of undress in the family wing of the inn.

Questions would be raised which he did not want to humor the answers of.

Focusing on the counter, his movements rough and jerky, he began to shove ingredients about. It was easier to keep his mind off Bataar and the infuriating, puzzling way his mind kept blanking and then rocketing off all over the place whenever he touched him.

"I am not baking you a cake," he said shortly, bottles striking the counter and making short, sharp clicking noises as he moved them about. "That is hardly a meal. I will prepare something fast, and then you may have cake for dessert if you properly attire yourself."

Here, he aimed a highly frustrated glance at his friend, blue eyes narrowed, cheeks still flushed with color. "I don't care that I have seen you entirely naked before, it is not appropriate to be mostly naked in the kitchen."

Once the counter was relatively cleared, Yuudai placed his hands on his hips and mused on what he would cook. He was interrupted, of course, by Bataar's preposterous question -- the Mongol earned a heated No, you idiot. for his efforts -- and then he waved a hand at him dismissively. They would eat, because he was a little hungry himself, and then he would start preparations for a cake, get it in the oven, and bathe Bataar while it baked. It was a perfect plan.

His motions were precise, no movement wasted as he prepared hiyayakko, a very simple tofu dish that was very nearly reflex for him rather than actual design. While he would have normally made two servings out of each silk tofu block, he portioned it out much more generously for Bataar, providing him with two-thirds more than he placed in his own bowl.

Turning, one hand cupped under the bowl containing Bataar's enormous portions, he set it on the table and then pointed. "Eat," he instructed, scowling.

He seated himself, placing his hands together as he murmured, "Itadakimasu." He glanced at Bataar suspiciously, adding, "Why are you wearing that here, anyhow? Shouldn't you change garb after wrestling?"

Now that the initial shock of the outfit itself was past, he found himself just being annoyed that he was wearing it at all, and wanting to know why.

Yuudai was eating at a much more leisurely pace, eyes downcast, remarkably focused on his food. When Bataar was done he was barely halfway through his own dish, and he slowly glanced up, a frown furrowing his blue brows. No manners at all, not even the barest sense of decorum, and yet Yuudai still liked him for reasons he hadn't fully explored; he was fast seeing the necessity for that, however.

Perhaps it was because he was so honest. It didn't seem to matter that the Mongol might not know any other way to be, because Yuudai could appreciate honesty in anyone, tried his best to be blunt and straight to the point himself. Tact was usually employed, of course, unless it would only get in the way, but he simply detested being lied to. Even lies by omission, which most people wouldn't even really consider lies, wounded him deeply -- he was, in fact, certain that was why he'd been so upset to learn Jianyu and Bataar were dating.

"I am not making a cake, I have not even finished my meal." He pursed his lips, lifted his shoulders with a deep inhalation of breath. "I will, however, bake you a cake once you are done in the bath."

He eyed Bataar critically, wondering why a flush crawled down the collar of his shirt again, and ignored it. "And I have something you can wear, I'm certain. I'll make a run to the laundry rooms. You are not getting back into that after your bath; I'll wash it for you."

He rose, taking his unfinished food with him, and wrapped it so that he could finish it later. Without looking at Bataar, he asked, "Are you expected anywhere today?"

Turning, hands on his hips, Yuudai offered Bataar a brief, critical look. He wasn't happy about bathing, that much was obvious, but then, he never was. The blond was used to getting his way, however, and even though it seemed the Mongol was as well, when it came to a battle of wills and there was food involved, generally Yuudai came out on top. He supposed he ought to be smug that his culinary talents were enough to keep his brawny friend in line, but with all the flak he'd been getting lately from every direction, he was actually starting to get a bit annoyed.

At least Bataar hadn't referred to him as a woman lately. That would simply be the last straw. With Ran, they had grown up together so such jabs were to be expected if not appreciated, but there was no excuse for Jianyu or that damnable Huang-fu. He only tolerated it from Ran because they had been friends since boyhood, period.

Lifting his hands, he flipped the palms out, showing off scars from years spent burning them at the oven, cutting them while learning new dishes and the like. "Go. To the bath, Bataar, and then you will have your cake."

The look he threw his friend was one that said now. He had perfected it over the years and employed it on his sisters many a time; Ran liked to call it his "motherly" look.

He liked to kick Ran in the face when he did so.