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“Moshi-moshi, this is Saijou. …moshi-moshi? Anyone there?”
“Where’s Takato-san?”
“Saijou-san is sleeping by my side at this moment. He looks so cute when he’s asleep. In fact, he was really cute when he was awake, too~”
“Who are you? Did you do something to Takato-san?”
“Who knows? You can ask him yourself later… Chunta-kun.”
The way Takato hyperventilated on the other side of the phone, right in Junta’s ear, crushed Junta’s heart. He’d been so relieved to see Takato’s name light up his phone screen, but that relief quickly turned to sickening worry.
“Takato-san?” he repeated because his first greeting hadn’t received a verbal reply. “What’s wrong?”
A strangled sob. “Ch…Chunta… please help me.”
Junta’s eyes blew wide and his already-crushed heart suddenly broke even more. Never—never—had he heard Takato use such a desperate, broken tone.
“What happened?” he asked. “Where are you? What’s going on?”
His questions just made Takato cry harder. He continued to hyperventilate and sob into the phone for several seconds before he started rambling.
“I—I don’t—I’m home now but—last… last night—we were dri—and I woke up and there—Ayagi was—and—”
“Takato-san, shh,” Junta tried to soothe, already aching to hold him. To be there by his side. His mind frantically rushed through all of Takato’s fragmented sentences, trying to figure out what he’d been trying to say. “Slow down, take some deep breaths.”
There was a pause as Takato seemed like he was trying to comply, but struggling to figure out how. “I… I c…”
“Was… was someone with you last night?”
He already knew the answer. Or suspected the answer, at least. Someone had answered Takato’s phone—someone who wasn’t Takato—last night when Junta had called to see how his day had been.
And out of worry, he’d called again, and again, and several more times throughout the night because that person had hung up on him the first time and he needed to know Takato was alright.
“We… we went drinking, a…after rehearsal,” Takato said around a few hiccups. “I—I don’t e…even remember leaving the pub…”
Something cold gnawed at Junta’s stomach. A knot of cold, cold ice, chewing at its lining. “Okay. What happened when you sobered up?”
“I w…” Takato’s breath hitched and he expelled another sob. “I woke up in… in a hotel… with… with Ayagi…”
Ayagi. That… that name sounded vaguely familiar. It was one of Takato’s current co-stars, right? He remembered Takato talking about him—the one who skipped the first day of rehearsal.
“I—I don’t remember any…anything,” Takato said. “Chunta, I—there’s a hickey, and—and I wouldn’t do anything with him, I swear, it’s only ever been you, I—”
“Shh. Takato-san, shh,” Junta repeated as gently as he could, despite the rapidly growing coldness in his stomach. “We—”
“I wouldn’t cheat on you!”
Junta paused. He never doubted that for a second. Not even last night, when someone—Ayagi—had answered Takato’s phone.
Instead, he’d been absolutely terrified that Takato had been hurt.
“Takato-san,” he said, taking a deep breath of his own. He forced himself to ignore the ice, as well as the overwhelming sense of dread that filled him upon realising he’d been right. “Listen to me.”
Takato quieted for a moment, hiccuping. An image of Takato curled up, crying, flitted through his mind, and his heart ached.
This bastard. Junta’s free hand—the one that wasn’t holding his phone—curled into a fist as a wave of hot, volcanic rage swept through him. Hurting Takato like this...
“I’m sorry, Chunta,” Takato whispered despite Junta’s request, and he sounded so upset, so broken, that it cooled the rage instantly. “I… I didn’t… I’m so sorry…”
“No, no, no, Takato-san,” Junta rushed to assure. “ No. This isn’t on you. You’re not at fault here.”
“But I—”
“You were drunk. And if he wasn’t—or at least, if he was sober enough to know how drunk you were—then he took advantage of you.”
A sniffle. “I… what?”
“Are you hurt? At all? Did he leave any other marks on you?”
Another pause ensued, followed by some shuffling. Takato expelled a quivering breath. “N…no…”
“Are you sure?” Junta pressed. “Do you… feel sore?”
“Not…” Takato exhaled again, still shaky, but he seemed closer to collecting himself. “I h…have a hangover…”
“Takato-san, what about… your hips? Your back? Backside? Legs?”
“...no,” Takato answered. “But… but there was a condom wrapper—”
“Do you think… he put the condom on you?”
Takato fell silent again. Then, with a hollow, humorless chuckle: “Great. And he’d know that I’d be terrible, because I’ve never done that before. Humiliating.”
The ravenous part of him—the part that fueled his sexual appetite—knew that Takato, even without experience, was wonderful, because he was Takato. Everything about him was perfect—honed like a blade. But even he knew that at this moment, that wasn’t what Takato needed to hear.
“Do you know for sure the condom had been used?” he asked instead.
“No,” Takato said after a few moments. “I didn’t… check the room. I saw the wrapper by chance. I left as soon as I could.”
Junta pursed his lips. He sat on his bed—the bed in the hotel room that’d been provided for him while he was on location—and reached for one of his tin cans of black mints. Needed to give his other hand something to do. “I see.”
“...are you mad, Chunta?”
This time, he sounded fearful. Anxious. Junta’s grip tightened on the phone.
“Not at you, Takato-san,” he said, trying to keep his tone as delicate as possible. “I’m angry at the man who did this to you. You didn’t deserve it.”
“I… I was drunk,” Takato said hesitantly.
“That doesn’t matter,” Junta said because it was true, and Takato needed to know that. Takato really needed to understand that. “You didn’t deserve to be taken advantage of.”
“I shouldn’t have put myself in this kind of situation.”
His voice changed—became hollower, more distant. In the wake of his crying spell, of his panic attack, he sounded… closed off. Like he’d shut down.
The ache in Junta’s heart doubled in size. It reminded him of their misunderstanding months ago, when Takato had nearly shut down on him, while they were trying to sort through it. It seemed Takato’s response to something overwhelming him was to turn off every emotion.
And it also seemed this was a skill Takato had mastered. But that wasn’t healthy, was it? They were actors, yes, but they were also human.
Junta would know. Because Junta spent so much of his life in that haze of numb, and it was Takato who finally showed him—whether he realised it or not—that he was human, too. A human with real emotions and real desires.
“Takato-san, please, listen to me,” he begged. “This is not your fault.”
“It was reckless of me.”
“You were the one who told me it was important in this industry to be social,” Junta tried.
“I shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, though,” Takato argued. “It was irresponsible.”
“You are not responsible for your own sexual assault, Takato-san,” Junta said. “The only person who is responsible is the person who did this to you.”
“S…s…?”
“I mean it. You didn’t—”
“I’m sorry for all of this, Chunta,” Takato interrupted, voice tight. “I… I have to go. It’s your last day of location, right? Do a good job.”
“Takato-san—”
The line went dead.
Junta stared, mouth agape, as he fully realised that this meant Takato was no longer going to talk to him. Had he even gotten through to him? Even a little bit? Or was he going to spend the rest of the day blaming himself, even though he was the victim?
He tried calling back when the shock faded but received no answer. Sent a text message, flooded with worry, but again, nothing.
His concern intensified. And with that concern returned the anger—the white-hot, volcanic anger that had been muted in favor of reassuring Takato. Whoever this Ayagi was, Junta wanted him to pay.
Text me when you can, he sent Takato and reached for the mints again, not even remembering when he’d put them down.
He’d need a lot of them to curb this rage.
Takato didn’t text him for the remainder of the day.
They finished the shoot sooner than planned that afternoon—Junta was determined to wrap up as fast as possible so he could get out of there—and since he hadn’t heard from Takato, he decided to message Sasaki with a request to be the one to drive Takato home from rehearsal.
It was impulsive, and he would’ve liked to have Takato’s permission, but his concern was so consuming, so dreadful, that he had to find a way to see him before the night ended. He couldn’t spend another night without him, not after this.
“...pick me up? Nah. I’m going drinking tonight.”
The voice didn’t belong to Takato. It was some guy chatting on the phone, passing Junta by as Junta walked in the door.
“...no. I’ve never caused a problem, have I?”
No, it wasn’t Takato’s voice, but Junta did recognise it.
Junta’s fist flew out, hitting the wall, effectively stopping the guy in his tracks. The pain in his knuckles didn’t matter as he gave him the dirtiest look he could muster.
“You’re the guy from last night,” he said—a statement, not a question—low and angry.
The man he suspected was Ayagi blinked. “A…Azumaya Jun…ta?”
Of course he knew Junta’s name. So many people did. Junta, however, didn’t care to confirm nor deny his own identity.
“Are you the man who answered Takato-san’s phone last night?” he went on.
“Last night? Huh?” Ayagi sputtered, but a moment later came the recognition: “Then… ‘Chunta’... are you serious?”
Junta’s fist clenched against the wall. The nickname sounded so foul, coming from someone who wasn’t his beloved Takato.
“What’s your name?”
“Ay…Ayagi. But is this for real?”
“Chunta?”
Now that was Takato’s voice. Junta turned to see Takato approaching, confused and hesitant.
“What are you doing here?” Takato went on, sounding a bit anxious. “Aren’t you on location today?”
Junta pushed himself off the wall and ignored Ayagi’s indignant cry. He needed to get Takato away from this bastard, fast.
“I’ll take you home,” he said and reached for his wrist.
“Y…you don’t have to,” Takato said. “Not—not today. Hey, Ch… wait—”
“It’s alright,” Junta told him, tone softer than it had been moments before. “I’ll take you straight home.”
He shot Ayagi another menacing look—put all his rage into it—and guided Takato to his awaiting car.
“Chunta, wait—”
“Takato-san, please,” Junta said, lowering his voice. “I’ve been worried all day. Please don’t shut me out.”
Takato quieted, then, and stayed quiet as Junta opened the passenger side door for him. Once he was safely seated and buckled, Junta crossed to the driver’s side so he could fulfill his promise of taking him home.
The silence was awkward. Suffocating. Junta could only handle about thirty seconds of it before he asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
Junta pursed his lips and kept his eyes on the road. He should’ve expected that.
“Are you hydrated?” he pressed. “Have you taken medicine?”
“I know how to nurse a hangover, Chunta,” Takato grumbled. “The headache’s gone.”
Junta’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“...no,” Takato answered after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll eat when I get home.”
“I can make you something.”
“We both have work tomorrow. You should focus on yourself.”
“I can’t. I’m worried about Takato-san,” Junta said.
“Chunta, I’m fine.”
Takato had a habit of saying that, even when the opposite was true. Perhaps it was a reflex—how many people, after all, in whom Takato could confide, in this industry? Junta liked to believe that he was one of them. And… and after this morning…
How ‘fine’ was Takato, really?
“Did he say anything to you?” he asked, rather than voicing this thought.
Takato hesitated once more, but the silence stretched out longer this time. As they rolled to a stop at a red light, he risked a fleeting glance in Takato’s direction.
His normally pale face looked even paler, worryingly so. His expression was wiped clean of emotion but Junta caught the faint tremble in his hands.
“We didn’t… have many scenes together today,” Takato answered eventually, slowly. “But he did bump into me in the hall, once. Asked why I… left without saying anything. T…told me…”
Another long pause. Junta eased off the brake as the light turned green. Prompted, “Told you what?”
“He had… a good time, and that I… I was cute.” Takato’s voice wavered as he spoke. “When… when I arrived at rehearsal, though, one of the guys we’d gone drinking with…”
Junta’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles were white. He hated how unsettled Takato sounded. Said nothing as he waited patiently for Takato to continue.
“He asked if I’d… thanked Ayagi for taking me home last night. Because he claimed he’d been the one to encourage me to drink, he would take responsibility and ensure I made it home safely.”
“So he was sober enough to know what he was doing,” Junta said, trying to keep his voice even. “Takato-san—”
“I shouldn’t have allowed myself to give into peer pressure,” Takato said, and it sounded like a line he’d studied and practiced as if they belonged to a script. The delivery was firm. Stable.
Junta hated it.
“It’s not your fault,” he repeated, just as firmly. “Yes, you drank, but he shouldn’t have encouraged you.”
“I’m responsible for my own decisions, Chunta.”
“But you’re not responsible for your own sexual assault!”
Takato flinched at that, and Junta instantly became swarmed with guilt. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the words came out harsher than he intended.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, gentler this time. “But it’s true. We have drinking cultures that are supposed to help keep us safe, right? If… if I’d been there…”
Junta trailed off. He had been in a similar situation, where Takato drank himself sick, but he hadn’t… he didn’t…
“I didn’t touch you,” he blurted suddenly.
A pause. Junta’s focus remained on the road, so he couldn’t read his expression or see if he was looking at him. Takato croaked out, “...huh?”
“The night you’d been incredibly drunk, the night I took the video to tease you?” he elaborated. “I did bring you home to my place, but I didn’t touch you. I had to get you out of your clothes because you’d gotten sick but I had no intention of—”
“Chunta,” Takato cut in softly. “I know.”
“Ayagi shouldn’t have touched you,” Junta persisted, because Takato blamed himself and he shouldn’t. The fact that Takato felt responsible was like a physical pain in his chest, heavy and aching. “Even… even if you made a move on him. Even if—”
“I wouldn’t,” Takato rushed to say. “I would never. I’ve… never wanted a man’s or a woman’s body. You… you’re the only one I…”
His heart swelled, and he appreciated Takato’s words deeply despite the situation. Usually, getting him to admit something like that would require a lot of coaxing, and even then, Takato stubbornly refused to look at him whenever he spoke.
This would’ve felt like an award if it weren’t for the circumstances.
“I feel nothing for him,” Takato insisted, sounding almost… desperate. “The idea of being with him makes me sick.”
“I know,” Junta assured gently. Softly. “I believe you, Takato-san. You were assaulted.”
“It… it wasn’t assault…”
His voice had dropped into something feeble. The ache in Junta’s chest suddenly felt much deeper than before.
“Even if—if, hypothetically, Takato-san—you consented,” Junta started carefully, “it wouldn’t have been valid consent. You wouldn’t have been able to make any clear choices in that state of mind.”
Takato remained quiet.
“And since Ayagi was the sober one, it’s his fault for taking advantage of you. He shouldn’t have touched you.”
While Takato seemed to absorb—or ignore, Junta couldn’t quite tell yet—his words, Junta made a right turn. They were a few minutes away from Takato’s apartment, now.
“He… he marked me,” Takato whispered woodenly. “Even… even if he’s messing with me, and he didn’t… if we truly didn’t… he still left a mark. It sickens me.”
“We can… try some things to make it fade,” Junta assured him. “There are techniques. How does that sound?”
An instinctive, painful part of him hoped Takato would accept. He ached to take care of Takato, cook for him, run a bath for him, to make sure he was as comfortable as he could be. Takato deserved to be warm and comfortable, deserved a full stomach before bed, and deserved to be pampered.
He wanted to do anything—everything—he could to erase the anxiety from Takato’s beautiful features. To ease his discomfort. To make him feel like himself: his gorgeous, stunning, confident self.
“O…okay,” Takato murmured finally.
The relief was so strong that Junta fought the urge to sag in his seat.
He sped the rest of the way to Takato’s apartment.
When they arrived, the first thing Junta did was check Takato’s fridge for ingredients to make him a meal. He quickly realised, however, that Takato lacked any main component to make even simple dishes. He didn’t even have rice.
Takato stood by his side, shifting uneasily. An adorable blush tinted his cheeks. “Ah, s…sorry.”
“Don’t be, Takato-san,” Junta assured instantly. “How about we order something to be delivered?”
“If… if that’s what you want.”
“Great!” Junta fished out his phone and unlocked it in seconds. “What would you like?”
“I don’t know,” Takato said and expelled a sigh. “I’m not in the mood for anything in particular.”
“Shall I surprise you, then?”
“Nn. Go ahead.”
Instinct would’ve been to give him anything he asked for, but if he had no specific cravings, Junta supposed he would have to get creative. Takato wasn’t all that picky of an eater, but he was also extremely conscious of societal pressures and diet cultures—things that were only amplified in the entertainment industry.
(Not that he had any reason to worry. Takato was perfect, no matter what.)
He pondered over this for several moments before scrolling through his phone’s web browser for nearby delivery services.
He went for tuna cutlets because he knew Takato was fond of tuna, with a side of miso soup, white rice, and satsuma-imo. Then, on impulse, he looked through the restaurant’s dessert menu.
Takato loved cake when he was feeling upset. Sasaki had told him so, but he’d also seen it firsthand.
Wasn’t it perfect, then, that this restaurant served strawberry shortcake?
“Order is placed, Takato-san,” Junta announced as he took a seat next to Takato on the couch.
Takato hummed but didn’t look up at him. Junta took this time to study him.
He’d noticed in the car that Takato had been pale, but it was even more obvious now. He looked exhausted.
Sure, he’d have worn makeup for the play, but that should’ve been removed by now. This gave Junta a clear view of the dark circles under his eyes, which were already slightly red. He’d yet to take off anything he’d worn to work, but…
“You’re staring.”
Takato hadn’t looked up at him when he said the words, but they were accurate nonetheless. Junta smiled sheepishly.
“I’m sorry, Takato-san,” he said. “I just… couldn’t help but notice that you look tired.”
Takato went stiff, then. Quietly: “You said… there are techniques to get rid of the mark?”
He didn’t gesture. Didn’t reveal said mark. Didn’t move at all. Junta knew what he meant anyway.
“We can try some things to make it less noticeable, yes,” Junta said. “It won’t disappear overnight, though…”
Takato cursed under his breath. He raised a hand to the side of his neck, which was covered by his button-up shirt, before his palm trailed up to his face, and he leaned into it, elbows resting on his knees.
“Give me a break,” he muttered.
Junta’s heart ached at the sight of him, at the miserable tone of his voice. It had always been something he’d wanted to do—cover Takato with love bites, show off that he was taken, that he had a partner. The reality, however, was that he couldn’t: they were both actors—and also Japan’s number one and two most desirable bachelors—and the attention those types of marks would draw would most likely be negative.
So he respected Takato’s wishes. It wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway, if Takato didn’t enjoy it. He’d always want Takato to enjoy it. He would only leave marks if that was what Takato wanted.
And… and now someone else had…
“I’ll be back, Takato-san,” he said, standing up without delay. “If… if it’s alright, would you remove your shirt and jacket so I can see?”
Takato looked up at him, finally. The anxiety written all over his precious, gorgeous features only deepened Junta’s heartache. Oh, how he longed to rewind time somehow and make sure none of this had happened.
“So we can tend to the bruise,” he elaborated gently. “Is that okay?”
Slowly, Takato nodded and began unbuttoning his shirt. Junta’s first instinct was to create a cold compress of sorts, but Takato was slender and sensitive to the cold. A warm compress would be better.
He went about collecting the materials for one—two towels and a bowl of fresh, warm water—and by the time he returned to Takato’s sofa, Takato had removed his shirt and jacket to reveal the mark for the proper aftercare.
Takato’s expression bled uncertainty. Junta desperately wanted to kiss that uncertainty away, to hold him—the desire to do so was almost painful—but the first step in helping Takato right now was to ease the bruise.
The ravenous part of him burned with jealousy at the thought of another man’s lips on Takato’s neck. He shoved that part down. It wasn’t Takato’s fault. Takato didn’t willingly take part in this, didn’t ask for this.
“Chunta…” Takato began but trailed off.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry. For dragging you into this, for…” Takato shuddered, and the sight saddened Junta beyond belief. “...I had no intention of…”
“Takato-san.”
Slowly, slowly, Junta reached for him, his hand hovering over Takato’s cheek, but he didn’t touch him. After yesterday, he wasn’t sure if Takato was open to physical contact, so he held still despite how much he yearned to embrace him.
“I’m not angry at you,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice gentle. “This isn’t your fault. You’re still the same Takato-san you were the last time I saw you. You’ve no reason to apologise.”
Takato still hesitated, expression uneasy. Gradually, gradually, he raised a hand to meet Junta’s, caressing his fingers. He drew in a stuttering breath, but it was smooth when he exhaled. “Okay.”
With his free hand, Junta dipped one of the towels into the bowl of warm water he’d previously set on the coffee table. As he pressed the warm towel to Takato’s skin, Takato winced.
“Sorry,” he said instantly. “Does it hurt?”
Takato shook his head but said nothing. Junta kept the compress flush to Takato’s neck, keeping an eye on the time.
“We should probably do this again right before bed,” Junta said when they finished. “And we’ll have to do it again tomorrow. Okay?”
Takato took the towel from Junta’s grasp and nodded again hastily, fixing his shirt—an action that seemed pointless at this time of night, since he had the option to change into something more comfortable.
The doorbell rang. Their food must’ve arrived.
Takato stayed quiet as they ate, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in finishing the meal, as if he didn’t have much of an appetite. He did, however, seem to appreciate the serving of strawberry shortcake.
“Takato-san,” he murmured when they finished, “are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“...you always eat cake when you’re upset,” Junta pointed out.
Takato stilled for a moment but then relaxed and heaved a sigh. “I… wish I knew if… if anything happened…”
Junta made up his mind right then. Perhaps he should’ve asked Takato—should’ve discussed it with him to get his opinion—but he didn’t want to further upset him. Not when he’d already been through so much today.
Instead, he said, “We’ll figure it out. How about a bath, for the moment?”
“You’re being awfully thoughtful to a person who may have cheated on you,” Takato muttered.
“You didn’t cheat on me,” Junta said instantly. “Any kind of sexual contact that happens to you when you don’t consent to it is sexual assault, Takato-san.”
Takato fell silent, his expression growing unreadable. One of Takato’s many talents—wiping his face clean of emotion so nobody, not even Junta, could tell what he was thinking. Junta still wasn’t entirely convinced Takato believed him.
“...a bath sounds pleasant,” Takato said quietly after a time.
“Okay. I’ll prepare one for you.”
Junta stood to fulfill this promise, head full of worry for his beloved, especially because Takato remained on the couch. It wasn’t until Junta had filled the bath and shut off the water that he appeared in the doorway, his expression once again indecipherable.
“It’s ready for you,” Junta said anyway, flicking water from his fingers. “I can go fetch some clothes for you if you’d like—”
He’d begun his trek to the other side of the bathroom with the intention of leaving but paused, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat when Takato reached for his wrist.
“Takato-san?” he pressed when Takato remained quiet.
Takato’s gaze was trained on the floor, but Junta saw the tinges of pink that crawled into his cheeks. Hesitantly, he asked, “...will you… stay?”
Delight swelled in his chest, spreading all throughout his body in moments. A smile found his lips before he could even think, his whole face lighting up at the request.
Just to make sure he understood correctly, he asked, “Do you… want to bathe together, Takato-san?”
Takato pointedly wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he might have thought that he was scowling, but to Junta it looked more like a pout. The blush on his cheeks seemed to only grow darker. “If—if you don’t want to, that’s fine. You can leave.”
“No! I’d love to!”
A few minutes later they both sat in the tub, enjoying the steaming warmth of the water, with Takato between Junta’s legs, his back to Junta’s chest. Junta’s arms threaded around Takato’s slender shoulders, and while the position had no lustful intent, it was intimate. Junta would be content to hold Takato like this for hours.
“Is this okay?” he asked, just to be sure.
Perhaps it would be better to release him, so he could stand up and leave if he desired. The selfish part of him tightened his hold.
“Mm. S’fine.”
Junta relaxed a little, leaning forward so his chin rested over Takato’s collarbone. “Are you okay, Takato-san?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be, though.”
A pause. “I don’t understand…”
“Hm? What do you mean?”
“You should be angry,” Takato went on, sinking lower into the water. The water rippled faintly around them.
“To be honest, I am very angry at Ayagi-kun…”
“I mean with me.”
Junta shook his head even though Takato wasn’t facing him to see it. He nuzzled into Takato’s neck, squeezing him gently. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Even so… I may have slept with another…”
He didn’t finish his sentence, instead shuddering against Junta’s body, and even in the warmth of the bath, his skin was pebbled with goosebumps.
“That would’ve been rape, Takato-san,” Junta told him gently.
Takato said nothing. Just stared down at the water.
“We can… report it if you like,” Junta suggested.
“That will stir up a lot of controversies,” Takato said, shaking his head faintly. “And… he is the lead actor in our play. And I don’t… have any proof. Even if I did, they would have to find someone to replace him, and it would disrupt the whole project.”
Junta pursed his lips. He hated the idea of this guy getting away with what he did, but Takato spoke the unfortunate truth. The consequences of reporting Ayagi seemed worse than not reporting him…
“Okay,” he said, although the word left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Shall I pick you up tomorrow evening, then?”
“I’m not sure what tomorrow will entail,” Takato answered with a sigh. “And… it may be suspicious if we are seen together when we’re not co-starring in the same project…”
The words stung, but he understood the meaning behind Takato’s concerns. The media loved to exaggerate little details, and Japan wasn’t very accepting of the mere idea of same-sex couples.
Perhaps if they weren’t celebrities… but then, he loved his work, and so did Takato.
They sat in the bath until the water began to cool, with neither of them washing their hair, just enjoying the soothing heat. By then Takato had stopped responding to his questions. It took Junta a few moments to realise that this was because he’d fallen asleep.
You must be exhausted, Takato-san…
As carefully as he could, he slid an arm underneath Takato’s knees and the other around the small of his back. The water swished around them as he hoisted them up, stepping out of the tub. The air that swept over his bare, wet skin felt good, but Takato shivered immediately, whining a little, burying his face into Junta’s chest.
“Shh, Takato-san,” Junta whispered. “Just a moment.”
It took a few minutes to dry both of them off, especially because Takato wasn’t conscious. He knew he’d said earlier that they should’ve tended to the bruise again before bed, but he didn’t have the heart to wake Takato. If they’d been at his house, he would’ve dressed Takato in the fluffiest, warmest robe, but Takato owned no such thing. Instead, he just went straight to Takato’s bed, wrapping them both up in the covers.
“Good night, Takato-san,” he murmured, spooning him close.
Tomorrow, he’d get some answers for them both.
“You didn’t have sex with him, did you?”
Junta said the words as he set his drink down—a tasteless alcoholic beverage only ordered for the sake of appearances.
“Hmm?” Ayagi hummed, smirking. “What makes you say that?”
Junta’s grip tightened on his glass. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that stupid, cocky smirk off Ayagi’s face. “Because if you had… I would’ve been able to tell.”
He said it just to see Ayagi’s reaction. He wondered if, at this point, telling him it was sexual assault would’ve caused him to get defensive, or would’ve pushed him to lie, to save his own skin. He needed to the truth for Takato’s sake.
A heavy sigh. Ayagi leaned back in his chair. “No, I didn’t. When I was about to, I gave up with your damn call oozing with an intent to kill. Besides…”
He paused, swirling his cup before taking a long drink.
“I’m not shameless enough to screw with someone when they’re saying another dude’s name in their sleep all cute-like. But it wouldn’t have been fun to just let him slide away…”
Junta gritted his teeth and shoved down the part that was giddy over the idea of Takato mumbling his name in his sleep. How could he even begin to celebrate something like that when it was said to him in such a bitter tone?
“I don’t know if he’s surprisingly naive or easy,” Ayagi went on airily. “But he fell right into my trap, and it was funny.”
Junta took a long swing of his own drink. The ice chinked in his glass, and he stayed quiet as he placed it back on the bar. If he opened his mouth, he knew that his anger would’ve fueled him.
“So what happened?” Ayagi asked, turning to face him. “If you’re going to break up, I’ll take him off your hands. It’s been a while since someone’s got under my skin. Hey, you should really consider letting me have—”
Junta stood up. He slammed his drink down.
“You realise what you did is sexual assault, right?”
Ayagi blinked. “Huh?”
“Takato-san was drunk,” he clarified, fixing him with a cold glare. “And you just said he’d been asleep. Whatever you did to him, he wouldn’t have been able to properly consent. That makes it sexual assault.”
“Whoa, chill.” Ayagi raised his hands up. “I just said it was a prank. Sure, I wanted to, but—”
“You just said you would have if I didn’t call you.”
“I didn’t, though.”
Junta glared even harder. “You left a hickey on him.”
“Oh,” Ayagi said and leaned back. “Yeah, I did. It was to get back at him for pissing me off.”
“Sexual assault isn’t fucking funny,” Junta hissed. “Don’t you get that? I—”
I’ve never seen him so scared.
Junta cut himself off before the words could come out. If he said that, it could’ve been exactly what Ayagi wanted to hear. And he knew that Takato wouldn’t appreciate him volunteering such information, especially to the very person who had caused that fear.
Junta drew in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. Exhaled slowly, pushing the rage down, down, down.
“Tell me, Ayagi Chihiro-kun,” he said, painting on a smile despite how he seethed on the inside, “I’ve heard rumors that you pillow-talked your way up the ladder… is that true?”
Ayagi blinked in surprise, but then laughed. “Oh, that. The women I’ve bedded are high-society types. They’re like me—compartmentalize and go about their business. Do you want to be like me and use your body to encourage them? I could introduce you if you like~”
“No,” Junta said, standing. The way Ayagi shifted gears so easily seemed to show Junta that he wasn’t even remorseful. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Ah, you’re quick to back off,” Ayagi said teasingly. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m serious about snatching Saijou-san away.”
“Takato-san is not a toy you can take. He isn’t a doll or some plaything. I love him very much, and a future where he is with anyone other than me… does not exist.”
Trying to stay as calm as possible, he pulled a bill from his wallet to cover his drink. But the more he spoke, the hotter his rage became, and he couldn’t help himself from reaching for Ayagi’s collar.
“You got lucky this time,” he said poisonously. “I don’t want to ruin this job for him by beating the hell out of the lead. But if you ever intend to hurt Takato-san, whether it’s a prank or not…”
He leaned in close, eyes narrowed.
“...you’d better be prepared to regret a whole lot of things.”
Junta left then, with a falsely polite farewell. Slipped his hand into his pocket to hit the pause button on his recording device. In his other pocket was a container of mints—something to quell this overwhelming, explosive rage. He was almost out of the building when his control wavered again and he pulled the tin can out to pop the mints into his mouth.
His phone vibrated.
Junta paused, abandoning the tin can in favor of the device next to it. Tapped it awake. His heart swelled in his chest.
Takato wrote: I’m at your place.