Work Text:
Reality will break your heart,
Survival will not be the hardest part,
It’s keeping all your hopes alive,
When all the rest of you has died,
So let it break your heart.
Paramore - 26
Dim lights fill the club, casting an air of intimacy throughout the room. Deep colored hues shine down upon the plush couches strewn about the club. Dust hangs in the thick strands of light, lazily floating by his eyes. The air is thick with perfume, a cocktail of sweet and floral enveloping him. The scent is both foreign and sickeningly familiar as he eases himself into the seat of the couch. His suit fits snuggly around him, pulling against his thin frame as he attempts to find a position to make himself appear comfortable. Music is blaring across the space, attempting to create an open and fun atmosphere for the clientele of the club. Each night he leaves his ears ring for hours due to the volume it is kept it. It’s an odd ambiance set within the space, one meant to feel both intimate and chaotic, open and private. It’s a space for those willing to pay for the time and company of others, and those willing to give that time.
Glancing up through blond fringe, he meets the eyes of the woman seated beside him. She is pretty, long black hair framing a heart shaped face. Her bright green eyes sparkle as he meets them, a painted smile stretching across her features. In another life he may have found her attractive, may have loved the opportunity to spend a moment with her, a day, a night, but not in this life. Not when the mere knowledge of her gender makes his stomach riot, causes anxiety to start sparking across his skin as if he were electric. He can feel his breath attempt to quicken, his heart rate begin to spike. He forces himself to coyly smile as he shuts his eyes. He grips the red stone hanging from the cord around his neck, long enough to hang where the habit does not appear out of place. He pushes his worry into the smooth surface of the pendant as he breathes out slowly. He counts in his head with his slow breath before speaking slowly.
“So, kitten,” he starts, willing his eyes open, golden hooded irises staring across the couch, “how was your day?”
Hours pass, one after another as new women are brought to share his company. This is his job, his way of living and he knows that, but a scared and broken part of him feels like he had crafted a personal hell for himself to be tormented in. With each new face he feels himself splitting. His mind dissociating, pulling away from himself and reality. The man talking to these women is not him. He is trapped, screaming within his own head to run and hide and never look back as his outward self flirts, coyly smiling and smirking his way into his companion’s wallet. He is not cut out for this, not made for this, what was he thinking? Of all places to find himself within, how did he find himself here? Cursing his own stupid thinking he spins as another patron enters his booth. He’s asking questions he already knows the answer to. He knows he has been through too much, suffered, and survived too much. He has found himself standing on the other side with a nagging voice in his head that maybe he is nothing more than a pretty face. Maybe every ghostly voice whispering in his ear is right, that he is nothing more than the face he was born with, and that every touch he feels tear across his skin in the dead of night was warranted because he will never truly amount to anything more than a burden. Maybe though, he thinks maybe, standing on the other side of everything, he can use what he was born with and can help him, help the man who gave him everything and expected nothing in return.
Glancing up across the couch he sees his new patron, and for a moment the redhead in his booth is not a torturous visage into past pain, but him. For a moment he sees tired teal eyes and the weight of the world sat on sagging shoulders, and just for a moment he can breathe. He thinks of everything that man has done for him, helping him escape the home he never truly had, helping him find solace here in Shinjuku, helping him recover, learn, live, breathe again. He took this tormentous job because he thought, maybe, just maybe, that this will help him… and maybe himself too. Maybe if he bathes himself in his nightmares he could come out of this the self he should have become. If he spends every night surrounded by the one thing that sends his mind spinning into irrational fear, maybe he can become the man he should have been. The man his world deserves.
A pressure weighs upon his wrist and the sight is gone, he is gone and she is back and his skin is burning. It takes every ounce of self-control to not yank his hand back at the unexpected contact. He swallows the panic creeping up his throat, righting himself and fixing his gaze on her.
“Sorry, kitten,” his voice is laced in honey, but his mind is screaming for escape. “I got lost there for a moment.” He laughs, the fake version of himself shoving him back into the depths of his mind. He is watching himself from within, screaming at himself to get out, but he can’t. This is all a con he is playing on himself to prove he is better, prove he has left his ghosts in the past and his healed. He puts his jacket on each night and loses the true him, becomes someone that he is not, he never was, but it is the only way he knows how to survive and thrive here. So he does it, and so far he has done it well. He may be new, but he is already well received by the club’s clientele. It leaves a hollow feeling of accomplishment in his chest, to be loved by what he fears. If the women brought before him knew the real him would run from the room in tears, what would they think of him then?
The night wears on much the same. Each hour a new face before him until he cannot differentiate anymore between them. It is a blur of perfume and champagne calls, the combination wreaking havoc on his nerves. The potent cocktail of alcohol and anxious triggers putting him on an edge he would rather step away from instead of feeling like he will teeter over any moment.
She is brought before him, his last client of the night, and he can feel the relief flooding through him. One more hour and he can free himself from the noose like grip of his blazer’s collar, breathe deep the impending dawn, and find his way home to the warmth awaiting him. Her smile is bright, but drooping, alcohol clearly already taking its toll on her. It is not his first drunken client, and it will not be his last, but he always feels on edge when they get this close. The job too new, and the wounds not yet scars, he finds old habits hard to break. He tenses briefly at her quick closeness before his host self takes over again, the late hour making it harder to focus. He adjusts himself on the couch, crossing his lithe legs and bows his head towards her. He extends a hand, silver rings winking under the multi-colored lights.
“It’s a pleasure, my dear.” He is tired, but he wants to do his job right. She reaches for his hand and encircles his wrist with her slender fingers. The action is startling, but he keeps himself from reacting.
“I-it’s nice to -hic- mee’ you.” She’s slurring as he returns to his typical posture. She pushes closer to him, and he can smell the alcohol on her breath, the perfume on her skin, traces of her shampoo, it’s all swarming around him as he tries to remain calm and even. He just wants to do his job right.
The time goes by relatively smoothly, he offers her drinks while she talks of her day and troubles with her boyfriend. She spends most of the time just within his sphere of comfort. She is almost too close, almost touching, almost sending him over the edge. He can feel himself teetering further over that ledge in his mind, willing every ounce of his strength to throw him back.
The hour ends and he stands abruptly, putting out a hand to help her from the couch. She stands on uncertain legs as he begins bringing her towards the door to see her out into the neon night. She is wobbly on too high heels, and he fears she may careen towards the concerte once she leaves the club. He has a guiding hand hovering behind her as they approach the front door. Turning, he bows towards his final client. A sigh of relief rushes out of him as he feels the weight of his necklaces swing forward. He is almost home.
“I hope you had a good evening, kitten.” His voice is scratchy with fatigue as he stands, winking in her direction as she giggles. His mind is hazy with an awful combination of weariness and alcohol, his thoughts are swimming as he gives his final goodbye. Not focusing on his client as he prepares to leave her, he does not register her movement until she is already around him. Her arms wrap loosely around his neck, head delved into his shoulder. His mind is whirring, stomach and thoughts churning as her scent is oozing into him. She is too close and his is panicking. She drops a quick kiss on his cheek and laughs while falling back to her feet, and he is burning. Anxiety is crashing over him in unending waves and he cannot tell if the hands he feels on his skin are hers or phantom touches from his past.
“Goodnight,” she titters behind her hand before tucking out of the club.
He is frozen in place, tremors working their way through him as he tries to pull himself together. It was not supposed to be like this. He was better, is better. He took this job to be better, not to fall down upon old ways and bitter fears. Without realizing, he is moving through the club, pushing his way to the back. Part of him registers other hosts asking if he is okay, but in this moment, he cannot tell if they are here with him or not.
He comes to himself within the employee bathroom, door locked and seated on the floor. The air around him feels stale and suffocating as he tries to pull himself out of the depths of his panic. He briefly notices his jacket is thrown on the other side of the room as he is raking his fingers through his hair. Product and sweat is collecting across his fingers as he rocks back and forth on the dingy concrete floor. He is shaking in a way that he hasn’t in so long. He didn’t know. He didn’t know one touch could drag him all the way back here. It hurts to breathe, each breath feeling like a red hot pain searing its way through him as he tries to rid himself of the memory of every awful touch he has ever felt. He is clawing at himself, scrubbing his palms over his neck and face to overwrite the caustic feeling scoring through him.
Without thinking, his phone is in his hand, dialing the only person he has ever been able to rely on. He presses the phone tight to his head, the edges of the phone digging into the hard edge of his ear, his other hand still pulling at his skin hoping against everything to stop this unending pain. The line is ringing before he is able to curse himself for calling at such an hour, but he doesn’t know what else to do. He is reeling in this moment, and the only person who has ever been able to talk him down is the redhead on the other end of the phone.
“Hello? Hifumi?” Doppo sounds so tired, but not awoken, and Hifumi wonders for a second if he is up waiting for him. He is panting into the receiver, trying to regulate himself enough to not tip off the other man.
“Hifumi? Are you there?” Worry. That is all Hifumi can hear in Doppo’s voice, and he is kicking himself for worrying him again. This was dumb. He should have taken care of this on his own and pulled himself together and gotten himself home on his o- “Are you having a- is it a bad night over there?” There’s rustling on the other end of of the phone, Doppo is probably righting his frame on the couch to fully invest himself in the conversation. Pulling thin legs beneath him to sit more comfortably. Thinking about the mundane movement gives him something to picture instead of fixating on the suffocating anxiety curling over his throat.
“I’m fine, Doppo.” He forces his voice to sound bubbly, more like his true self. He does not want to hear the broken person he has let himself become. “Everything is going great!” He lies, the bitter taste of the words coating his mouth. “I-I just wanted to check in on my Doppo before heading home.”
“Mhm… just tired… like always.” Hifumi lets out a small laugh, finding comfort in the banal conversation.
“Oh, Doppo, Doppo, Doppo, why don’t you get some sleep.” There’s a grumpy sigh on the other end of the phone. He can almost picture Doppo rolling his eyes before placing his forehead into the palm of his hand.
“I’m waiting up for you.” Hifumi’s chest tightens at the soft words, tears brimming in his eyes at the over abundance of emotions inundating him.
“Doppo, you don’t have to do something like this for me.” His voice has softened, unable to keep his true emotions from seeping into his words.
“I’m doing it, now shut up.” The blond smiles, finding Doppo’s ever present discomfort with overt affection endearing. The simplest things about his partner always giving him true comfort. “Just… just get home safe, Hifumi, okay?”
His breath hitches, the panic in his chest giving way to a comforting warmth. His body is buzzing with the after effects of everything, but the knowledge of the home waiting for him gives him the strength to keep going.
“Of course. Doppo. I’ll… I’ll see you soon.”
“Alright… I-I love you, Hifumi.” He bows his head, the words breaking over him in a soothing crest. They don’t fix everything, nothing but time can mend the wounds he has, but they do offer the comforting knowledge that there is good and kindness in this world, not just the darkness he was forced to face.
“I love you too, Doppo.”
He ends the call and places his head on his knees. His body is still trembling with the aftershocks of his panic. Adrenaline is still coursing through him making him feel like a live wire. His face and neck are aching, and he knows he probably has the marks to prove it blooming across his skin. In this moment, however, he doesn’t really care. In this moment he just wants to curl into the warm pocket in his chest and make a home there. He wants to pool himself into those tender emotions and never step out again. He knows though, that life is not like that. He knows that if he did not live through all that he has gone through that he would not cherish the good that he has now. So with the last ounce of strength he has, he hauls himself up from the floor, dusting himself off and throws on his jacket. He spares a quick glance in the mirror to check the damage he has done. His eyes are ringed in red, face blotchy with pink watercolor stains earned from the toxic emotions he let out. He can see growing scratches littering one side of his face he gained from his attempts to rid himself of her touch. Staring forward he sees a man, a broken man just trying his hardest to forget a past that won’t let him go when the darkness of night comes creeping in. His eyes are wide with dying panic, and he can see his frame still shaking faintly as his body continues to try and find its new normal.
He closes his eyes, willing himself to stop thinking such things of himself. He raises his head, staring into the mirror again and looking harder, trying to force himself to see the things Doppo is always telling him to look for. The man that Doppo sees. He’s looking at himself, and tries to see a man with a caring air, a large and strong heart that just wants to live in a world he doesn’t have to be afraid of. A man that does not want to hide from his fears, but face them everyday and learn from them. Hifumi doesn’t always see what Doppo tells him he sees every time he looks at him, but it doesn’t stop him from trying, and right now… he is a little closer to seeing that version of himself, the self he wants to be. He glances down, running his trembling fingers over the red stone hanging against his chest, the same red as copper hair in sunlight, and turns to leave and finally make his way home.
He knows that tonight will not be the last night he feels this way. Knows that he will struggle and falter and fall for the rest of his life. He has known all of this for a long time, but he also knows that he is growing. He knows that he is stronger than before, and he will get stronger with every day. He does not need to be perfect now, or ever, all he wants is normal. Doppo tells him that normal is overrated, and that he does not have to be anything but happy. Doppo just wants him to be happy. He smiles at the thought as he enters the brisk Shinjuku night. Staring up at the expanse of neon, he sighs. He does not know if he will always be happy, or if he will ever reach a normal that suits him. What he does know is that here and now, he is content with what he has, and happy with the home he is heading to. He knows, for now, that is all he needs.