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A thin, long cut ran across his chest. Still pink, not yet fully healed. Next to it was another scar, old and ragged. Short curly hair sprawled over his pecs and down the valley of his chest to his toned abs. Zhao's gaze slid even lower.
"Hey, Cho-san, you're feeling alright?" Kasuga's voice cut through the fog in Zhao's head.
Zhao blinked and shifted his gaze to Kasuga's face. He knitted his eyebrows and looked at Zhao with concern.
Kasuga stood with his torso bared, holding a wrinkled shirt in his hand. Saeko was bustling around him, pressing an alcohol-soaked tissue to Kasuga's forehead. Apparently, he took a hit after all.
"Better than you, I see," Zhao was somehow able to muster a coherent answer in his typical sly tone.
Nobody managed to even lay a finger on Zhao the whole fight, but he felt as dizzy as if he'd been decked right between his eyes.
Ichiban nodded, clearly pleased that Zhao was doing fine. He threw on his shirt, and Zhao looked away.
Shit. Just what he fucking needed, great. Kasuga wasn't even his type - okay, he was tall and fit, and that was about it. Too simple, too kind, too... Zhao couldn't even clearly articulate what trait it was that he encountered in Kasuga for the first time in his life. A trait that rationally should repel Zhao, but in reality drew him to Kasuga even more.
Well, he did find Kasuga attractive from the jump, his looks at least. Not exactly a man Zhao usually went for, but he just couldn't ignore that body with that face, from the moment Mabuchi sent him that ill-fated video. Zhao then responded with "Ooh Ma, didn't know you like freaky shit like that" and "Now I have to check him out in the flesh."
Then Kasuga's looks were joined by his goofy personality. A goofy, direct, impulsive personality. No matter how much Zhao tried, he couldn't convince himself that he didn't like it.
But he managed to convince himself for quite a long time that he just liked being in Kasuga's company. He was fun to be around, and his friends were cool. Kasuga also liked video games and darts. He was a good listener, having lent his ear to Zhao more than once when Zhao had a few and started pouring out his soul.
And there was nothing wrong with Zhao imagining him sometimes as he lay alone in his bed jerking off. His imagination was flooded with chaotic images: Kasuga lying on his stomach, his beautiful tattoo in full view, his back arching so the dragonfish moved as if alive. Or Kasuga hovering over him, his old-fashioned chain dangling around his neck - waiting to be grabbed and pulled closer.
Zhao told himself he was just bored and lonely, and his imagination latched onto the person he saw most often. Lately, he saw Kasuga almost every day - Zhao already got irrevocably sucked into the mess in Ijincho that Kasuga had instigated. And after each fight, they went to Survive to lick their wounds and quench their thirst.
As they did today. Joon-gi left to report back to Seong-hui but the rest of their company scattered around the bar. Adachi and Nanba were sitting at the bar counter, and the bartender was treating their bruises and scratches - he was very good at that for some reason. Saeko was sprawled on the couch in the booth with Kasuga and Eri-chan, pressing an ice pack to her knee. Kasuga was talking quietly to them, leaning over the table. Zhao sat back in the corner by himself, sipping his whiskey and coke pensively.
It was worse than he had initially thought. It was no longer mere curiosity about some rogue ex-yakuza stirring up shit in his town. It wasn't the thrill of novelty that someone finally shook up his boring fake life. It wasn't the idle thirst for a handsome face and a tight ass in those ridiculous red pants.
As if Kasuga sensed his thoughts, he got up from his table and headed toward Zhao. Zhao sipped from his glass and feverishly tried to come up with something to say besides, "Kasuga-kun, I want to lick your face".
"What's up, Cho-san?" Kasuga asked cheerfully and plopped down next to him. "You seem a bit down."
"What's there to be happy about? It's even worse than I thought," Zhao muttered.
"Yeah... I don't like it either. I can't shake off the feeling that everything is connected. These murders, Omi, Bleach Japan and..." Kasuga faltered, "And what do you think?"
"I have my thoughts, but I can't say anything for certain now. We'll see," Zhao lied.
He had no thoughts, except that he was in deep shit. In addition to his problems with Mabuchi and the Omi, Zhao had revived a good old tradition that he naively believed he had left in the past. Namely, "crushing on your straight friend."
Kasuga didn't make it any easier by sitting so close to him, their shoulders touching, and looking at him with genuine care. With his huge gray eyes with long lashes and...
Suddenly his throat went dry and Zhao took another sip.
"I guess..." Kasuga looked away, "Well, I'm just glad that you're with us. We couldn't have done it without you. I couldn't have done it. Thank you, Cho-san."
Kasuga put his arm around Zhao's back and lightly squeezed his shoulder. He didn't take his hand away.
Zhao sat stock-still. Every muscle in his body stiffened and his blood froze in his veins. He felt the hairs on his arms and his neck stand up one by one.
It was the first time Kasuga had touched him like that - too close, too casual. It wasn't just giving a hand in a fight or patting on the back after karaoke. Zhao felt like a wild animal in the crosshairs. Awareness of his own situation shackled him, but there was nothing he could do either - all the witty responses stuck in his throat. Zhao hoped that at least he wasn't pathetically blushing right now.
Zhao swallowed and knocked the rest of his drink back all at once.
"Kasuga-kun, I gotta go. Have fun with the guys."
Zhao got up from the table on weak legs.
He knew what it was. The first step was to admit the problem, right? And he knew the solution. He'd always done it, it had worked before, it would work now.
Zhao walked to the familiar bar. He hadn't been there in a long time and was surprised how much everything had changed there. Loud music was blasting, people were jostling on the dancefloor, some were dancing, some were making out in the corners. Zhao guessed the general principle hadn't changed. He sat down at the counter, ordered a drink, and waited. He could've approached anyone now and probably had no problem picking them up, but right now he wanted to be wanted. Pursued a little bit. He's had enough of one-sided attraction.
"Do you like the music here?" Zhao heard a deep voice in his ear.
Zhao turned around. Next to him, he saw a man. He was a little older than Zhao, judging by the wrinkles around his eyes. Short hair, clean-shaven. He was handsome, with slightly sharp features and a sly squint.
Why not.
"Terrible," Zhao shouted back through the music, a smile involuntarily spreading across his face.
"Shall we go outside for a smoke?" the man jerked his chin.
Zhao took his half-empty glass from the counter and they made their way to the exit. The man walked further down the street, where there were no people, toward a store closed for the night. Zhao followed him, leaned his back against the wall.
The man took out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, lit one up. He looked at Zhao questioningly, holding out the pack.
Zhao didn't want to smoke, but he took one out anyway. The man came closer, flicked his lighter and courteously gave Zhao a light, covering the flame with his palm. Their eyes met. The man had dark brown eyes, almost black, just like Zhao's.
"Thank you," Zhao threw his head back and blew the smoke up into the air. He stood like that for a moment, baring his neck and looking at the stranger with half-closed eyes from under his shades.
"Do you come here often?" the man asked. He held the cigarette between his long, graceful fingers.
"Nah, been a while," Zhao answered, "Got too much work."
"I understand," the man sighed.
Zhao looked him over. Tall and broad-shouldered. Gray suit, a thin soft-looking turtleneck underneath. An expensive watch peeked out from under the sleeve. Zhao estimated how much it was worth - more than all the gold trinkets he had on him right now.
"Came here to have fun?" Zhao asked and took a drag.
The man smirked. "Just to have a good time."
"Hmm, is that so," Zhao exhaled and sipped from the glass in his other hand. The taste of tobacco and alcohol mixed on his tongue. He felt goosebumps on the back of his neck and a pleasant lightness in his head.
The man was looking at him, Zhao could almost physically feel his gaze crawling over him - over his face, over his bracelet-adorned wrists, over his exposed neck and collarbones. Zhao regretted he'd come here after the fight - his hair was probably a little out of place and his shirt was crumpled.
"I live around here," the man said, not taking his eyes off Zhao.
Zhao glanced at him and tried to figure out what he wanted. Okay, Zhao knew what he wanted, but didn't know how . After a second Zhao decided he didn't care. Zhao will be whatever he needs to be, not the first time he's adjusted himself to someone's expectations. The main goal was to get those suffocating, cloying feelings out of him that had been messing up his sleep and appetite lately.
Zhao smirked.
"Oh really," he murmured and bit his lip, "How convenient."
The man threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it with his heel. Then he came even closer and took Zhao by the chin.
Now, finally, the desire would take over Zhao, he would forget everything and pour out all his pent-up longing on this man. He would bite and moan, squirm in his arms and buck before collapsing, exhausted and breathless, on the wet sheets.
The man kissed him firmly. His lips were soft and tasted like good tobacco. One of his hands slid around Zhao's waist, the other held Zhao's chin, his thumb stroking the stubble.
But Zhao felt nothing. He was mechanically going through the motions - tilting his head slightly, opening his mouth a little, sticking out the tip of his tongue. But his head remained just as clear, the blood didn't rush down, his hands didn't tremble. Zhao stood against the wall, holding a glass in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other.
They were doing everything right, but it wasn't working. Zhao squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into the kiss, trying to ignite the spark between them. This was a handsome, confident man in his league, who wanted him and was ready to take him right now. Why did Zhao feel so cold inside?
Why did Zhao wish these hands were rougher and not so neat and elegant? That his face was unshaven and prickly, his hair - long enough to run the fingers through it and tug it? That he smelled of blood and sweat instead of expensive cologne?
Zhao pulled away. The man said in a velvety low voice, "I'm calling a taxi."
So Zhao managed to fool him. He was too good at pretending, again.
Zhao shook his head.
"I can't, I have to return this glass to the bar. Don't want to be a petty thief."
Zhao smiled with just his lips only and flicked the cigarette butt away. He noticed a strange glint in the man's eyes - probably a wounded ego.
For some reason, Zhao said, "Guess some other time. Can I have your number?"
Zhao held out his phone to the man. He let out a quiet chuckle but put his number in. Zhao looked at the screen - the man put it under the name Kentaro.
"Well, see you around, Kentaro-kun," Zhao said cheekily, and walked back to the bar.
He knew damn well he'd never call that number.
Zhao lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep, his heart wouldn't stop beating like a drum, reverberating in his ears. He hadn't felt this way in a long time, too long. He'd forgotten what it felt like to really want something, to really care. When you're drawn against your will to a place you thought you've lost your way to.
Maybe he was sick in the head. All those fights, shootings, and betrayals had finally got to him and he was going crazy. That was a better explanation than...
Zhao didn't even want to think about it. Anything but that. It never ended well and he didn't need another thing in his life to inevitably fuck up.
But no matter how much he resisted, Kasuga still haunted his thoughts. Not just his tanned arms with rolled-up sleeves, his muscular tattooed back and his full lips, but also his rumbling good-natured laugh, and his bushy eyebrows, raised in a childish surprise, and the lines at the corners of his mouth from the constant smiling, and his eyes sparkling with tears, and...
Shit.
Zhao cursed under his breath, "I'm fucked."