Eugene had been settled, crosslegged, on Hiroshi's couch -- the blanket tucked around his waist and phone tucked under his ear -- for the last 30 minutes, scribbling down all the stats on his trust fund. Mr. Harris, Eugene's father's lawyer, had only seemed mildly surprised by the nature of the phone call. Then again, Mr. Harris knew Eugene's mother, so maybe he wasn't surprised at all. The man was presently arranging for the transfer of funds, a metting with a realitor ("It's a buyer's market and even condo ownership is a much better investment than renting any day," Mr. Harris had assured.), and the assignment of Eugene's own financial planner.
Eugene felt eerily like his father, on the phone like this, discussing business matters, taking notes from Mr. Harris. He remembered seeing his father much like this, rarely without the phone, walking around in his terry-cloth robe or sometimes just a towel, fresh from a shower. Business never waited for a better time -- at least, Nate Morey never made it do so.
By the time Eugene said his final goodbyes to Mr. Harris, his head was spinning with afternoon appointment times and his stomach grumbling for some food. He glanced over to the closed door of Hiroshi's bedroom. He figured it would still be hours before he saw him. Eugene couldn't help but frown at that thought. Generally, you didn't order in breakfast -- you went out for it. Eugene didn't want to go out. Which meant... Eugene eyed Hiroshi's kitchen. He supposed it would be okay if he cooked just a little something. Eggs maybe. He could do eggs. His only concern was disturbing Hiroshi. Well, Eugene could make eggs /quietly/.
That decided, Eugene pushed aside the blankets and crossed to the kitchen. He started a pot of coffee and carefully looked around for the pans and ingredients he would be needing.