Work Text:
Takaba stares at the man in front of him, willing himself to snap out of it. He blinks, then blinks again, but no, nothing has changed. Asami is still devouring the woman’s mouth with the same intensity he usually devoured Takaba with. He isn’t quite sure what to do, not that he ever knew what to do when it came to Asami. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears a voice whisper betrayal. A spear of pain runs through his chest at the voice, and he ruthlessly squashes both the voice and the pain into the recesses of his mind. He was never Asami’s, and Asami was never his. He has always believed that a man like Asami would never be satisfied with one lover. He has too much intensity, too much hunger to be satisfied by just Takaba.
Takaba raises his camera and looks through the viewfinder again. He thinks morbidly that this whole situation is extremely amusing. Here he is on top of a roof, doing a favor for a friend of a friend by tracking down who his wife is cheating on him with, and he discovers that the man is Asami. It is too rich, too surreal, too normal for how his life has been of late. This is all Asami’s fault, just as everything is the yakuza’s fault. Takaba tightens his grip on the camera. Everything is Asami’s fault. He vaguely registers that she is quite beautiful, with a pert nose, long, black, flowing hair, and a petite profile. She looks like the kind of woman you would find in a ladies’ salon; pretty, delicate, a classic beauty. He dislikes her already.
Takaba snaps a few pictures, and packs up his gear. He walks away, noting that Asami is still not done with her. He heads home, stopping by the grocery store to pick up some cucumbers, milk and paper towels. He stops by the dry cleaners to pick up his only suit, and damns Asami’s name the whole way home. He tries to convince himself that the numb sensation is relatively normal, and just what he wants. It is exactly what he needs.
Takaba has always believed that he is a strong, sure person with good morals. Now he is not so sure. He studies the people around them and resists the urge to clutch at Asami’s coat sleeve, telling himself that he really does not need Asami’s support. It takes him longer tonight to build his defenses and he ignores the curious and envious looks he receives from the surrounding guests. He doesn’t see what there is to be envious about. His life is going to hell fast, and at this point, he is not even sure he wants it to stop. Asami places a firm hand on his lower back, announcing loudly to all present just what their relationship is. Takaba feels vast irritation and strangely enough, a small sense of relief at the move, and turns around to force Asami’s arm to drop. For good measure, he ventures from Asami’s side, shaking off the other man’s inquiring gaze as he heads towards the long table. He picks up a champagne flute and sips it while he studies the other attendees.
Takaba had mentioned nothing to Asami about the morning’s events, wishing to keep his pride. Takaba does not want any validation that their relationship is more than just being occasional fuck buddies. All right, maybe it is more than occasional. But he is not a jealous lover, and he does not love Asami. He expects nothing from the man, knowing from the start that there is no love lost between them. Therefore, if the man wants to sleep around, that is his business and not Takaba’s.
Asami had greeted him in his normal manner when Takaba, wearing his black suit, had slipped into the limo; his cell phone pressed to his ear, grunting occasional assent to the other party. Takaba had petulantly wondered if Asami talked to that woman in the same manner. Then he had gritted his teeth when he remembered that Asami talks to him in that exact manner. Asami had ignored him the whole ride to Club Sion, and he had uncharacteristically remained silent. When they had arrived at the entrance of the club, Asami had exited first, turning back to offer his hand to Takaba. The photographer had spurned the offered hand, walking past Asami and his bodyguards and through the doors of the club with his head held high.
That had been hours ago, and now he is stiffly standing next to the refreshment bar. He has been to many of these parties, sometimes forced, sometimes coerced by his demanding lover. It is not as if he is a stranger to such atmospheres. But he is thrown off kilter tonight, his mind otherwise engaged and oddly vulnerable. This is probably why he is not prepared for that same woman from this morning to abruptly appear at his side.
“Takaba-san, I believe?”
He nods at her vaguely, suddenly wanting to run and wondering where his courage had flittered off to.
“I don’t believe we’ve met. I am an acquaintance of Asami-san. Takahiro Yuki.” The graceful woman holds out her right hand, palm down, and Takaba, unable to ignore years of etiquette pounded into him by his mother, takes her hand and places a quick brush of his lips on top. He immediately releases her hand, and resists the urge to rub the sensation of her skin off his lips.
“Just an acquaintance?” Takaba asks sardonically. Yuki’s eyes crinkle in amusement.
“I have heard a lot about you, and wanted to meet you. You’re a photographer, isn’t that right? Has any of your work been published?” She artfully flips her shining, black hair and flashes a guileless smile of straight, pearly white teeth at him. He decides that he definitely dislikes her.
“Some have been published, but I am sure they do not appear in the variety of magazines that would interest you,” Takaba says evenly.
A tinkling laugh escapes from Yuki. She places a hand on his shoulder, and winks. “You don’t like me, do you? I really don’t blame you. But what is that saying? You really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, right? I can assure you that I am more interesting than a clueless, money hungry beauty.” Yuki smiles at Takaba teasingly, and removes her hand. Takaba doesn’t move. “And besides, I don’t think that we should feed Asami’s ego by descending into the level of cat fights, don’t you think?”
Yuki studies Takaba neutrally, and waits for his answer. He struggles with his pride, and then with his natural instinct to pull her hair. She is certainly acting differently than what he expects, and he really did not want to give Asami any satisfaction in thinking he is fighting over the man’s affections with this woman. He looks over at the handsome man, noting his slightly amused expression as he converses with his business associate’s wife. Bitterness runs through him, and Takaba decides that this time, he would be the one to make the man guess. Forcing his muscles to relax, Takaba turns a thin smile to Yuki. He nods in acknowledgement, and offers his arm.
“Shall we? I’m sure we could trade stories.”
Yuki gives another cheerful laugh. She slips her arm through Takaba’s, and leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “Very well done. And he’s looking this way.”
Takaba refuses to look and see if Asami is, indeed, looking at them. He turns his head towards Yuki and wills himself to bestow the most buoyant smile he could. Leading her out the door, Takaba fights down the urge to shudder at the feeling of a pair of piercing eyes boring into his back.
Asami’s pressure on his wrist increases, and Takaba fights the urge to cry out. His hand is getting numb, losing all feeling and he does not relish the pins and needles sensation that is going to come when Asami loosens his hold. Takaba lies still, willing his breathing to slow, hoping that his arousal is not evident to the man above him. Apparently, from the lazy smirk on the man’s face, he is failing.
“You’re an absolute brat. Do not think that you will get away with the stuff you pulled today,” Asami sneers. Takaba forces himself not to flinch, and gives one last tug on his wrist, knowing that he needs to salvage his pride somewhat. He has lost long ago, but he does not need to let Asami know that.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Takaba growls. “Besides, if I’m a brat, what the hell are you doing with me? I’m sure you have other women who are better suited to you.”
Asami casually smirks, and leans down to steal a kiss. He runs his tongue slowly up Takaba’s jaw line, pausing at his ear to bite on the lobe hard. Takaba hisses, and jerks his hips up against Asami. He is still angry at the man, but he knows from past experiences that even when he is angry, the sex is damn good.
He hooks his arms around Asami’s back, just under Asami’s arms, trying to ignore how needy he really seems. He inhales deeply, trying to commit to memory that elusive scent of tangy tobacco and salty sweat. Asami is his bad habit, one that is easy to start, hard to quit, and would definitely kill him in the end.
He holds onto Asami, knowing that he is holding onto an illusion. He knows that he means nothing to the man, and judging from his conversation with the woman, he knows that his time is most likely drawing to a close. He stops himself from thinking about how his life would be if Asami leaves him, and tells himself that he is a survivor. He just wishes that he could state that with more conviction than he feels now.
Takaba focuses on Asami’s breathing, watching Asami’s intense gaze as he is being taken. He runs his fingers along Asami’s skin, taking note of the curve on his slender waist. He cannot recall a time that he had not completely lost all control of his senses when touched by Asami. Oddly, it seems as if he is in full control now, noticing things he had never before. The slight hitch in Asami’s breathing, the line that appears between Asami’s eyebrows, the clenching of his fingers, the way his hair sways as he thrusts, the way Takaba’s name is gasped, and the way his back arches slightly as he comes. Takaba takes all of this in, and stores it away.
Asami rolls onto his back, adjusting the pillow under his head. He lies still, and Takaba is unsure whether he is asleep or just resting. Takaba lies there for a while as well, unmoving from the position Asami has left him in. Eventually, he brings his knees down, slowly moves off the bed, and gingerly places his feet on the ground. Even before he gets up, he feels the stinging pain that always accompanies his sessions with Asami race up his lower back. Although the pain will be unbearable in the morning, right now he finds the sensation pleasant. The pain irrationally makes him feel more comfortable, more sure that everything is normal.
He tentatively makes his way to the bathroom, careful of his steps due to the soreness and the dark. He uncharitably thinks that Asami should be able to afford leaving the lights on, if only for Takaba to finish his activities. He makes it to the bathroom, closes the door and leans back against it. Taking a deep breath, Takaba moves in front of the sink, turning on the tap and letting the water run as he stares at himself in the mirror.
He looks the same, unchanging, no different than he had been when he first met Asami four years ago. And yet, he is so different internally, having to learn how to adapt to Asami’s presence in his life. Alone, staring at himself in the mirror, Takaba decides that it is time he is honest with himself. He does not like who he has become. He is too willing to compromise, too oblivious in his own world that he has forgotten exactly who he is to Asami. He is bending so far for Asami that he fears he will break. With what had happened this morning, he fears that he already has.
Takaba finishes cleaning himself and then walks back to the bed. He stands next to it in indecision, unsure of his position. He feels like he has been transported back to the beginning, when he was uncertain of himself and the situation he found himself in. He stares at Asami, tracing the lines of his sleeping face with his eyes, taking in his black, ruffled hair, and his long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. Takaba wants to run a finger over those eyelashes, to feel whether they are soft, or stiff as the man himself. He wants to feel, to explore what he is never allowed to touch. Instead, he carefully crawls back onto his side of the bed, curling up under the covers. His cheek inches towards Asami’s hand resting on top of the pillow. He presses his cheek against Asami’s palm, and wills his heart not to break.