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Chapter Text

It’s been said that if somebody were to grab the United States by the East Coast and shake it like a blanket all the normal, well-adjusted people would hold on and all the rest would tumble off and end up in Los Angeles.

Maybe that’s true.  After all, L.A. is where you landed. 

Alone, with no family and not even a friend (not after you burned your bridges and walked off your last job after less than one night), things were looking bleak.  That job was supposed to be your lifeline, your foot in the door in a new city and a means to pay the rent on your crappy one-bedroom Koreatown apartment with the hallway that smells like dog pee.

And ughhhh the rent!  You’d spent nearly all your savings getting here and putting down the first and last month, as well as deposit.  And it’s not like you had any savings or anybody to fall back on.  This was it: a leap that you needed to make because if you missed there was no safety net.

Thank God a new job came up quick in this Little Tokyo restaurant.  A popular restaurant, too, despite being a little cheesy and touristy.  Or maybe because of that. 

Faded red-and-white paper lanterns, the tops coated with dust, hang over chipped wooden booths separated by an attempt at Japanese slatted screens.  Generic noren curtains hang over the doorway to the kitchen.  An Asahi maneki-neko sits on a shelf above the cash register, and a long lit glass case filled with ice and stocked with slabs of pink and orange seafood presides over the sushi bar, with a couple of actual Japanese sushi chefs in red aprons standing behind it.  The fare is pretty standard… you could walk into any Japanese restaurant anywhere in the world and find the same pictures, the same dinner sets on the order-by-number menu. 

Yeah, you were lucky to get this job.

A job you sort of suck at.

Hey, it’s only been a week.

“You,” the owner hisses, flapping a stack of menus and snapping you out of your reverie.  “End of the sushi bar, new customer!”

You look up anxiously from where you are wiping and refilling a tray of condiment jars, a spoon of sweet red pickles in your hand, and set it aside nervously.

“I’m so sorry,” you say to the older woman, peering through the bustling room, cheeks flushing in mortification.  “I’ll get to them right away!”  You take a menu from her and weave through the diners, inwardly cursing yourself. 

As the newest member of the wait staff the sushi bar is supposed to be your look-out.  Easy work, while you’re learning the ropes.  That, and filling condiment jars, wiping and bussing tables, topping off glasses of water and running checks back and forth when the other waiters and waitresses are behind.  All the grunt-work, really, but at least the other staff gives you a percentage of their tips until you graduate up to waiting tables.

The sushi bar is nice because most customers sitting there are handled by the sushi chefs, ordering from them directly on little slips of paper marked with stubby half-length pencils.  All you have to do is tend to their drinks, appetizers and sometimes retrieve an entrée or bowl of ramen for them from the kitchen, and at the end you pick the order slip up and add it to their check.  Unfortunately, the sushi bar is “seat yourself,” meaning the hostess doesn’t alert you that a customer is there.  And when it’s busy like this and you’ve been doing side-work…

Damn, you hope whoever it is hasn’t been waiting long.  You really can’t afford to lose this job.  The other wait staff makes it look so easy and natural, but you’re learning fast that restaurant work is hard work.  Anybody who deals with strangers and their food ought to be paid the same as a doctor or a lawyer, you think ruefully.  It takes way more brains and way more people skills.  Two things you’re starting to suspect you’re seriously lacking in.

Approaching the customer from behind you can see he’s a young man.  And a quirky one, at that.  He’s wearing a long, rumpled tan trench coat that is decidedly not in style.  Unkempt, shaggy brown hair brushes his shoulders.  As he lifts his hands animatedly towards the sushi chef, with whom he’s engaged in jovial conversation based on the usually-taciturn man’s smile (that particular chef never smiles), you catch a glimpse of white bandages circling his wrists peeking out from his rolled sleeves.

You hesitate.  What a character.  Skid Row isn’t far from here… but he doesn’t seem like a homeless or crazy person who’s wandered in off the main plaza.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Ahhh!” he exclaims delightedly, turning and tilting his face up to look at you.

You nearly drop the menu in surprise and the noisy restaurant behind you seems to dull and fade because all the blood has rushed to your face and… well, other parts.

Fuck, this guy is gorgeous. 

No wonder the sushi chef looks so uncharacteristically friendly.  The man has the type of good looks that surround him like a halo, the kind that turns heads both male and female.  His face is heart-shaped, almost too beautiful to be called handsome, clean-shaven with dark narrow eyes you could drown yourself in.  You glance down to a perfect nose, thin lips that quirk up into a sensual smirk, an angular chin and lower to his Adam’s apple just brushed by another ring of white bandages above the collar of a dress shirt and turquoise bolo tie (interesting choice but okay).  His shaggy chestnut hair frames his features perfectly, tumbling over an intelligent forehead.  You’d love to shove your hands into that hair, smoothing it back and drinking in the sight.

He smiles, and you’re pretty sure it just caused you to ovulate. 

He’s saying something to you and it takes a moment to realize that he isn’t speaking in English but in rapid, flowing, sing-songy Japanese.

“I’m… I,” you stammer.  “I don’t speak Japanese.”

“Ah! I’m sorry,” he says, beaming, his eyes crinkling adorably.  His English is excellent, with a hint of an accent.  “I forget myself.  I was just having the most stimulating conversation about pufferfish with…” he squints at the sushi chef’s name tag, “Tadanobu-san here.  Did you know, if it’s prepared wrong, the neurotoxin will kill you?” 

“You don’t say,” you hum, glancing over at the chef who moves on to another customer hailing him from down the bar.  “Can I get you something?  A drink?”  You slide the menu in front of him.

“Sake,” he says, not bothering to look at the menu, still beaming up at you. 

“Anything else you’d like?” 

His smile widens. 

Shit, that sounded like flirting.

“Just sake… for now,” he says.

Okay that also sounded like flirting.  Could this guy actually be flirting back?

“I’ll… get it for you.”  You tap the menu, hoping to distract him from your flustered blush.  “I can leave this here, in case you think of anything else.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need the menu to know what I want,” he smirks. 

Fuck fuck fuck

“Just in case.  We have a full kitchen, the broth in the house ramen is really good, we make the stock here ourselves, and black cod is on special right now, and…” You pause, realizing you’re rambling.  “Oh right, I should ask:  what kind of sake?”

“The most expensive one you have,” he says, his dark eyes amused. 

“Right.  Do you have I.D.?”

“Of course.”  He looks away, digging in the breast pocket of his trench coat.  After a moment he produces a passport and flips it open, displaying it for you to lean forward and examine.

You’re fairly certain the Japanese government doesn’t allow passport photos where the subject is wearing a shit-eating grin and flashing a peace sign but whatever.  Good enough.

“Happy birthday, Mr. Tsushima,” you comment, noting the date and his name.

“Hmm?” 

“Your birthday.  It was your twenty-first last week.”

“Oh right.  Yes, of course.  I forgot about that!  What with the travel and all.  I haven’t been here long in Los Angeles.”

Odd that he wouldn’t recall it was his birthday recently, but perhaps in Japan the twenty-first isn’t as big of a deal as it is here…

“Mine was a few weeks ago, too,” you say, kicking yourself inwardly for being so lame.  This is a customer.  He’s here to be served, not to be bored by details about you.

“Oh, we’re both Goats,” he says happily.  “That could be interesting!  Goats are very nurturing!”

“Yes.  Umm…”  You look up and notice the boss lady watching you.  “I’ll be right back with your sake.”

Tsushima, you think to yourself as you push through the hanging curtains to the back room for a sake set.  His name is Tsushima Shūji. 

It seems Tsushima is there for the long haul.  He sits at the end of the bar all through the after-dinner rush, as well as the Friday night chaos of young restaurant-goers and tourists that flock to Little Tokyo for a Sapporo and otsumami.  Your tray is filled with little dishes of edamame and takoyaki and bacon-wrapped asparagus and every few passes you dip in to check on him and bring him a fresh bottle of sake.

And, let’s be honest, to bathe in his presence.

“Hey,” he says, hooking one arm around your waist as you walk past.  As the empty sake bottles have increased he’s been getting more and more handsy.  Which you’re not exactly discouraging.  He graces you with a dazzling, half-drunk pout.  “You’re not paying attention to me!  Can’t you have a quick drink?”

“I’m working,” you laugh, swatting his hand aside. 

“Booo!”  His face sinks and he slumps in his chair, morose.  Then he brightens.  “You have to say yes!  Waitresses find me irresistible!”

“Is that so?”  You tilt your empty tray and squeeze it against your side to free both hands, setting one fist on your hip.  “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

“It’s true,” he nods.  “A friend of mine once told me that I was cursed to be attractive to women.  And waitresses, in particular… maybe because they’re used to taking care of people.  You’re a Goat, on top of that.  You’re doomed to fall for me!”

“Nurses take care of people, too.”  You eye his bandages.  “So why not go find a nurse?”

“Oh nurses!”  He looks up, rolling his eyes.  “Let’s not even start on nurses!  They like me, too.  I guess maybe any woman who likes taking care of people, I’m catnip to them!  They can’t help themselves.”

“So you’re an opportunist, huh?” 

“Oh not at all!”  He raises both hands, waving them as if to banish the very idea, closing his eyes to block the sight of such nonsense from his vision.  “If some woman wanted to take care of me, then that’s on her.  It’s not like I’m trying to take advantage!”

“But you wouldn’t say no?”  You smile teasingly.

“I definitely wouldn’t say no,” he says, his voice low and eyes opening slowly, eyelashes lifting from his cheekbones like curtains rising on a stage.  “So how about that drink?”

“Fine.” 

He squints, leaning forward to pour a small glass of sake, spilling a bit and you realize this guy – Tsushima – is perhaps more drunk than you’d thought.  His fingers brush yours as you take the cup from him.

“Kanpai,” he says, lifting a second cup and downing it.  “Now:  another.”

“Tsushima, are you trying to get me drunk?”  You glare down at him in mock seriousness.

“Me?  What?  The very suggestion.”  He clicks his tongue indignantly as you look across the restaurant to ensure nobody is watching, then down the second cup like a shot.

“Very good,” he praises you.  “Bring another bottle.  This one is empty.”

By closing time you’re tipsy, having taken another cup of sake nearly every time you’ve stopped to flirt with Tsushima. 

Sneaky little things, those sake cups.  Each one on its own feels inconsequential… until they begin to add up.  And unfortunately you haven’t had anything to eat since before your shift started at 4pm… and it’s almost midnight.

Speaking of Tsushima… there’s no way to tell how much he’s had.  You’ve lost count of how many bottles you’ve brought to him, how many empties you’ve cleared away.  You’ve even forgotten to mark a few on his bar slip, you’re sure.  And he is absolutely wasted, the last customer at the bar.

The sushi chef behind the counter is wiping his hands and taking off his white chef’s hat, shaking his head in response to a question you didn’t hear.  He says something to Tsushima in Japanese that makes him frown.  He looks up at you with melodramatic disappointment. 

“This guy is telling me he’s closing down the sushi bar,” Tsushima complains.

“It is almost midnight,” you respond.

“But I’m hungry,” he whines petulantly. 

“Kitchen is closing down, too,” you say apologetically.

“Then bring me something that doesn’t need to be cooked.”

“Um… maybe a dish of edamame?”  You think, considering the options.  Getting something in this guy’s stomach is probably not a bad idea because, other than a few pieces of sushi when he first came in hours ago, he’s been on a liquid diet.  “Or the miso soup, all I have to do is ladle it out…”

“Pfft.  Boring.”  Tsushima waves both hands as if shooing away your offerings.  He throws himself back in his chair and manspreads, grinning up at you.  “Haven’t you got anything exciting to eat?”

“Exciting?  It’s, uh… food.  I’ve never found tempura or udon thrilling, so…”

“Something emotive,” he cuts you off.  “Something that makes you feel alive.  That’s it!”  His eyes widen beneath his tumbled hair.  He slaps one hand on the counter, causing the empty sake bottles to jump.  “Bring me something alive.”

 “Alive?”

“Yeah, sure!  Haven’t you ever wanted to do something just to see what it makes you feel?  To make sure you can still feel?”

“I suppose.”  You hesitate.  There’s something “manic pixie boy” about his suggestion.  Maybe he’s offering it up just for shock value and to prove how very different he is.  But the sparkle in his dark eyes is dead earnest (unnervingly so) and, truth be told, you’re interested to see where this goes.

“The soft-shell crabs we get in for the spider rolls are alive,” you say, thinking.  It’s true.  They come in on a tray of ice each morning.  And although the sluggish, dejected little things barely move technically they are living.  At least until they’re tossed on the grill and smashed flat with a spatula.  “That’s the only thing I can think of.”

“Perfect!” 

“Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm I love crab.  Bring me... bring me four of them.  That’s the unlucky number.  Or lucky, depending how you look at it.”

“Well… okay.”

You push through the noren into the kitchen and head to the chiller, pulling the door open and crouching down to the stainless-steel bin filled with ice.  There’s a bucket next to the tray that’s usually used to add more ice, and it’s reasonably clean.  You select four of the liveliest looking crabs, each about the size of the palm of your hand, ignoring the ones on the bottom that you’re pretty sure have expired, and drop them into the bucket.

You hesitate.  Should you wash them?  Their little arms are waving around sluggishly, scrabbling against the sides in a half-hearted attempt to escape. 

Nah.  He asked for it… This is what he gets.

“So?”  Tsushima looks up as you return with the bucket in your hands. 

You plunk it down in front of him and you both lean in, observing the little creatures inside.  Tsushima’s lips split into a delighted grin.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, suddenly feeling guilty for collaborating in something so stupid with somebody so obviously inebriated.  Before you can react his hand darts in, grabbing one and stuffing it into his mouth.  “Oh, okay, you just did.  Holy shit.”

Tsushima chokes on his laughter, crunching down on the squirming crab.  The tiny claws waving out from between his lips look surreal, like something out of a science fiction movie.  He reaches up, poking the claws in, chewing away happily.  With a bob of his Adam’s apple he swallows, wincing, eyes watering.  Then he reaches for another.

“Not bad,” he comments, popping the second one into his mouth.  “A little harsh on the way down…”

Is this creepy?  Or funny? Do people eat live things in Japan or is this… super weird?

“I’ll… get you some water.”  You back away slowly, eyes wide, unsure what to think and unable to look away.  You watch as all four crabs disappear into his mouth.  Then you turn and rush towards the beverage center for a pitcher and fresh glass. 

 “Hey,” the owner catches your arm and you jump guiltily, sloshing water.  “How much did you serve him?”  She’s staring at Tsushima and the bucket on the table next to him in disapproval.  Thank God nobody else in the restaurant saw you serve him the crabs.

“Oh, I… uh…” You fumble for words, mouth opening and closing stupidly.

She exhales in disgust, pulling you towards Tsushima.

He’s leaning on the counter, chin propped on his fist, singing something to himself in Japanese and idly tracing a finger through a puddle of sake spilled on the worn wooden surface.  He burps, then stops singing long enough to pick at something stuck between his back teeth.

The owner leans forward, tapping him on the shoulder. 

He slumps towards the counter, his chin sliding from his fist, then catches and rights himself.

The owner says something to him in fast Japanese that causes him to smile and reach into his breast pocket.  He produces a sleek black wallet and cracks it open, peering into it, trying and failing to extract a credit card. 

“M’not that drunk, mama-san,” Tsushima slurs, attempting a charming smile that comes off as lopsided and insipid. 

Another rapid burst of Japanese and Tsushima answers, handing her the whole wallet and waving his hand towards it permissively.

The owner sighs and opens the wallet, her face crinkling.  She produces one card after the other for him to examine until he nods and collapses back into his chair. 

“Charge him out on this,” the owner says, handing the card to you.  “And you’re the one who over-served him.  You’re getting him home.”

“I’m what?!” 

“It’s your fault!”  the owner snaps back.  “What am I supposed to do?  Close the restaurant up with him still in it?  He can barely walk.  And I need the cooks to help me.  Here.”  She shows you a business card clipped to the backside of the wallet with an address scrawled on it and pushes it into your stunned hands.  “He says this is where he lives.  It’s the converted condos over the bookstore at the end of the plaza.  You can manage that, can’t you?”

“I suppose…”  You trail off, looking down at Tsushima who has crossed his arms on the wet counter and set his head down on them, still singing softly to himself.

“Futari nara dekiru,
Shinjū, shinjū, shi-shi- shinjū oooh yeah…”

He hiccups, then giggles.  “M’not so drunk, mama-san,” he repeats, turning to throw his arms around your waist and bury his face in your hip, giggling.

You disentangle yourself from him, red-faced, and hurry to the computerized till with the wallet and card.  You tap the glowing display, squinting to concentrate through your sake buzz until you find his check and wincing at the total.  You add on a 20% tip and run the card (a black one, you note) then flip open the wallet to slide the card back into one of the little slots. 

“Nice,” you huff to yourself, surveying the contents:  around $100 in small bills, several more cards and a single, foil-wrapped condom.

The nighttime plaza is cold, dimly-lit by the red and white lanterns strung across the walkway above the cement planters of spindly autumn trees and ragged flowers.  Most of the restaurants are closed or closing, and the tourist shops selling plastic made-in-China samurai swords, cheap costume kimonos and blue-and-white porcelain dishes of dubious origin were shuttered hours ago.

Only a few drinking places are open later, and the other pedestrians you see are obviously hurrying past on their way to other parts of Los Angeles where the night life is just getting started instead of winding down.

Tsushima zig-zags drunkenly down the plaza like a rudderless ship, pulling you with him as he goes, his arm warm about your shoulders and his side pressed to yours.  Which is welcome for two reasons.  One: your forgot your hoodie at the restaurant in your haste to get him out and away from the owner’s watchful eye; and two:  his arm around you feels really, really fucking good.

You correct him each time he gets too close to careening into one of the cement planters, redirecting him towards the bookstore.  Each time you do, he takes advantage of the situation to clumsily grope at you through the thin fabric of your white work shirt. 

“Kokoro chūshin chūshin chūshin,” he sings, hiccupping as he stumbles over a step in the dark.

You sigh.  Yeah, an arm (even a shit-faced-wasted one) feels amazing around your shoulder, but this is not how you’d pictured the night ending up:  babysitting your supposed lay back to his place.

“Hey,” he squeezes you in harder, leaning on you until the two of you almost tumble against the shuttered anime and toy store.  “Commit double-suicide with me, will’ya?”

“Huh?”  The scrunchy-face you pull must look awful but he’s too bleary to notice.

“You know.”  He pulls you against him and you have to brace both of you against a grimy wall next to a dark alleyway.  “Let’s find a bridge, hold hands, and jump off.  Let’s make a pact to do it, right now!”

“Mmm… I don’t know…”  You glance around you, down the dangerous-looking alleyway and smile apologetically at a couple coming towards you.  They rush past, obviously trying to avoid eye contact.

“Oh come on!  I ask every pretty girl I meet!  And you…”  He hiccups again.  “You are very pretty.  You know?”

Not really.  But whatever floats your boat, Tsushima.

“So you’ve asked a lot of girls?  That doesn’t make me feel special.”

“Oh…”  He slyly untucks your shirt, wriggling a hand in beneath and finding the lace of your bra, stroking at your nipples that have hardened in the chill autumn night.  He looks down, watching his own fingers in shocked surprise beneath the thin fabric, then looks up at you seductively.  “Just say yes and I promise I’d make you feel very special.”

“Tsushima…” You close your eyes, enjoying the sensation for a moment before steeling yourself and grabbing his wrist, pulling his hand from beneath your shirt.  “I think you’re a little drunk.”

“Oh absolutely, I am.  Yes.  I am very very very drink.  I mean drunk.”  He nods in agreement, pushing away from the wall and continuing his meandering stumble down the sidewalk.  “But there must be a nice bridge we can get to.  With a river!  Oh!  We could drown together!”  You catch up to him and he squeezes and shakes you with excitement.

“Not really.  I think the L.A. river is about ankle-deep right now.  If that.  It’d be hard to drown in.”

“Waow,” he breathes, disappointed.  “What a terrible city.  Not even a decent river to drown yourself in.”

You tend to agree with him. 

“Welcome to Los Angeles,” you reply.

He goes back to singing, this time louder and a passing group of girls in their going-out clothes gives you a dirty look.

“Tsushima,” you whisper.  “Stop.  People are staring at us!”

Probably wondering what somebody as gorgeous as him is doing with somebody like you.  Probably thinking you’re taking advantage of the guy… which you’re half-considering, aren’t you?

“Well,” he hums, “Let’s give them something to see.”

And with that he twirls you to the side, both of you nearly falling into a cement planter, and his mouth is all over yours.

“Mmmph,” you grunt, pushing him away.  You enjoy the intention but the smell of sake and soft-shelled crab on his breath is a little too much to overcome.  Wiping the excess saliva he’s left on your lips discreetly with the back of your hand you allow him to mouth at your neck instead.

This guy’s a human octopus.

Indeed, his hands are all over you, to the point it feels like he’s got eight of them.  They slither to your ass, your waist, up the length of your spine and settle again on your poor abused breasts.

Fuck but that feels good.  Maybe he’s not too drunk…  The cold air has sobered you up from your slight buzz earlier.  Maybe Tsushima is sobering up, too?

“So’re we gonna fuck or what,” he slurs, sagging into you, clumsily pawing at your breasts through your thin white work shirt.  The alcohol on his breath curls warmly against your neck in the cool night air, catching in the warm shaggy brown hair that he brushes against your cheek like a drunken, insistent cat.

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you mumble reluctantly, although your body screams otherwise.

“Oh, c’mon,” he begs, taking your hand in his and sliding it down his (very firm, very smooth) stomach to his crotch.  “Don’t you wanna?”

Yes yes yes so much 

He’s completely soft beneath your hand.

“Um… Tsushima…” You try to wrest your hand from his but he grips it firmly, manipulating it against his flaccid cock in his pants.  You both close your eyes.

“You’re not even hard,” you finally point out.

“M’getting there,” he mutters, eyes closed, face screwed up in concentration.  “It’ll do it.  Just gimme a second.  I have to… have to…”

And with that he leans past you, over the planter, and vomits sour-smelling sake and bits of crab all over the poor petunias.

“Oh my God!”  You snatch your hand from where it’s still pressed to his crotch and pat him helplessly on the back, hoping to ease the bits of shell he’s coughing out.

“S’nothing,” he chokes, wiping his lips on one bandaged wrist before convulsing and bending down to release another watery gush.  “Just, uh, clearing that out.  Good to go, now.  Better than ever.”

“I think we need to get out of here.”

“Out of here, yeah,” he says dreamily.  “Let’s get out of here, someplace more… hic… intimate.  And then we’re gonna fuck.”

“Sure,” you respond, scanning the end of the plaza anxiously for the bookstore.  You spot it, and a nondescript, brightly-lit doorway next to it set into an alcove that must be the entrance to the condos.  “Just get you upstairs and then I’m totally gonna fuck your brains out, Tsushima.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah of course.  How could I not.” 

“You have to,” he whines as you stagger across the last few yards with him leaning on you like a wounded soldier.  “Waitresses love me.  I’m irre… irru…”

“Irresistible, I know,” you sigh, getting him to the shelter of the doorway. 

He lurches forward towards the keypad, banging his forehead on it, and scowls at the numbers.  It takes him at least five tries to punch the code in right but finally, mercifully the door buzzes and pops and the two of you tumble through it.

Wow, nice place.

The building is one of those converted and gentrified industrial buildings, brand-new and luxurious inside despite the plain outside appearance.  The foyer is designer, with elegant polished-concrete floors and tasteful, artsy exposed ductwork left as a nod to the building’s original purpose.  In thirty years it’ll look dated and crappy but for now it’s cutting-edge style. 

Rent here must be ten… no, twenty times what you’re paying.

The elevator is shiny chrome and mirrors and Tsushima stabs at a button, lighting it up before pinning you to the wall.  You catch sight of your own surprised eyes in the opposite mirror, widening above his shock of dark hair as he catches you confidently (if clumsily) by the cleft in your legs.  His searching fingers press into you, poking the fabric of your panties into your damp crotch.

Fuck, I’m actually really wet. 

“Promised, remember?”  He’s breathing hard against your neck, grinding himself into your thigh.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.  He pulls you down the dim hallway, pressing you to the wall here, then there, fumbling your way to the last door on the right and punching in another keycode.

If the lobby was nice, then this is incredible.  Tsushima sheds his coat and tosses it aside carelessly, stumbling past an achingly modern kitchen area and a pair of elegantly-uncomfortable leather couches.  He trips on stairs leading towards a bed on a raised area facing a floor-to-ceiling window looking out over the sprawling cityscape.  Downtown rises in the distance, the tops of the skyscrapers blinking green and red.  He makes the last few steps towards the bed on his hands and knees, then crawls up over the gray flannel comforter and lays there like a beached sea-star.

“Hey hey,” he giggles, wriggling as you pull off his shoes and start to loosen his shirt collar.  “So aggressive!  I’m into it.”

“Not right now,” you sigh in disappointment.  “If I don’t get this stuff off you, you’re going to be really uncomfortable.”

“Nah, we’re gonna do it.  Right here, right now.  Gonna do it…” he trails off, face upturned towards the exposed ductwork like the stuff in the lobby. 

“Sure we are,” you mutter, setting aside his belt and spreading his shirt open, finding that the bandages around his neck extend down and across his upper chest.  “We’re doin’ it right now.”

“Are we?”  His eyes widen, struggling to focus.

“Yeah.  It’s, um… fucking hot.  Amazing.  Feels so good.”

“Yeah of course.”  He swallows hard, something gurgling up again in his throat.  “Because I guarantee you, I’m pretty amazing.  Irre… stubble.”

“Irresistible,” you agree, turning him on his side so he won’t choke on anything.

Fortunately nothing other than snores come out of Tsushima’s mouth.  It seems like the planter bore the brunt of it.    

You brush aside his hair gently, examining his handsome face, wondering if you ought to look for a bathroom and a washcloth to wipe his mouth with.  The bandages on one of his wrists are covered with pinkish splotches and he stinks like a chum bucket. 

He looks so peaceful in sleep, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones. 

You ought to show yourself out.

“Sorry… sorry,” he whispers and for a moment you think he’s talking to you.  But his eyes are shut tight and he’s obviously too far gone to know you’re even still here.  He rolls to his back, arms outflung, then convulses and makes a wet noise in his throat again.

Again, you roll him to his side.

You sigh, mourning the wet heat in your panties that is now turning cold and clammy.

Maybe you’d better not leave just yet.  This is going to be a long, unsexy night.

Chapter Text

It’s still dark out when you come to on the couch, fully-dressed, head pounding and neck aching from your uncomfortable position curled on the smooth leather cushions. 

Blearily you pat around for your phone, finding it on the floor next to you and swiping it open, wincing.  The feeble light of the display in the dim loft is still too much for your sake hangover and you have to wait for a moment before you can read the time:  4:38am.

Shit

Soft snores emanate from somewhere over in the sleeping area, even and regular. 

Should’ve just let the guy pass out on his back.  If he choked in his sleep it would serve him right for leaving you hanging.

You stumble to the bathroom and click on the light, again wincing at the adjustment.  Of course it’s high-end and stylish, with the same artsy polished concrete on the vanity that’s all over this condo complex.  The sink itself is one of those modern deals where there’s no real bowl, only a cleverly-angled depression where the water from the faucet runs down to a hidden drain.  Must be a bitch to clean.  There’s shockingly little on the counter:  just a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste squeezed from the middle and a disposable safety razor.

Glancing at yourself in the mirror you wish you hadn’t turned on the lights.  You look like shit.  A seam from the arm of the couch has left a line across your cheek, you’re all wrinkled from dehydration and your hair is oily and flat on one side.  Even your clothes are wrecked, still reeking like tempura oil and that weird, generic old-food smell that all restaurant kitchens seem to have, no matter what type of restaurant it is.

After a quick attempt to sort yourself out you decide to check on your patient.  Waitresses and nurses, he’d said.  Of course.  How prophetic.  Because here you are, taking care of him, just as he’d predicted.  Didn’t even get laid out of it. 

You decide to fetch him some water from the kitchen area, digging in cupboards as quietly as possible for a glass.  Almost no food in the place other than a few instant ramen cups and tins of canned crab (which checks out – he HAD said he likes crab).  Everything looks brand-new and barely used, blandly modern and clean like an IKEA showroom.  Looking around you realize even the few pieces of art on the walls are impersonal and vague: a zen wooden bridge disappearing into bamboo; a black and white cityscape devoid of pedestrians that you can’t place.  The loft probably came pre-furnished, you think to yourself.

He’s once again sprawled on his back when you return with the glass, setting it carefully on the bedside table, but it seems the worst of it is over because his breathing is deep and regular.  From here, he’ll just sleep it off.  You imagine a little anime sleep-bubble inflating and deflating from his nose as his tiny, adorable honk-shus fill your ears. 

You reflect on how unfair life is, standing above Tsushima, watching how the pre-dawn light of the city creates red and blue shadows on his handsome face.  After only one rough night on a couch you look like you walked out of a zombie apocalypse.  But the guy stretched out on the king-sized bed in front of you looks incredible.  His sleep-tousled hair across his forehead only adds to his careless good looks, and the faint circles beneath his eyes and crinkles at the corners just make him look somehow manlier.  His parted lips, if you don’t get too close to smell his breath, are devastatingly sexy.  Even his shirt and dark vest, mussed and unbuttoned, look as if they were deliberately styled and spread open to increase his appeal.

He’s devilishly, unconsciously attractive.  He’s nothing you could ever have.

You’re startled from your contemplation as Tsushima snorts, a snore catching in his throat.  You freeze as he reaches one hand down, bandages loosened, and scratches at his crotch before rolling away from you and settling back again into deep sleep.

That was close.  Would be awkward if he’d woken up to find you standing at the side of his bed, staring down at him like a serial killer in a slasher movie.

Yeah, it’s time to beat it out of here.  You don’t have work today (assuming you even still have a job after the shenanigans last night) but a good nap in your own bed is deeply necessary.  You also don’t want to deal with confronting Tsushima when he wakes up to find you still lingering in his very nice, very expensive loft.  Just the waitress who followed him home the night before.

You hesitate as you find your work-apron and shoes next to the door.  Should you leave your number?  But no, instead you pull on your shoes and reach for the doorknob.

Wait… are you worried that the headcase who ate a bucket of live crabs and proposed suicide before nearly throwing up all over you is too good for you?

It isn’t that.  Well, maybe it is.  I’d rather not deal with it is all.

Deal with what?  Nothing ventured, nothing gained…

Nothing ventured nothing lost.

What’ve you got to lose? Crazy in the head, crazy in the bed, they say.

Or just plain crazy.

It’s not like your life is going so well that you can’t afford to mess it up.

You might be surprised but I do still have something left to lose.

Like what.

You conjure an image for yourself of your phone number, written on a piece of paper that Tsushima crumples and tosses carelessly into the garbage can.  It sits there, eventually getting covered by a dripping instant ramen bowl and banana peel.  You sit in your own shitty apartment, watching your phone, checking it every few minutes to see if maybe, possibly a text or call came in that you didn’t hear…

After everything I’m just too fragile to deal with it right now.

Understood.

You wish Tsushima a silent goodbye and step out into the hallway, closing the door carefully behind you and listening for the snick of the lock clicking into place.

The elevator, dimly remembered from the night before, brings you swiftly to the lobby.  You’re thankful it’s still too early for anybody else to be up and about to see you as you step through the main door into the dark and chilly plaza.  Nothing is open.  Even the bakeries and breakfast spots won’t be turning on their lights, rolling out their awnings and welcoming the early risers for another couple of hours.

You check your phone, thinking.  The Metro Gold line probably isn’t running yet, and no bus will be coming for over forty-five minutes.  You could try one of those new ride-share services but aren’t sure how to do it.  You curse yourself for not waiting at least another hour before leaving Tsushima’s place.  The guy was passed out cold – chances were low he would’ve woken up.

Shit.

You slide your phone into your back pocket and are surprised to find an obstruction there.  Pulling it out your heart sinks.  It’s Tsushima’s wallet from when you’d charged him out at the restaurant.

You spin, hoping to catch the door before it locks behind you, but it’s far too late for that.  Next you survey the panel of buttons and nametags above the dialpad.  One of them is labeled “T.S.,” which must be his, but even if you were to lean on it you doubt it would wake him up.

Guess we’ll be seeing each other again soon, Tsushima.

Sighing, you head out of the plaza towards the main street.  Koreatown is way too far to walk, but maybe you’ll find a cab circulating along the way.

You’re brought up short by a sleek black limousine idling at the end of the plaza beneath a streetlamp.  Strange.  You glance up and down the deserted street, wondering if you ought to continue down and cross the street somewhere else, away from the ominous-looking vehicle…

Then again, it’s not like somebody in a limo is likely to jump you.

Decided, you punch the button for the crosswalk and wait.  As the light changes and you step forward the limousine also pulls away from the curb and rolls forward, blocking your path.

My bad, you wave towards the dark-tinted windows (although it isn’t), and step back, waiting for the limo to pass you.

Instead the window rolls down, revealing a slender middle-aged Asian man in a dark suit, a red scarf looped about his neck.

“Excuse me, Miss, but might I be of assistance?”

“I’m fine,” you respond quickly, trying to decide how to best and most quickly get out of this strange encounter.  “Just heading home.”

“Well then,” he smiles.  There’s something cat-like to the smile, something commanding in his odd amethyst eyes glowing up at you out of the darkness of the limo’s interior that don’t belong on a man of his porcelain complexion and sleek dark hair.  “Perhaps you can be of assistance to me.  I’ve just arrived in Los Angeles from Japan, and I have several hours until I can check in to my hotel.  With nothing to do but wait, I would consider it a nice distraction if you were to allow me to give you a ride somewhere.”  He unlatches the door and cracks it open hopefully.  “It’s so much better to drive through this city with a purpose, rather than meandering aimlessly.”

“Actually my bus should be arriving any minute,” you lie, eyeing the lavish interior of the limo and the very fine material of his dark suitcoat. 

Plus I’ve hit my limit for encounters with eccentric, handsome Japanese strangers for the past twelve hours.  Whole week, in fact.

“Oh.”  His face falls in disappointment.  He’s a man not used to being denied anything, you can tell, but he’s trying his best to conceal it.  “I insist.”  This time he pushes the door all the way open, gesturing around him.  “If you’re concerned, you’re quite safe.  The driver is there,” he gestures, “and if it makes you feel any better I have a son about your age, as well as a young daughter.  Think of my fatherly concern!  You would be doing me a service by allowing me to see you safely home.”

The chill morning air is very cold, reminding you again that you left your hoodie at the restaurant.  You look up and down the deserted street one last time, weighing your options.

“Well… okay.” 

“Lovely!”  He slides over, allowing you into the limousine and ushering you onto the seat across from him.  He presses a button set into a console at his arm.  “Driver, please take us to…” He raises one slim, perfect eyebrow.

“Oh.  Um… Sixth and Catalina.  Koreatown,” you respond, not quite willing to give him the full address. 

“Yes.  Sixth and Catalina,” he repeats.  After a beat the car moves forward and he settles back in his seat, legs crossed and gloved hands folded atop them.  He’s watching you expectantly, the streetlights rolling across his handsome face as they move past.

Everything about him is crisp and cool as a new razor blade, from his impeccable suit to his stylish, slicked-back dark hair.  A few tendrils of which artfully fall across his smooth, high, intelligent forehead.

“So… you’re new to town?” you ask, hoping to fill the silence with casual chit-chat.

“I am.  But only here temporarily.  I live in Yokohama.  Do you know it?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Indeed.  Well, do you know Tokyo?”

“Yes of course,” you reply.

“Everybody knows Tokyo.  They’re more or less the same city,” he smiles. 

“I see.”  You both lapse into silence again and you’re aware that he’s examining you, and not very discreetly, in the darkness.  Your grubby, smelly work clothes and disheveled appearance, as well as being out at this time of the morning are… embarrassing.

Walk of shame if he ever saw one.  Wonder if he knows how disappointing the night ended up being.

“So, going home at his hour,” he says, raising his eyebrows in amusement as if guessing your thought.  “Ah, to be young again.”

You open your mouth but snap it shut, finding you have no response or excuse, although you feel compelled to offer one.  His knowing smile makes you curl up inside.

“So what brings you to Los Angeles,” you finally ask, hoping to change the subject. 

“A medical conference,” he replies evenly. 

“You’re a doctor, then?”

“Mmm-hmm.  Or I was.  I still am.  But after the war I went into business.  I’m the head of a large… organization.  Medical services are only a small part of our portfolio but I still enjoy attending these things myself.  To check out the latest innovations, stay on top of new developments…  Oh I’m sorry, my name is Rintarou, by the way.”  He leans forward in his seat, holding his hand out across the darkness.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rintarou.”  You take his proffered hand weakly.  After the war… You calculate his age.  If he’s old enough to have served in the Great War, then he’s right:  he’s old enough to be your father.

He doesn’t look his age.  His brow is uncreased and smooth, his figure beneath his suitcoat lithe and solid, and his sparkling eyes and sharp chin lend him a boyish look.  The tiny parenthesis around his thin lips and the tiny crow’s feet that form when he smiles are the only indication that he’s anywhere out of his early 30’s.  That and his air of absolute, confident composure.

Down, girl.  Old enough to be your father.  Let that sink in.

“Just Rintarou.”  He grins, holding your hand just a moment too long.  Then he releases it, again settling back into the shadows.  “And yours?”

“It’s…” You hesitate, wondering if you ought to go so far as to give a fake name.  You decide against it, telling him your real one instead. 

He turns your name over in his mouth like it’s a fine vintage, pronouncing it carefully.  Something about it makes you shiver, you’re not sure why.

“And, um… So this is…” you look up and out the window.  “This is City Hall.”

“Mmm.  Quite.”  He nods, not turning to see what you’re pointing out.

His eyes on you are deep and focused, calculating. 

It’s because he’s a doctor.  And such an important man, too.  He must be used to sizing people up and not having to be polite about it.

Still, it makes you feel like a butterfly on a pushpin.

You narrate what little you know of Los Angeles as you progress towards Koreatown.  Mostly the obvious:  the One Wilshire Building, Wilshire Boulevard itself, MacArthur Park… You don’t really know the city well enough to say much but he listens intently, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he nods along.

Mercifully the drive is a quick one with so few other cars on the streets.  During rush hour this would’ve taken forty-five minutes… but on a morning like this it takes a third of that.

“Well, this is my stop,” you say, relieved as your neighborhood comes into view.  “You can just drop me on the corner.  Parking is really bad on the side streets.”

“Nonsense,” he admonishes you.  “I’ll see you safely to your door.  Which building is it?”

“It’s, um…” Again, you wonder about giving so much personal information to a stranger.  But a man like Rintarou… of what interest could you possibly be to him?

And maybe people in Japan are more trusting, and more trustworthy than in a city like Los Angeles. 

“It’s that pinkish one over there.”  You point it out, and he relays the information again to the driver through the intercom.

“Well,” he says as the limo rolls to a stop.  “Here’s to chance encounters.  They’re so fun, aren’t they?”  He tilts his head to the side, dark strands of hair sliding across his cheek and eyes crinkling with pleasure.  “Thank you, young lady, for allowing me to see you home.  It’s brightened my dull, dark morning to have your company, albeit for such a short time.”

“Thank you,” you reply, opening the door and stepping out, searching inside your work apron for your key.  “And I hope your stay here is, uh, productive.”

“As do I,” he smiles warmly.  It’s a warmth that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  Again, a shiver runs through you.

You shut the door, giving the man inside a small wave before turning towards your apartment building.

You’ve never been happier to shut a door behind you, not wanting to turn to watch the limo pull away.

Sexy, wasn’t he?

Again, old enough to be my father.  Not to mention the guy was a little scary.

Ah, but that’s what makes him exciting, isn’t it?

Sure.  Exciting. Here’s to chance encounters, you repeat wryly to yourself as you punch the button for the creaky, smelly elevator.

By early afternoon you’re fidgeting outside the door of Tsushima’s condo complex.

First you’d stopped by the restaurant to pick up your hoodie, half expecting the owner to hand you your first and final paycheck.  Instead she’d handed you an envelope with your take of the tips from the night before, sternly reminding you of the restaurant’s policy not to serve alcohol to anybody too visibly intoxicated.

Next you’d headed to the bakery section of the grocery store for a few breads wrapped in clear cellophane before proceeding to the drink cooler for a few outrageously overpriced (but cute) bottles of milk tea and Calpico. 

Finally, unable to put it off any longer, you square your shoulders against the crowd passing through the plaza behind you and push the call button marked with his initials.

After a minute of nervous waiting you’re just about to push the button again when the speaker clicks and he answers.

“Hello?”  His voice sounds chipper and cheerful.  “I didn’t order anything.”

“Hi it’s me, from last night.  I have your wallet.”  You wince.  You’d been practicing what you’d say the whole way over on the red and yellow lines and in the end, spoken out loud, it sounds dumb and forced.  Definitely over-rehearsed.

A moment’s silence.  And then:

“Oh, um… Oh yes!  Come up!  Do you know the apartment number?”

Does he even remember I was here last night?

“It’s… on the call-box label.  I just pushed the button.”

“Right, right!  Please, come up!”

The ride up in the elevator is nerve-wracking as you juggle the drinks and pastries to smooth your hair in the mirrored walls, checking the neckline of your shirt and turning to take stock of your ass in the jeans you’d chosen.  You wish you’d had something nicer to wear but you’re still living out of two suitcases.  Then again, maybe it’s best to look like you’re not trying too hard.

The door flies open before you get a chance to knock and you’re speechless.  Instead of the dress shirt and slacks you’d seen him in the night before he’s wearing gray sweatpants hanging loose on his narrow hips and a slouchy gray t-shirt.  The bandages on his forearms and neck have been changed and look more like a fashion statement than anything else.  His chestnut hair, freshly-washed, is curlier than you remember, giving him an impishly-handsome look that is completed by the good-natured sparkle in his dark eyes and the grin slinking over his lips.

He motions you through into the apartment, standing aside in a way that forces you to nearly brush against him as you pass.  In daylight the loft is even more impressive.  It must be five times the size of your own apartment, with stupid-high ceilings, the raised sleeping area and giant window you’d noted the night before, and an additional seating and entertainment area off to one side.  It looks architecture-magazine-perfect and thoroughly unlived in.

“I brought you this.”  You shove the grocery bag into his hands and he takes it, his eyes not moving from yours.  His smile spreads wider.

“I thought you might be hungry.  And thirsty.  You didn’t look like you’d be feeling too good this morning.”

“Mmm,” he hums in amusement, pushing the door shut and heading towards the kitchen area.  He empties the bag on the table and pulls out a chair, plopping into it and unwrapping a melon bread.  “Was I that bad?”

“You were,” you laugh as he kicks out the chair next to him with one lanky leg and gestures for you to sit.  You settle into the chair, choosing a bottle of strawberry Calpico and twisting it open.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbles around a big bite of the pastry.  A shower of crumbs falls to the table from his mouth and he sweeps them away.  “I hope I wasn’t too difficult.”

“You did alright.” 

“Did we… uh…” He sets the pastry down on its wrapper and holds out both index fingers, pointing them horizontally towards each other and tapping the tips together.

“Did we…?  Oh!  No!  We didn’t.”  You turn what must be the exact same shade of pink as your Calpico.  You take a sip of it to hide your grin.  “You tried your hardest, though.”

“Impossible.”  He takes another bite of his bread, emitting another sprinkle of crumbs as he talks.  “If I’d been trying at all there’s no way we wouldn’t have done it.  I can be pretty-”

“Irresistible, I know.  You told me that a few times.”  You laugh at the surprised expression on his face.  “You’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Well, here you are, right?”  He raises an eyebrow as if to say checkmate.

“Like I said: I’m here to bring you this.”  You pull his wallet from your pocket and slide it across the table.

“And that’s it?”  His lips turn down in adorable disappointment, looking at the wallet like you just set a dead fish onto the table instead.  Then he brightens.  “Hey, if it was just that, you didn’t have to bring me breakfast!”  He opens one of the bottles of milk tea and takes a satisfied slurp.  “Admit it:  you’re into me!”

“Maybe.”  You cross your arms, unable to suppress the smile that creeps across your own face. 

“How about dinner tonight?  I’ll pay you back.  For this.”  He gestures towards the pastries and drinks on the table. 

“It’s okay,” you vacillate, thinking of your resolve the earlier that morning not to get involved with this guy.  “Kindness of strangers, and all that.”

“I seem to recall you making me a promise last night,” he smirks, leaning in, his elbows on the table between you and his chin propped on his interlaced fingers.  “I’ll settle for you agreeing to let me take you out. For now…”

You choke on your sip of Calpico.

Oh, he knows he looks cute like that.

Fuck. So much for your resolve.

“Fine,” you say, twisting the cap back on your bottle.  “Dinner.  I don’t have to work tonight.”

“Great, I’ll pick you up!”

“Or we could meet,” you offer quickly, thinking of your sad little apartment.  “Someplace around here?”

“Mmm… I think I’ve already worn out my welcome in most of the places around here…”

“Do you know Koreatown?  There’s a place near my apartment that’s fun.”

“Yeah sure.  Whatever Princess wants.”  He gets up from his chair, leaning against the counter and that casual endearment and the way he looks in those sweatpants makes you think that maybe there’s no need to wait for tonight…  You did promise…  Warm arousal blooms between your legs at the thought.

“Then it’s a date,” you say, forcing yourself to look casual as you head towards the door.

“Hey,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

“I sort of need your number.  And the name of the place.  And, you know, a time.”

“Oh.”  Flustered you return to him, tapping your number into the phone he picks up off the counter and calling yourself.  “I’ll text you the place and… let’s say eight o’clock?  Before it fills up too much? It gets pretty packed.”

“I can’t wait.”  He shoots you another grin that makes you want to push him against the counter right there and wipe the smug from his face.

“Yeah well… good.”

“Great.”

“Wonderful.”

“See you then.”

He walks you to the door, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans over you to turn the handle and pull it open.  For a moment you’re caged by his arms, his face tilted down towards yours. 

“See you then?”  he repeats, leaning in, eyes half-closing.

“Yep.”  You duck past him, out the door and down the hallway.

Smooth.

All the way down and out onto the plaza you’re cursing yourself and the tingling heat in your panties.

Did we more or less just agree to sex tonight with a near-total stranger?

Absolutely we fucking did.

The next Metro isn’t for another twenty minutes and you don’t feel like going straight home, not with the way your pulse is racing.  In a daze you wander into the Japanese bookstore next to the grocery and pick up a green shopping basket, perusing the aisles of stationary, manga and cookbooks.  It’s been a while since you’ve bought anything frivolous, just for fun, and the tip money in the envelope feels good.

You’ve just selected a manga and some cute Sanrio sticky notes when a voice at your shoulder jolts through you.

“Well!  What a surprise!  I haven’t been in Los Angeles twelve hours and already I see a familiar face!”

You look up, the manga you’d just selected half-in and half-out of its slot on the shelf.  For a moment you’re too stunned to say anything.  Instead of his long dark coat from the night before (no, this morning, although it feels like a hundred years ago) he’s wearing a pale blue shirt and thin black tie with trim black dress pants.  His dark, shoulder-length hair is unbound and it slides forward as he bows slightly.

“Rintarou,” he reminds you, his eyes narrowing with pleasure.

“Yes, yes of course.  Rintarou.  What are you doing here?  Are you all checked in to your hotel?”

“I am.  It isn’t far from here.  I’m trying to get my sleep schedule on track right away, so I decided to stay awake; come back to this plaza and see it in the daylight.  Also, I needed to get this.”  He slides a newspaper, written in Japanese, from beneath his arm and displays it for you.  “And maybe some souvenirs for my daughter.  The conference will last a couple of weeks but she’ll never forgive me if I return empty-handed.”  He peers into your basket thoughtfully, pursing his thin but sensual lips at the small assortment of Sanrio impulse buys in it.

“Can’t you get most of this stuff in Japan?” you ask.

“To be certain, yes.  But little girls don’t think of such things.  And I was thinking of buying her some manga in English.  To practice.  What is it you have there?  Would that be suitable for a child?”

“How old?”  You back away slightly, glad his piercing amethyst eyes leave yours and focus instead on the book in your hand.

“Around 10 or 11.  But very bright for her age.”

“Oh, well, can’t go wrong with Rumiko Takahashi.”  You swallow as he reaches for your hand, fingers brushing yours as he turns the book over to read the title.  You scan his long, delicate fingers.  No ring.  Although that’s not conclusive.

“This is number four,” he muses.  “Are there many in the series?”

“Oh, it goes on for a while.  Number four is just the one I’m up to.” 

Also these things cost bank and I can’t afford to buy more than one at a time here and there, when I’m able. Which isn’t often.

“Well.  Do you mind?”  He takes the book and your basket from you, hooking it over his own arm, and crouches down at the shelf.  He selects book after book, loading them into the basket while he talks.

“So you like this series?  What do you like about it?”

“Oh, I suppose the fantasy aspect.  Time travel.  And there’s action.  Some of it might be a little too scary for your daughter, now that I think of it…”

“She’s quite mature for her age,” he interjects.  “Is there romance?”

“Yes, but…” you swallow, watching as he nearly empties the shelf of a dozen or more volumes.  “Nothing explicit.  The main male character – InuYasha - is sort of boring, honestly.  The villains are really good, though.”

“Isn’t that how it goes?”  He straightens, his smile spreading strangely and for a moment you’re staring at Naraku himself.  “The bad guys are so often more faceted, more interesting.  Girls are drawn to them rather than to the hero they’re intended to like.”

“Yes, well…” You glance down at the now-heavy basket and your purchases buried at the bottom.

“How about these?”  He ignores your discomfort, proceeding on to the stationery.  “If you were to buy whatever you wanted, what would it be?”

“Well, I suppose this…”  You select more sticky notes of smiling characters, as well as some colored pens and a writing pad, topping it all off with a ChocoCat pencil case with little ink stamps inside.  “She must be in school?”

“She’s privately tutored,” Rintarou replies, pulling a few more items off the display hooks. 

Of course she is.  And… this is hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff.

“And you:  Are you in school?”  He heads towards the cash register with you trailing behind.

“Trying to be,” you reply, as the cashier hands the customer in front of you their purchases and Rintarou steps forward, piling the contents of the basket neatly on the counter.  “I finished a couple of years of community college, back home.  Part of the idea of coming out here was getting back into school.  But I haven’t lined it up yet.”

Because it takes money.  Which I’m short on, at the moment.  Well, always have been.

“Mmm, a young woman, on her own, trying to make it in the big city.”  He muses on that, relishing the thought.  “How exciting.”

“Sure, exciting.”  You try to reach in for your own, single book and small pile of impulse buys but he angles himself in such a way that you’re thwarted.  “All together, please,” he says to the cashier who rings everything up, hits the total and begins loading it all into sturdy shopping bags.  Your eyes widen at the amount.

“Now.”  He turns to you, offering you both bags, taking out only his newspaper to slide back beneath his arm.  “A little gift, for the young woman making her way.”

“Rintarou this is way too much,” you breathe, not wanting to accept the bags from him. 

“You should learn to accept the kindness of strangers, my dear.” He grins, sliding the plastic handles into your stunned hands.  “And it just occurred to me: I can get all of these things in Japan.  You’re right:  I should be looking for something with a little more… local flavor.  Do you have any suggestions?”

“Maybe Olvera Street,” you offer as you leave the bookstore together.  “It’s very L.A. They have lots of cute traditional Mexican dresses, Cinco de Mayo stuff, puppets and Day of the Dead… It isn’t far from here.”

“I’d be grateful to have your company.”  He again bows slightly, purple eyes boring into yours. 

“Well, I…”  You shift the bags in your hands.  They’re heavy, leaving red lines across your palms.  “Thank you for the offer, but I do have someplace to be this evening.”

“Anything related to the… circumstances I met you under this morning?”  His smile again grows cat-like and knowing.

Flustered, you look away.

“I wouldn’t stand in the way of young love.  Or a young suitor,” he says smoothly, curling one finger and touching the backside of it to your cheek, trailing over it gently.  “But it’s so pleasant having your company.  I do hope we meet again.”

“Enjoy Los Angeles,” you reply, not knowing what else to say.

Your head is whirling as he turns to go, gesturing towards somebody.  A man in a dark business suit and sunglasses detaches himself from the shadow of a building.  Then another, similarly-dressed man across the way.  They trail Rintarou at a distance as he disappears through the crowd.

Did that just happen?  He was coming on to you, wasn’t he?

It did happen.  The heavy shopping bags weighing down your arms and preventing you from waving at Rintarou if he were to turn are proof.  

That, and the pleasant tingly feeling creeping up from between your legs, over your stomach and breasts and to your face where the ghostly after-image of his finger still burns.

Chapter Text

Before arriving in Los Angeles you’d imagined it as an almost-tropical paradise, with long stretches of sandy beach, swaying palm trees and glittering hillsides filled with glamorous movie stars.

Your one trip out to Venice Beach and the Walk of Fame served to remove any last, stubborn illusions.  Venice was nothing more than a dirty, dejected stretch of sand, more like a gigantic public ashtray overrun by drug addicts and homeless people sleeping in the cinderblock bathrooms than a tropical paradise.  Hollywood Boulevard was about the same with cheesy tourist attractions, overpriced chain restaurants and aggressive, desperate street performers in threadbare superhero costumes.

Maybe it was your mistake to arrive here in winter, you think. California’s not a sunshine daydream.  In fact, it’s cold and it’s damp.

As if to underscore this the sky begins to cloud over as you reach your apartment.  By the time you step out of your shower, all scrubbed up and pre-date hair removal complete, it’s raining and big gouts of water are coming off the eaves of your apartment building.  They cascade into the narrow, trash-filled chasm that separates your window from those of the neighboring apartment building only a dozen or so feet away.

Next is outfit selection.  You roll your closet open and survey your choices.  There aren’t many.  To one side are the two outfits your friend loaned you when you’d first arrived a few weeks ago and never came back to collect.  These are a definite “no.”  One is a pale-pink babydoll number with rhinestone spaghetti straps, sequined empire bodice and a flowy chiffon skirt that barely covers your ass.  The other one is black and strapless with a fringe of maribou around the bottom of the skintight skirt that, again, barely covers your ass.  There’s a single pair of chunky, clear lucite high-heeled shoes meant to coordinate with either dress and these, too, are totally unsuited. 

You want to whisper “fuck me,” not scream it.

Resigned, you pull out a floral knee-length sundress (one of the few things you brought with when you left home) and a slouchy blue cardigan sweater that you hope isn’t too frumpy or pilled.  For shoes you select a simple pair of black leather ballet flats that were never the best quality to begin with and by now have definitely seen better days.

Let’s be honest.  This guy only wants one thing, as incredible as it seems:  to get you out of your clothes.  I doubt he’ll even care what you’re wearing.  As hard as he’s coming on, you could wear a burlap sack and still catch a D.

That’s quite a pep talk, thank you.

As night falls and the appointed time draws near you take advantage of a break in the rain to walk the few blocks to the bar-slash-restaurant you’d texted to Tsushima.  It’s a little early but you don’t have an umbrella yet.  You’re also jumping out of your own skin in your dismal apartment, hanging around nervously with nothing to do.

The place you picked is famous in Koreatown.  You’d come across it walking around that first night after you quit your job to get familiar with the neighborhood… before somebody advised you to never, ever walk alone after dark if you could help it. 

You’d stopped at the edge of the noisy, brightly-lit parking lot like a Victorian orphan staring into a bakery window, drawn in by the sounds of cheerful drinking and laughter…

…only to watch as a drunk Korean businessman stumbled out and was assisted into his luxury sedan by a valet.  He’d been so wasted that the lot attendant had to help him swing his leg inside and shut the car door for him.  The businessman had promptly accelerated out onto the street and wrapped his car around a light pole. 

And that was your welcome to Koreatown.

Still, the place is fun.  Peeling old Korean movie posters from the 1950’s plaster the walls, and the whole thing is done like a military mess hall complete with chipped and graffitied wooden tables and benches.  One whole room was declared a “porch” by the management, and thereby smoking is permitted.  The light fixtures are bare bulbs hanging down in conical tin lampshades with wire cages soldered on and you’re not sure if it’s part of the “look” of the place or to ensure they don’t get shattered when the occasional fight breaks out. 

You scan the interior room, which is a little quieter and less rowdy than the smoking porch, and are surprised to see Tsushima is already there.  He’s stretched out in a booth in the most secluded corner, and there’s already one of those large-size bottles of Hite beer and two glasses in front of him.

“Hey hey,” he gushes, swinging his leg down and standing to greet you.  “You’re early!”

“So are you,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. 

He looks absolutely gorgeous, of course, in dark jeans and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater that almost (but not completely) hides the bandages around his wrists and neck.  His tan coat is thrown over the other bench seat as if to save a spot and he moves it, wadding it up and tossing it on his side to make room as he helps you into your seat.

“I wanted to get here first, scope the place out, get a feel for it,” he explains.  “Quite the ambience.  I was sort of hoping for something a little more… romantic?”

“What’s not romantic about this,” you laugh as a raucous cheer erupts from the smoking porch where some sort of bet in a drinking game must’ve just been won or lost.  “Besides, it’s one of the only places I know.”

And one of the only places I can walk to without a car.

“True,” he hums.  “I guess I’ve worked with less in the past.”

“You trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?” he asks hopefully, pulling both legs up to cross them on the bench and pouring you a glass of beer. 

“Maybe.  Sort of.” 

He leans forward, glass held up to yours, waiting for you to lift your own. 

“Guess I’ll have to try a little harder, then.”

You lean forward, too, glass raised.

You’re interrupted as a harried waitress plunks a tray of fried chicken, kimchi, shredded cabbage salad and a pizza on the edge of the table, unloading it all rapidly.

“Anything else?” She asks.

“Ah!  No.  This is fine.  Excellent.”  Tsushima looks at the food elatedly, then grins up at her in satisfaction, his cheeks glowing with alcohol.  The waitress softens, her eyes growing appraising.  He lifts the bottle of Hite next to his face and taps it with his finger.  “Maybe one more?”

“Of course,” she says, practically melting.

Damn, he’s not wrong about waitresses going for him.

Then she looks over at you and stiffens.  “I’ll be right back with that,” she says briskly, and disappears.

“How’s this for seduction?”  Tsushima waves at the food with a flourish like a magician.  “Fried chicken and sweet potato pizza.  I heard it’s very good here.”

“How could a girl say no to that?” you reply, reaching for a slice of the pizza.

“Hoping you won’t,” he smirks, pushing your glass of beer forward with one finger.  “Food is a love language.  And beer.  Lots of beer.”

“That does help,” you laugh, one hand over your mouth.

For a while you talk about the overly-loud K-pop music playing, the food on the menu and the loud partying on the porch.  Just talking with Tsushima about nothing is mesmerizing.  The way he smiles, the way he half-closes his eyes when he finds something funny, his breezy hand-gestures and the way he leans back and clasps his hands behind his neck, long legs stretched out and feet brushing yours beneath the table…

Suddenly it dawns on you that you’ve finished the food and two and a half large bottles of Hite and you know practically nothing of personal importance about your date.

“So why are you here,” you ask, emptying the third bottle of Hite into your glass.

“Same reason you are, I think,” he responds, his alcohol-flushed cheeks dimpling adorably.

You’re too buzzed to feel flustered, although you do wonder…

If he wasn’t so hot, would it be gross that he’s so shameless?  Yes, it’d definitely be gross. Being good-looking sure has benefits.

“No, I mean, what brought you to L.A.?”

“Oh… mmm… I thought I’d like to take some English classes.”  He slings one arm over the back of the booth behind him.

“Bullshit.  Your English is perfect.”

“Bullsh-” He sits up, clasping his hands to his heart like he’s mortally insulted.  “You don’t believe I’m a poor foreign exchange student?”

“What school?” 

“I forget the name.”

“When do classes start?”

“Ah… soon.  Whenever.  I’d have to check.”

“Uh huh.”  You nod.  “That’s an awfully nice loft you have, for a poor foreign exchange student.”

“It’s better than a shipping container,” he muses, tracing his finger through a ring of condensation on the table and shaping it into a heart.

“A what?”  You laugh in disbelief.

“Oh, um… you know how housing is in L.A.  By the time I got here, all the regular student housing was taken.  The international student office is putting me up in that place for a great discount.  It’s actually supposed to be for visiting professors and big-shot alumni they want to hit up for donations but it’s all they had left.”

“And which school was that again?”  You take a sip of your beer to hide your smile.  Probably not a good idea to call him out -- you gain nothing out of it but there’s just no way he’s not pulling your leg.  You level your gaze at him, voice lowering in playful accusation.  “You’re no exchange student.”

And for a moment, just a split second, his deep brown eyes turn flat and mirror-like.  There’s no longer any depth to them – only the reflection of yourself staring back, as emotionless as a fish at the sushi bar on a bed of ice.  You’re too startled by it to recoil; too unsure you’re actually seeing it. 

Maybe some trick of the light, or too much to drink?

As suddenly as his mask went up it disappears, replaced by a whimsical grin.

“Okay, you got me.”  He drains his own glass and sets it down, leaning forward conspiratorially.  “Don’t tell anybody, but I’m an ex-yakuza on the run from the Japanese mafia.  A shady government organization has put me here to hide out until my sordid criminal past can be expunged.  After two years I’ll be able to go back and redeem myself by taking in orphans and helping old ladies cross the street.  Happy?”

You stare at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. 

“What?”  He’s the picture of puzzled innocence.  “It’s the truth.”

“Fine, fine.  You’re an exchange student.”  You shake your head, too pleasantly drunk to pursue it any further.  If he doesn’t want to tell you, he doesn’t have to.  It’s not like your own story is one you’d care to share on a casual first date… assuming there’ll even be a second.

Tsushima, too, starts to laugh. 

You’re not sure what’s so funny but the two of you laugh and laugh as he signals for the check. 

“I think we’re drunk,” you finally say, grabbing your purse and cardigan. 

He stands, opening his wallet and counting out bills to lay on the little black tray the waitress hands him. 

“So we are!  Perfect,” he says happily, offering you his arm.  “Time to get out of here, then.  Shall we?” 

“Where to,” you ask, cringing as a bottle is flung somewhere in the smoking porch. 

“My place, of course.”  He grins down at you confidently as you step out into the parking lot, handing the valet his ticket.  It’s raining again, and there’s barely space beneath the awning for the two of you.

You have no words to reply. 

He’s warm, and close, with the entire focus of his intense gaze on you. 

“Sort of a foregone conclusion that you’re coming back with me, isn’t it?”  He says, running a finger up your forearm.

It is.

Reaching up he cups your face in his hands, thick lashes fluttering as his eyes travel from your lips to your eyes and back again.  You shiver in your thin sundress and sweater.

Yes.  Yes.  You lean in, eyes never leaving his.

You jump as a car horn sounds next to you and Tsushima laughs, pulling back.  He twirls his tan coat and holds it above your head, sheltering you from the rain as the valet helps you into the passenger seat of a very sleek, very luxurious black Mercedes with tinted windows.  Tsushima runs around to the driver’s side and slides in, accepting the keys from the valet with a folded bill in his palm and pulls the door shut.  He grips the steering wheel, then grins over at you, beads of rain glistening on his damp hair in the dim light of the instrument panel. 

“You sure you’re okay to drive?”  you ask, suddenly anxious at the manic, not-quite-there look on his face. 

His lips curl up.  “Don’t worry.  I’m an excellent driver when I’m drunk.”

Tsushima is not, in fact, an excellent driver.  But you’re tipsy yourself and can do little other than grip the grab-handle to keep from sliding on the leather seat as he takes the corner of Ardmore and Wilshire, practically drifting on the damp blacktop.

“That was a red light,” you gasp as he blows through MacArthur Park at twenty miles above the speed limit. 

“Relax,” he soothes, taking your hand from where it’s braced on the dashboard and placing it on his thigh. 

It works, somewhat.  The feel of his firm thigh muscles beneath your palm is mesmerizing.  They tense and release, rise and fall as he works the accelerator and clutch.  The streetlights speeding past are exhilarating and you laugh despite yourself. 

“Going a little fast,” you chide him, keenly aware of your own double-entendre.

“Mmm…” he moves your hand up a little higher, then releases it to shift into another gear.  “Nice, isn’t it?”

“It sure is…”  Your little finger is so close to his cock.  By moving it just a millimeter you could nudge the outline of it caught sideways in his jeans.

He shifts slightly in his seat to allow you better access, missing a stop sign.

Emboldened, heart racing, you give up on any pretense and allow your fingers to stroke his growing hardness.  He spreads his legs, adjusting himself more comfortably, then replaces your hand to allow you to stroke him.  He’s only half-hard, focused on driving, but what you feel there is extremely promising.  There’s an answering heat rising between your legs, dampening your panties on the cool black leather.  Your other hand creeps up beneath his sweater, toying with the waistband of his jeans and ghosting inside.

Tsushima’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, jaw clenched.  There’s nothing he can do to return the foreplay, not with a stick-shift and his eyes at least marginally on the road.  You grin, enjoying the way his firm stomach grows taut as your hand continues up to find one small, perfect nipple and idly describe circles around it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, side-eyeing you.  “If you don’t stop teasing me I’ll either crash or have to pull over and drag you into the back seat right here.  Or both.”

Mercifully the parking garage of his condo comes into view and he barrels into it, barely slowing to allow the gate to rise.  He drives down, down to the lowest level and nearly slams into a wall pulling into a spot.  As soon as the car is turned off he lunges for you.

Hard, demanding lips press against yours without an ounce of resistance.  You kiss him back with equal fervor, goosebumps rising on your skin and nipples hardening beneath his palms.  The stick shift between you is awkward and he hisses out a curse, pawing at the hem of your dress and exposing your panties right there in the parking garage.  He slides a finger in and pauses, his lips grinning against yours.

“Ready, are we?” he taunts, trailing a finger through your slick wetness.  He withdraws his finger and brings it to his mouth, watching your eyes as he inserts his finger between his lips and swirls it against his tongue.  It’s unspeakably erotic and absolutely confident.

You lean forward, closing the distance between you and kissing him, allowing him to slide his finger between your own lips until both of your tongues are vying for the taste.

“I’m not the only one,” you reply, your hand finding the rock-hard lump of his cock trapped sideways in his jeans and straightening it against his stomach.

He huffs out a half-laugh, half-growl and pushes your hand away, popping his door open and nearly hitting a cement pillar. 

“Let’s get you upstairs.”

You follow, straightening your clothes and your damp panties that his probing fingers had left askew.

The ride up in the elevator makes you hope the building doesn’t have security cameras in there.  Tsushima is all over you, every bit of his firm, lithe body pressed to yours.  He shoves you roughly against the wall, gripping one of your thighs and wrapping it to his waist, lifting you and grinding his clothed cock into your soaking panties.  When your mouth falls open in a breathy whine his mouth crashes into yours, tongue searching deeply and twining with your own.  Every nerve ending fires, consuming you with the need to be closer and closer still.  One hand tangles in silky chestnut hair; the other gropes to feel the hardness he’s rubbing against you with a knowing smirk.

At the ding of the elevator he twirls you out, half-carrying you down the hallway, pausing only to fumble his door open and pull you inside.

You stand breathless in the entryway, waiting for him to press you against the wall again, but instead he heads straight to the leather couch you’d slept on the other night.  He tosses his damp trench coat in one corner and sits down, leaning back with his legs spread and his arms thrown across the back of the couch expectantly. 

“Come here,” he orders, patting the cushion between his thighs invitingly, his gaze deep and eyes hooded with lust.

You sidle over, hiding your sudden nervousness by letting your hips twitch side-to-side, stripping off your cardigan as you approach.  You run your hands up over your waist and breast as he looks on appreciatively.

“The dress,” he instructs, lifting one finger and twirling it.  “Take it off.”

You lick your lips, complying.  Once it’s deposited in a pool on the floor at your feet he leans forward, placing a hand on your waist and sliding it downwards, catching on the waistband of your panties.

“Take everything off.  I want to see you.”

You chew your lower lip.  If you were less tipsy you might resist.  It feels odd but exciting to have him seated in front of you, fully dressed, as you reach back to unclasp your bra and toss it aside.

His eyes lighting up with delight remove your last shred of nerves and you step out of your panties, standing in front of him on full display in the darkened loft.

“Beautiful,” he whispers huskily, eyes flitting over your naked form.

Suddenly he lunges forward and grasps both of your hips, pulling you between his spread legs and before you can react he presses his hot mouth to your cunt. 

Your mouth drops open in a noiseless gasp as his tongue courses over you, into you and your hands fly up to curl into his hair, clasping his face to your aching and swollen sex. 

He laps at you eagerly, hungrily, sliding two fingers up in a “V” to catch your clit between them, isolating it for his insistent tongue.  You guide him with trembling hands, tilting his head up a fraction, back down, directing him to where it feels best.  Every few passes he dips back down again, laving your opening with his tongue, collecting up your arousal and savoring it before he goes back for your clit, his chin soaked with your juices.

“Shit, Tsushima,” you breathe, rolling your hips against his face, cradling his head in your hands.  He growls softly in his throat, hands clutching your backside and urging you in closer.  He leans back, pulling you with him and forcing you to lift your leg to keep from falling forward on his face.  You brace one foot on the couch cushion next to his thigh.  Looking down there’s a damp patch growing on the dark fabric of his jeans where the head of his cock is apparent.  Both your mouth and your pussy drool for it.

“Get up here.”  He leans back fully on the couch, lifting your ass and pulling you forward until both of your feet are on the couch and your hands are resting on the back of it.  At his urging you crouch downwards, legs trembling, and lower yourself to his waiting mouth.

Back and forth he rocks you over his face, his large but delicate hands kneading and spreading your ass and you gasp as the cool air hits your delicate, most heated areas.  His fingers are sinking lower, lower until slowly, deliberately he sinks one into your aching pussy.

“Fuck that’s good,” he groans.  “So tight…”

You cry out, arching your back, forcing yourself down harder onto his face.  Your legs quiver from the strange position but his mouth feels so incredible that there’s no way you’d admit defeat now. 

“God, I want you in me,” you whimper, your insides squeezing his finger at the admission.

He shakes his head imperceptibly, his mouth still frantic on your pussy, hands clutching you tighter.  “Come for me first.”

Throwing your head back you give in to it.  You sink down on him lower as your legs threaten to give out but he doesn’t complain.  In fact he squeezes you harder, using not just his tongue but his teeth and nose against your dripping flesh.  Flicks of his tongue give way to gentle suction and nibbles alternating with firm, gliding strokes of his tongue and the wet sounds of his efforts rise up to mingle with throaty groans of pleasure and panting sighs.

Maybe it’s because it’s been so long, or maybe it’s because it’s him beneath you, his warm dark eyes bottomless pools gazing up at you but your orgasm races up to claim you.  Every muscle and every tendon in your body tenses as perfect euphoria tightens in your abdomen, spreading up and over you, leaving you gasping and panting and suddenly as pliant as a ragdoll.

“Tsushima,” you gasp, your head lolling down on your shoulders, spent.  You slide down off of him, falling to your knees on the floor between his spread legs.

“Done?”  he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm and licking it.

“Mm hmm.”  You nod, weakly, legs still trembling.

“Good.  I’m not.”

He pulls his sweater up and off over his head, shaking out his chestnut waves, eyes deep with anticipation.  You watch, numb, as he slips out of his jeans and boxers and tosses them aside to join the rest of the clothing scattered around the couch.  You notice, detachedly, that white bandages also wrap his upper thighs.  He spreads his legs again, grinning, absolutely confident in his nudity.

Still struggling through the haze of your orgasm you run a trembling hand up his shapely calf, up his thigh and cup it over his beautiful cock.  You’ve never thought of a dick as breathtaking, but this is pretty damn close.  Perfectly-shaped, perfectly-sized, slightly-curved and luxuriantly smooth.  You trace a finger along it, over the faint dark scar of a circumcision that is the only thing marring it and stop at the rosy tip where a generous silky bead of precum is forming.

Your mouth waters for it, longing for its weight and texture along your tongue.  Your fluttering insides, still roiled by the intensity of your orgasm, twist painfully.  You lean forward, mouth opening.

“Ah, I had something else in mind,” he chides teasingly, reaching for his tan coat and his wallet, pulling out a condom.

“What’s that,” you ask, watching entranced as he tears the foil and extracts the condom, pinching the tip and rolling it down over his length.  He gives it an experimental stroke.

“You said you wanted me in you, yes?”

You nod, dazed, and don’t even get a chance to complete the motion before he grips you beneath your arms and deposits you abruptly on the couch on your knees, chest laying over the backrest.  You can sense his intensity behind you as he grips your hip, lining himself up, the tip of his cock hunting out and catching on your entrance.

“Tsu-”

He thrusts in hard, knocking his name from your mouth and you cry out.  With one hand you scrabble to brace yourself against the couch; with the other you reach back to touch his hip as he slams into you again.

Thank god you just came and are nicely loosened or this guy would fucking destroy you.

Even still, you can barely accommodate him.  He thrusts in again and again, picking up a frantic pace that you struggle to keep up with.  It’s exhilarating, leaving you gasping and empty-headed, and yet still somehow you manage to rock your hips back to meet him stroke-for-stroke.  The slapping noise of your bodies meeting echo through the dark, silent loft.

“Fuck,” he gasps, setting one foot on the couch next to your knee for better leverage and pressing down on your lower back to adjust you to the angle he wants. 

“Tsushima… I can’t… I can’t much longer…” you gasp between thrusts.  “Too… hard…”

It is.  He’s growing incredibly rigid in you, hitting harder than anything you’ve experienced before.  It’s wonderful but also borderline painful.

He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t slow. 

“God… Fuck…”

You dare to look back and the sight is gorgeous.  His tousled hair has fallen across his face, obscuring his dark eyes.  His thin, muscular chest is corded and strained, biceps tensed as he pulls you back to slam into him.

His throaty curses become garbled, half-English and half-Japanese muddling together with both of your panting moans until he tenses and drives himself in one last time, deeper than anything yet, and stiffens.

His head lolls back and his eyes lift heavenward, his face slack with absolute ecstasy and you feel the fluttering pulsation of him as he fills the condom.

After an eternal moment he releases your hips and you fall forward, him on top of you, both sweating and panting on the leather couch cushions. 

You’re barely aware when he withdraws and heads to the restroom, pulling off the condom and knotting it, returning swiftly to grip you by the elbow and lead you to the bed where you both collapse in sated exhaustion.

“What’s your real story, Tsushima?”

The words that have been forming inside of you coalesce into a bubble and rise unbidden to the surface to pop, disturbing the deeply pleasant post-coital miasma that surrounds you.

He is still for a moment on the bed, flat on his back and stark naked, hands clasped behind his head.  His dark eyes open a crack, unfocused on the exposed duct work far above. 

“I’m… sorry,” you murmur, slightly embarrassed.  He owes you nothing more than he’s already given, really.  You reach down, finding a corner of the sheet and pulling it over yourself before also falling to your back beside him.  “I don’t expect you to be chatty after… that.”

But maybe he does owe it to you.  The guy DID just have his tongue and dick inside you…

“It’s okay,” he finally says, loosening one arm from behind his head and wiping a bandaged wrist across his forehead.  “Not much to tell.  I was… troubled, as a kid.”

Maybe that explains the bandages.

“My mom took me to a friend of the family, a doctor.  Not really a psychologist but she was out of options.  She was dealing with her own issues and he… took an interest in me.  When my mom was no longer able to control me, he convinced her to give up her rights and he adopted me.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No no, it doesn’t hurt me.  Not much did, at the time.  Still doesn’t.”  Tsushima seems to meditate on that for a beat.  “Not long after, he -- my dad -- got a chance to take over a large organization.  He raised me in it, with the expectation that I’d work for him and maybe even someday take his place.  But we had a disagreement.  Turns out I didn’t want to be a part of what he had built.  I got a better job offer and decided to take it.  So I left.”

“Was he angry?”  You steal a glance at him.  His eyes are now wide-open, staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“Hmm?”  His eyes flick to yours.  “No.  I don’t know.  Probably.  I’m not sure what he feels could be called anger.  But it was definitely a blow to him.  After putting so much effort into me… and me knowing everything about his business… So this new job, we decided I should get away for a couple of years, let things die down before starting at my new organization.  And here I am.”

“Wow.”  You let that sink in for a moment.  “So in two years you’ll go back to Japan?”

“Mm hmm that’s the plan.”  He yawns and stretches, cat-like and casual as if he hadn’t just dropped a whole novel’s-worth of drama on you.  “I’ve got enough money saved up to go wherever.  And my new job is sort of sponsoring me in the meanwhile.  So I’ve just been bumming around, laying low, seeing the sights.”

For a long time you’re both quiet and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep. 

“I guess I should ask about you,” he suddenly says, as if it’s just occurred to him.  “What’s your story?”

“Not much to say,” you reply.  “Not after all that.”  Your story is much less interesting and something in the tired, half-bored tone of his voice doesn’t exactly make you feel like sharing.

“I told you mine.  You’re supposed to reciprocate.  Isn’t that how these things go?”

“Okay fine.”  You pull the sheet up a little further, suddenly uncomfortable.  “Nothing really special.  Smaller city, grew up, high school… no real idea what to do with my life.  I did a couple years of community college and then just… lost what little direction I had.  So one day this girl I knew from school reached out to me on social media, said she’d been following along and saw I was frustrated, said she had an opportunity for me.”

“Huh.”  Tsushima sits up, digging in the drawer of the nightstand and producing a rolled joint, lighter and ashtray.  “Do you mind?”

“No, go right ahead.  I pegged you for a drinker.  Didn’t know you smoked.”

“Sometimes.”  He crosses his legs, oblivious to his nakedness and sets the ashtray on the mattress by his hip.  He licks the tip of the joint, lights it, and you watch as he exhales a cloud of acrid blue smoke into the darkness.  “So this friend…”

“Right.  I never really knew her in school.  Friend of a friend of a friend, sort of.  She told me she was working in Los Angeles, easy work at a club and she could help set me up with an apartment, get me in at her job no problem.  Said the money was good.  I had nothing to lose so I sold everything I had, sent her the deposit for my apartment and got on a plane.  And stepped out at LAX with a hundred bucks left in my pocket.”

“Brave,” Tsushima says, offering you a hit off his joint.  You take it, just the barest of puffs to test it out.  When it hits okay you take another, deeper one.

“Stupid, you mean.  It didn’t work out.  First night here was great.  She showed up at the airport to pick me up with an actual driver from the club she worked at.  We got to my new apartment and she had clothes for me to go out in, there were other girls there and everybody was so excited.”

They dressed me, fussed over me, did my hair and makeup while doing shots and lines off the bare kitchen counter.  Everybody laughing and excited.  It felt so good… like something I’d been missing my whole life.  Like I belonged with these pretty girls, like life was going to be fun for once…

“We went out clubbing before I even had a chance to unzip my suitcases.  These guys they were with drove us around, got us right in at the most exclusive places.  Bouncers didn’t even look, just unhooked the rope and waved us in.  Like we were celebrities.  Guys were all over us, buying us drinks, offering us whatever we wanted, everybody screaming and dancing.  It was wild.  I’d never seen anything like it.”

And waking up alone the next morning on an air mattress after all the other girls had taken off with hookups and I’d had to tell the driver who brought me home to go away or I’d scream so the neighbors would hear.  Nothing but a pounding headache and shame to keep me company.

“So I started work that night.  The club wasn’t what I was expecting.  I was supposed to wear one of the outfits my friend brought me, and the driver from the night before picked me up at my apartment at ten and brought me there.”

Tsushima takes a long, thoughtful hit.  Then he hands the joint to you.  You stare down at it, feeling the effects already.  Then you shrug and take another puff.

“Not what you were expecting?  How was it, then?”  His half-stoned eyes are calculating, watching your expression.

“Just… weird.  I knew I’d be doing bottle service but…”

I didn’t know I’d be on the menu, too.

“I didn’t like how I was dressed, or how all the other girls were dressed.  It was a theme, I guess, but all the customers were mostly men and they were really handsy.  Pulling me down to sit in their laps, touching me when I had my back turned.  Finally I slapped one of them and my friend was furious.”

She grabbed me by the wrist, spilling the drinks on my tray.  Be nice, she hissed urgently, twisting my wrist harder.  These guys are important and they have drugs.  You’re supposed to show them a good time.

“I got right out of there.  I just couldn’t do it.  Turned in my tray and used the tips I’d made to catch a taxi home and that was it.  Which was scary.  I spent everything I had to get out here.  No idea how I’d make next month’s rent.  My friend never called me again, never even checked in on me or came back for the clothes she gave me.  Luckily I found the job at the restaurant where we met fast, or I’d be cooked.”

The whole, true story is embarrassing said out loud, but in the state you’re in your defenses are down.

“Amateurs,” Tsushima scoffs, pounding his chest to loosen a harsh hit.

“Huh?”

“Amateurs,” he repeats.  “They needed to give you a few more days before they put you to work.  Get you used to the partying, the drugs.  Maybe even get you hooked.”

“What do you mean?”  You sit up, staring at him.  Beneath his heavy, half-stoned eyelids there’s a sharp, calculating sheen to his dark eyes in the gloom.

“You really don’t get it?  That friend of yours was no friend.  She was sent out looking for you.  Probably had a nice bonus on the line.”

“No.  No.  That doesn’t make sense…”

“Oh come on.  You got trafficked.  Oldest trick in the book.”

“But…”  Your mind races, thinking of the accounts of trafficking that you know.  Foreign nannies, their passports taken away and forced to work 24/7 for no pay, in slave-like conditions.  Teenage girls taken from their homes, drugged and abused, shilled out at truck stops to fat hairy men old enough to be their grandfathers.  “That’s not what this was.  I wasn’t forced to do anything.”

“Trafficking.”  Tsushima grinds out the joint and raises one finger like a professor about to prove a point, “It’s the use of threat, violence, fraud or coercion to force a victim into commercial acts of sex or labor.  You might not’ve been threatened or forced at gunpoint but that’s seldom how it actually works.  Pressure alone is much cleaner, much more effective.”

“I came here out of my own free will.  I spent my own money.”  You don’t like the detachedly amused expression on Tsushima’s face.  You don’t like that he’s got that definition so easily at hand.

“Yes, clever, isn’t it?”  He grins, thinking.  “And wasn’t it perfect that your friend knew you’d spent the last of your money to get out here and had nothing to fall back on?  That you were alone, in a strange place, with no other friends and no family?”

“Tsushima, stop it.”

“And that driver, those other girls… they were all in on it.  I bet your friend is in a world of hurt now because you took off…” 

“I said stop it!”  You get up, throwing off the sheets and struggling clumsily to get off the bed.  “You don’t have to be so creepy about it!”

Even though he might be right. The realization thuds into your stomach, sickening.  Maybe you’d already known it.  But with him telling you there’s no longer any way to deny it.

“Hey, hey!”  Tsushima’s face suddenly softens, the cold, calculating look in his eyes disappearing and he smiles gently, looping one arm around you and pulling you back.  “You got out.  And fast.  That’s the important thing.  Just relax.  I’m sorry.  Let me…”  He clicks his tongue, feeling out how cottony his mouth is.  “Let me get us something to drink.”

“No more beer,” you huff, your resentment dulling.  The weed is just too strong for you to stay tense.

“No, no more beer.  There’s still a couple bottles of Calpico left from this afternoon.  Wouldn’t that be nice?”  He beams, sliding from the bed.

“It… would be nice.”  You run your eyes over his naked form, his shapely ass, his thin but well-formed thighs and his sex that he does nothing to hide as he returns from the fridge with two bottles.  Your own mouth is very dry.  Both him and the thought of the cool, sweet drink sound amazing.  Your anger falls away, forgotten.

“You got used, is all,” Tsushima hums, unscrewing the cap from a Calpico and handing it to you.  He slides back onto the bed, arranging the pillows to lean back and unscrew his own.  He takes a long sip, smacking his lips in satisfaction.  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Everybody uses everybody else, that’s just how it goes.  But now you’re smarter and you won’t get used again.”

“That’s not true.” 

“Hmm?”

“I mean maybe I’m smarter.  Maybe I’ll get used again.”  You take a swig of the blessed, sweet liquid and he grins.  “But it’s not true that everybody uses everybody else.  That’s just… depressing.”

“Is it?”  His grin deepens and he takes the bottle from your hand, setting it aside next to the ash tray and his own bottle.  His eyes are deep and intense, almost predatory.  “It can be nice, you know.  Aren’t we using each other, right now?”

Shit, I’m higher than I thought I’d be. 

He peels back the sheet, exposing you, one hand creeping down between your legs. 

“I’m not using you, Tsushima.  And…” You gasp as he leans forward, taking one sleeping nipple into his mouth as he pushes a finger into your sore cunt, digging deep for your arousal.  You’re dry down there, too.

“You can, you know,” he whispers as he releases your nipple and slides lower, his dark hair tickling over your breasts and stomach.  He pauses just above your pubic mound and looks up, dark eyes hazed with weed and lust.  “We can use each other.”

You watch, detached, as his mouth opens and he sinks it down, mouthing at you softly and moaning.  Behind him his backside wavers, illuminated by the cityscape glowing through the big picture window.  You thrust your fingers into his hair, wondering at the silky texture, twining them in and pulling gently.

“Mnn…” he groans into you. 

He likes having his hair pulled.

As high as you are his tongue is just another sensation competing with all the others.  The soft bandages around his wrists against your inner thighs, the dim ceiling above you, the glittering lights of the city.  He flicks at your abused clitoris skillfully before digging in deeper and pressing his entire tongue into your hole and probing it.  It’s warm, almost tickly… but nice. 

“Stop, Tsushima.  I must not taste good…”

“Mmm… don’t care…”

But he allows you to pull him away, sliding up over you until his chest is heavy on yours and your mouths meet.  His lips taste like beer, Calpico, weed, your own drying juices and condom. 

“You don’t have to,” you breathe, pulling away.  “I’m pretty high…”

“So’m I,” he rubs his hair against your cheek, hands massaging over every part of you he can reach, stretching and grinding in a full-body massage that presses his half-hard cock between your spread thighs.  “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“It does but… I don’t know if I can… come again.”

“I can,” he breathes, sliding lower and resuming his position with his head between your legs.  “Just relax.  I got you.  I could do this forever.”  He spreads you apart, mouthing at your folds languidly and you drift off.

By the time he reaches again into the bedside drawer for a bottle of lube and another condom you’re too blissed out to even know if you came.  He pushes his cock in carefully, supporting its not-quite-erect length with his fingers to ease it in.  Once it’s in enough he withdraws his hand and lets his hips fall flush to yours, hooking his arms beneath your knees and pressing them up to your sides.

Softer, like this, it doesn’t hurt.  His cock doesn’t reach all the way to the back of you and you don’t mind the pretzeled position you’re in.  Some small part of you is worried the condom will slip off but you’re beyond caring.  Listlessly you grab the backs of your own thighs and help him out.

“That’s it… spread your legs for me,” he whispers, repositioning himself until his jutting clavicle pokes into your jawbone and you tilt your head back, sighing.

He works himself against you, crouched over you, splayed on his elbows and knees with his hands cradling the back of your head.  His breastbone digs into the sensitive flesh of your breasts and it’s pleasantly painful.  If you weren’t so torpid you would push him away, you’d protest that he’s hurting you, that you can’t breathe well but you allow yourself to be rocked beneath him like a piece of flotsam caught in the waves, rolled against a barren shore.

Tsushima’s only indication that he’s growing closer is the imperceptible hardening of his cock inside of you, swelling and filling you out.  He murmurs unhurried things into your ear in Japanese, his breathy voice curling against you until, with a groan that’s almost more resignation than pleasure he stills.

With him still pulsating inside of you, you release your legs and wrap them around his narrow hips.  Your arms circle his strong, thin, sweat-slicked shoulders and you turn your head to the side and you lay there together for a long, long time. 

Chapter Text

“~Morning, sleepyhead~”

You scrunch your eyes tighter against the bright sunlight and the even brighter sing-songy voice floating into your ear, hoping for just a few more minutes of sleep.

“Mmmph… not yet.”  You roll, taking the sheet with you, burrowing deeper into the pillows.  Whoever it is, you wish they’d go away.  Your whole body hurts like you were hit by a truck last night and your head feels like it’s been scooped out and stuffed with cotton.

“Ohayō, purinsesu.  Rise and shine.”  Feather-soft lips brush your cheek.

Last night… bright sunlight…

“Shit!”  Eyes wide open you jolt upright in bed, nearly knocking your head against Tsushima’s in your haste. You scramble for the sheet, realizing too late that you’re stark naked, and clutch it to your chest.  “Shit!” 

“Well, good morning to you, too!”  He grins sheepishly, reaching up to scratch the back of his head, bewildered.  “Not exactly the reaction I expected.”

“I have to get out of here!” you explain hurriedly, hunting around for your panties and bra. 

“Also not what I was expecting to hear,” Tsushima hums, helping you find your rumpled sundress and turn it right-side out.  He hands it to you, standing in front of you in his gray sweats and tee, an amused expression on his handsome face. 

Damn, he’s even cuter in the daylight…

“Fuck,” you mutter, squirming into the dress, avoiding eye contact.  He looks great, of course.  You probably look as awful as you feel.  “Oh NO!  No no no…”

“I’m starting to feel a little insecure, you know?”  He follows you to the couch for your cardigan, then to the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as you rummage through your purse. He scratches at the fresh bandages on his chest beneath his tee.  “Was it really that terrible?”

Opening your phone confirms your worst fears. 

“No, it’s not that.”  You glance up at him apologetically.  “That was really great.  It’s just… I picked up a lunch shift today.  I have to be there at eleven, and it’s already nine-thirty.  I’ll never make it to my apartment and back in time!  God, I don’t want to be late…”

Tsushima needs no further explanation, grasping the situation instantly.

“I’ll drive you,” he quickly says, picking his keys up off the counter.    

“Oh my God, I’m not even going to have time to shower…”  You claw at your hair, catching a particularly bad snarl and wincing. 

“Relax,” he soothes, pushing his bare feet into a pair of flip-flops.  “I’ve got you.”

You follow him down to the underground parking garage, glancing again nervously at your phone as you calculate traffic, looking up as he hits the button on his key fob.  The car chirps, headlights blinking in the dim fluorescent lights.

“Wow, you parked like an asshole last night.”

“Hmm… I did, didn’t I?”  Tsushima shrugs, plucking a folded piece of paper off his damp windshield. 

“You didn’t get a ticket, did you?”

“Nope!”  Tsushima waves the paper, smiling broadly.  “Just a friendly note from a neighbor reminding me how to park.”  He raises the note to his face, examining it with delight.  “It even has suggestions and a little diagram for where I can put my car next time!  That would be physically impossible, huh.  Ah!  Well.”  He opens the passenger-side door for you distractedly, musing to himself.  “Maybe I’ll just buy out both spaces.”

You pull the door shut and watch as he rounds the car, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it over his shoulder.

The drive back to your apartment is in near silence.   

Occasionally you glance at Tsushima surreptitiously, examining the sharp line of his jaw, his high cheekbones and the tiny scar by his right temple that is visible when he tucks his hair behind his ear.  He’s gorgeous.

Did we really fuck this guy last night?

We did.  It was spectacular.

He puts in a CD, singing along to a song you recognize as the one he was singing while drunk that first disastrous night, tapping his fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel in time as he slithers through traffic. 

“Kore o dare ka to owattara shinu toki de manzokudesu!  Oooh yeah!”  He looks over at you, winking, ignoring the angry honk of another driver he just cut off.  “You can’t do a double suicide alone, woaw, woah, but you can do it with two!”

“Charming,” you laugh, pointing to a side street.  “Turn in there.  The sort of sickly salmon –color one.”

“Hmmm… parking…” Tsushima slows. 

“No!  That’s okay,” you blurt.  “You can just drop me off.  I can make it from here.  Thank you.”  You cringe as the Parking Gods smile and he finds a fortuitous open spot directly in front of the building (seriously, how is that possible?) and bolts into it. 

“Nonsense.”  He cuts the engine and grins over at you.  “Door-to-door service for m’lady.  If I’m the reason you’re running late…”

“Well…” You hesitate, looking up at the ugly stucco building. 

“Let’s go!” He springs out of the car, running around to open the door for you, leaving you no choice but to follow him.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, humming cheerfully to himself all through the dingy lobby and creaky elevator with the dog-piss smell that you’re keenly aware of but he ignores blithely.  The stained carpet that needed to be replaced two decades ago, the chipped tile, the graffiti scratched onto the dented stainless-steel of the elevator’s interior… it’s nothing like Tsushima’s luxurious complex.

If he notices he gives no indication, stepping aside and motioning you through the elevator door with a gracious sweep of his arm as it lurches open.

“Here we are.”  You insert your key in the lock and let the door swing open, resigned.

Tsushima shuts the door and idles into the kitchen as you rush to the bathroom, checking out the chipped wooden cabinets that don’t quite close and the sliding door to the balcony that has a prime view of the neighbor’s living room across the way.  He wanders into the bedroom behind you, shoving his hands into his pockets again as he observes the air mattress in the corner and the two suitcases flung open on the floor. 

“This is your place, huh?” 

“Yeah, well, it’s what starting over looks like for some people,” you say as you squeeze paste onto your toothbrush.

You cringe, realizing what you’d just said might be slightly snarky, given the disparity in your lifestyles.

“Hmm…” He leans forward towards the one piece of real furniture you have:  a bookshelf left by the former tenant that the landlord threw in as a “perk.”  He runs a finger along the small collection of manga there, which was more than doubled by the volumes Rintarou bought you yesterday.  “Naraku is great, right?” he muses to himself.  “Why are the villains always more interesting?”

“Character complexity.”  You spit into the sink, grabbing a stick of deodorant. 

“Is it?”  He picks up a pad of Sanrio sticky notes, riffling through them.  “Do you think it’s easier to be a good guy?  Or a bad guy?”

“Haven’t thought about it,” you respond, kneeling down to dig in a suitcase for a clean pair of panties and work clothes. 

“I do.  I think about it a lot.  Oh!”  Tsushima’s eyes grow big and round as he picks something up off the shelf and lifts it slowly to eye-level.  He flicks the small plastic case open, fingering the little circular dial of white and green pills in the bubble-pack inside.

“Give me those!”  You grab your birth control pills from him and turn away, popping out today’s pill and swallowing it dry.  You replace the pill pack firmly on the shelf.

Tsushima angles himself into your field of vision, eyes sparkling thoughtfully.  “So this means last night we could’ve been doing it raw?”

You color at the teasing, lascivious slant of his thin lips that are pressed into a smirk at your shoulder.

“That is not what this means,” you scold him, frowning at the warm flush as the idea settles between your legs. 

But you’re in too much of a hurry to explain the finer points of self-care and STI prevention at the moment.

And a guy who sings cheerfully about suicide, drinks until he’s black-out drunk, and drives like he’s got hellhounds on his tail probably doesn’t care much about his health, anyway.

“Turn around,” you say instead.

“Seriously?”  He frowns but complies as you lift your dress off and toss it onto the air mattress, followed by your destroyed panties.  The bra is still good for another wear and you leave it on, covering yourself with a wrinkled-but-clean white dress shirt that you tuck into a black skirt. 

“I’ve seen it, you know,” Tsushima half-turns, looking over his shoulder.  “Sort of seen all of it…  More than seen it, hmm…”

Again you flush as a memory courses through you.  Tsushima’s warm tongue on you… In you…

“We’ve got fifteen minutes,” he smirks, catching your expression.

“Gross, no,” you laugh. 

Although really, you DO have a few minutes to spare if he’s driving you back…

His face crumples in disappointment.

“I probably smell bad,” you conclude, discarding the suggestion.  Instead you open a pack of black pantyhose and scrunch them up to poke your foot in. 

Tsushima lends you his shoulder for balance. 

“You don’t smell bad,” he assures you, sniffing.  “You do smell like sex though.”

You groan, realizing he’s probably right.  You’ll just have to go to work like this, no way around it.  Hopefully it’s not too apparent you spent all of last night fucking.

“Come over after work,” Tsushima urges, following you back to the kitchen as you retrieve your purse. 

“Need a shower first,” you sigh.  Then you straighten, realizing you’ve once again more or less agreed to sex with the guy without even consciously considering it. 

“I have a shower.”  He again graces you with a dazzlingly sexy smirk that makes your insides melt.  A fresh wave of wetness hits your panties. 

Dear God, show a shred of self-respect, will you?

“I’ll consider it,” you say, returning the smile.

He places a cool hand on the back of your neck as you step into the hallway, squeezing gently.

“Please consider it hard.”

*

The lunch rush is busy and in the frantic bustle of the restaurant Tsushima nearly slips your mind.

Nearly.

The soreness between your legs inside your pantyhose and the scent of his pillows that still permeates your hair remind you, causing you to forget what you’re doing now and then.  You work your way through the day in a red haze, distracted by the evidence of Tsushima in the soreness of your thighs and the ongoing debate in your mind.  Less than a couple of days, and he’s sunk into you completely.  It’s a little disturbing, to be honest.  You make up your mind, resolved to swim against the tide and return home for a shower.

“Miss?”  A customer waves you down, holding up an empty glass as a mute rebuke.

“Oh!  Right, sorry.”  You rush over, refilling everybody at the table under the watchful eye of the owner.

So we’re not going straight over there?

I really do need a shower.  And… I don’t want to look desperate. 

I think we’re past that.

It just seems too good to be true that somebody like Tsushima would be interested in you.  You hate to admit it, but a small part of you doubts the situation.  He’s a solid ten.  And you’re…

“Check, please!”  Another customer holds up her hands, forming a small square with both index fingers and thumbs.

Don’t sell yourself short.  Or are you trying to game him?  A chased dog runs way, and all that?

I’m not, you think, tapping the table number into the computer and printing out the total.  The timestamp shows almost six o’clock:  the end of your shift.  It’s really fast, is all. Too fast.

You look down as your phone dings in your apron pocket with a text message and turn aside, flipping it open close to your chest.

Tsushima:  Miss me?

You smile, thumbing a reply: 

You:  Maybe

Tsushima:  How much?

You leave it on read for a moment, and another text comes through.

Tsushima:  Come over after work

You glance up, realizing the table that requested the check is starting to look impatient, and type a hurried reply.

You:  You told me to consider so

You:  I’m considering

Tsushima:  Will this help you decide?

The next message that comes through is a picture and you hunker closer towards your phone, half-expecting an unsolicited dick-pic.  Then you laugh.

It’s a Keroppi plushie, probably bought from one of the gift shops off the plaza.  He’s staring at you with big, round, innocent eyes and next to him Tsushima has squeezed himself in for a selfie, a pleading expression on his face.

You snap your phone shut, smiling to yourself as you slide the check into a little leatherette booklet and drop it off at the table, zoning out as the customer hands you a credit card and you return to the computer to run it.

“To-go order,” the boss lady catches your elbow and takes the booklet from you.  “I’ll take this.  Customer waiting.”

You stifle a sigh and head to the kitchen, picking up the pre-paid receipt hanging from the stainless steel warming shelf above two Styrofoam carryout boxes.  To-go orders are always a pain to package up, there’s never any tip for all the work that goes into it, and right before you’re supposed to clock out…

At least it’s only two curry sets, nothing complicated.  You grab them, then reach into the cooler for two pre-prepped salads and two dressing cups, then head to the hot prep counter to dish out two little round Styrofoam bowls of miso soup.   Double-checking the order you pick up two bottles of Calpico, extra fukujinzuke (which you’ve learned those little red sweet pickles you’re constantly refilling are called), wooden chopsticks and napkins and package everything into two plastic bags:  the first for warm items and the second for cold.

“To go?”  you announce, emerging from the noren curtains near the front register, the pre-paid receipt in hand and looking up.

There, on the slatted wooden bench by the hostess stand, is the Keroppi plushie.

“Decided yet?” Tsushima appears at your shoulder, taking the two carry-out bags from your hands.

“Damn, you’re aggressive.”

“Keroppi here and I are both men who know what we want,” Tsushima agrees, picking up the plushie and pressing it into your arms with a cocky grin.

You catch the eye of the owner, who takes in the situation with a knowing look and gives you a tiny nod.

“I’ll get my things,” you smile back, blushing.

The walk back to his place is nearly as silent as the drive in the morning, without the benefit of music to fill the void. 

It doesn’t matter, though.  It’s nice.  The sky is already darkening with winter, and the lanterns are lit.  The shop windows the two of you pass are warm and bright, filled with colorful souvenirs and young people seated at tables drinking boba milk teas and laughing.  After so long, with his arm through yours, you almost feel a part of real life and not just an onlooker.

You’ve spent so long drifting that you don’t even remind yourself that Tsushima, at least so far, doesn’t give the impression of a stable dock to moor yourself to.

But maybe…

You glance up at him and he, too, is enjoying the evening.  His sharp chin is tilted up slightly, the light from the lanterns catching in his hair and casting a rosy tinge to the tan trench coat he’s pulled on over his tee shirt and dark jeans.  The bandages wrapping his throat like a choker highlight his neck that is just a shade too masculine, with his defined Adam’s apple, to be called graceful.  But it’s very close.

That neck that you watched flex, face turning heavenwards and sensitive mouth falling open as he rose and fell above you.

You wrap your arm tighter into his and he looks down, smiling at you and the Keroppi that you’re clutching like a carnival prize.

“Hungry?” he asks, dark eyes moving against yours.

“I am,” you admit.  Tsushima I’m not sure you understand how hungry I truly am.

“Hmm.”  He presses his mouth to the top of your head and you feel his lips quirk up.  “Me, too.”

You shiver as he slides his arm from yours and his hand finds your waist, goosebumps rising there.

“Cold?”  He pulls you tighter.

“Not at all.”  In fact I’m very warm.

Only when you’re in his loft does he release you, setting the food on the table and rummaging in the fridge for a couple bottles of Sapporo.

“Drinking again, are we?”  You unpack the carryout bags, arranging everything nicely in two sets.

“Have to have beer with curry,” he proclaims authoritatively, popping off the caps with a silver bottle-opener and sitting.  “Smells good, doesn’t it?”  He snaps his wooden chopsticks apart and rubs them together in anticipation.  “I haven’t had curry in-”

You open the container in front of him, displaying the contents. 

He’s a still as a statue, his chopsticks poised, an expression somewhere between longing and sadness on his face.  Somewhere, in some other language, there’s probably a name for it.

“They… they make it good at the restaurant,” you say, uncertain what’s happening in his head.  “Is it weird they put an egg on it?  Is that how it’s done in Japan?”

“Huh?”  He jolts back to life, like an automaton switched back on.  He pokes at the runny yolk.  “Yeah, that’s how some places do it.  A friend of mine liked it that way.  It looks great.  It isn’t spicy, is it?” 

“Not really.”

The two of you sit at the table beneath the hanging lamp, both of you looking at the curries in front of you, neither one of you making a move.

“You know what?”  You fold your container closed.  “I think I’ll go for that shower first.”

“Yeah, go right ahead.”  He gestures absently towards the bathroom.  He doesn’t get up.  As you look over your shoulder he picks his bottle of Sapporo up absently and drinks, the curry still untouched in front of him.

You’ve seen the bathroom before but only high or hung over.  It’s huge, compared to yours, made to look even more so with a full wall of mirrors at the far end.  The shower looks glorious.  It’s tiled with the same polished concrete that’s everywhere in the building, with a built-in bench seat and two shower heads, one for standing and the other, ostensibly, for sitting. 

You strip off your clothes, wrinkling your nose at the restaurant smell, wondering if you should wash your hair and deciding it’s an absolute necessity.

Tsushima’s selection of products is somewhat lacking but all you need is shampoo, conditioner and a bar of soap and at least he has those. 

You twist the water on, waiting for it to run warm, then step in, closing the clear glass door behind you. 

You’re done washing your hair and halfway through lathering yourself with soap when a sudden cool draft alerts you that the door’s been opened.

“Hello?” You peer out through the glass, smiling to see Tsushima standing next to the counter with an armful of towels. 

“Hey,” he says casually, setting the towels down along with an ash tray and lighter.  He produces a rolled joint from behind his ear and seats himself on the toilet.

“Here for the show?” you ask, teasingly.

“Best seat in the house,” he agrees, lighting the joint.  He swipes a fallen ember from the bandages wrapping his upper chest.  He’s shirtless, clad only in his loose-fitting sweatpants.  He must’ve changed while you were washing up.

“You can come in and join me, you know.”  You turn your back to him, allowing the water to curl down your back and over your backside, hoping the angle is attractive.

“Just spectating,” he replies, taking a drag and gesturing towards his bandages.

“Fine.”

The banter drops off as you focus on cleaning yourself, running your hands over your soapy skin deliberately.  You tilt your face up to the water, getting the last of the conditioner from your hairline and enjoying the feel of the spray against your eyelids.  Your hands course beneath your breasts, down your flanks and between your legs.

Tsushima is silent as you slide one finger between your folds, checking for any stray soap, and come away with a different type of slipperiness.

He’s so silent that you quickly wipe the water from your eyes, wondering if he’s left.

Instead he is leaning back on the toilet, one elbow propped on the counter and the joint forgotten in the ashtray.  His eyes are heavy-lidded but intense, following the trail of your fingers.  He takes his lower lip in his teeth, then releases it with intention.

“Are you quite done?” he asks, his voice husky.

You smile as he brushes his palm against the front of his sweats, adjusting the erection that’s tenting the soft fabric.

“Getting there,” you respond, seating yourself with the shower head and parting your legs slightly, spraying at yourself.  The warm water feels good against your flesh – you’re still a little sore from the night before.

I’ll give this building that – it’s got good water pressure.

You adjust the water to “massage” and sigh contentedly.  Tsushima’s eyes darken further.  In response he reaches into his sweats, fist finding himself and stroking.

“Please come out.  Now.  Before we both get there.”

“Alright.”

You turn off the water and step out, leaving a puddle on the floor, and reach for a towel.  Dabbing at your hair you come to stand before him on the bathmat, water tracing trickling paths down your body.

Tsushima grunts low in his throat as you fall to your knees, letting the towel fall and reaching for the waistband of his pants.  He lift his hips and helps you pull them off, along with his boxers, then grips your shoulders.

His sigh of contentment comes from the depths of his soul as you take him into your mouth, tongue swirling around his delicate head.  In the humid bathroom, scented with shampoo and soap he has very little odor to detect.  Which is a pity.  You’d love to drink him in, to know more of him.

“That’s good,” he whispers as you take him halfway down and apply gentle suction.  The taste of his precum is salty and mild, like tears, and you suckle him there until he places a quavering hand on the back of your head. 

Glancing up at him you see that he’s looking off and to the side.  Following his gaze you see what he’s looking at:  the mirror, with yourself on your knees and him, legs spread for you.

Your eyes meet his in the reflection and slowly, deliberately your wrap your fist around the base of his cock and take him down as far as you can.

“Fuck…” Tsushima does not look away, eyes sagging nearly shut as you bob your head over him.  The length of his cock appears and disappears from your mouth, faster and faster, aided by his hand twisting in your wet hair to guide your rhythm.

Carefully you remove your hand and place both palms on his spread thighs, parting them even more deeply as you loosen your throat to swallow him deeper.

He gasps, hand tightening in your hair.  He pulls you off and you release him with a reluctant pop, puzzled until he pushes your head down lower. 

Taking the hint you place your hand on his cock, holding it flat up against his stomach, and run your tongue over the seam of his scrotum.  You take first one delicate testicle into your mouth, tugging at it as much as you dare, then the other.  His thigh muscles tense and he exhales a shivering breath, pushing you even lower until your curious tongue goes as low as you can in the way he’s seated.  You poke it in, flickering it over his sensitive perineum, wondering how much he’ll allow you to explore…

When he twitches away you desist, lunging forward and taking him again into your mouth as deeply as you can.  He inhales sharply, gripping your wet shoulders with urgent fingers.

“Stop.  I need you.”  His voice is low and husky with need.

“Unh-uh,” you hum, shaking your head the best you can manage.  Negative.  The precum that’s built up in him floods your mouth enticingly.  You’d love to bring him off in your mouth, especially after the attention he paid to you the night before.

“Stop now.  I mean it.”  He lifts your head roughly by your hair and you fall backwards on your heels, surprised at his sudden intensity. 

He lifts you into his arms, wet skin slipping against bandages and bare chest, and carries you to the bed where he throws you down and falls upon you hungrily.

“Tsushima, I-”

He parts your legs with an iron grip and slots himself between them, squeezing his cock in his fist, hunting for your slick entrance. 

“I’m not ready,” you gasp, grabbing for the damp sheets and twisting beneath him.  You’re wet, true, but Tsushima is large and the ardor glazing his eyes don’t indicate that he’ll take his time.  “Don’t you have a condom? I want you to use one.”

“Relax,” he grunts, the head of his cock catching your opening, sliding back and forth over it to spread the arousal over himself.  “My father’s a doctor.”

You’re not sure what having a relative in the medical profession has to do with immunity to STI’s but you have no time to ask follow-up questions because Tsushima pushes in hard.

You did NOT give him permission to do that.

You arch your back at the invasion, a strangled cry of both pleasure and surprise catching in your throat. 

Too late now.

He sinks in halfway, then withdraws, only to push in again until he’s sheathed in you fully.  Even as swollen and sore as you are you’re so wet that two thrusts is all it takes and he grinds himself there, suspended above you with his palms on the mattress on either side of your head.

“Fuck, it’s so warm,” he sighs, closing his eyes, his tousled hair framing his face. 

“Tsushima,” you whimper, gripping his thin hips.  “Take it easy…”

His eyes open just a slit and there’s very little behind them other than lust.  Your words die on your lips and you stare up at him, the sensation of his rigid cock inside of you short-circuiting your brain.

Rather than push him away, you snake your hands around to his backside and pull him tighter.

He ruts into you, hips snapping bruisingly against your inner thighs as the sounds of slapping flesh and your own hoarse cries fill the room.

As painful as it is, it feels incredible.  He falls forward onto you, hands scrabbling for your ass, lifting you to him as he fucks into you relentlessly.  He slides his knees forward and buries his face in the pillow next to you, not even noticing as your teeth find the bare skin of his shoulder and bicep and bite down hard.

The compact position shoves his pubic bone against your clit, over and over again, grinding in and you buck up to meet him, fingernails digging into his back and buttocks as you urge him to keep up the pressure.  It’s intense, and exhilarating, and it’s sheer desperation.

All at once you stiffen and strain, grasping blindly for his dark hair and mashing his mouth to yours as your vision blanks out and stars begin to swim in the corners of your vision.  Your muscles contract painfully around his cock, sucking him in as your orgasm rips through you.

“Ah!  I can feel it… I feel it,” he gasps, almost fully withdrawing from you until just the head of his cock is piercing the nerve-rich ring of muscle at your entrance.  “Come around me, come on my cock…”

You writhe, groaning and thrashing as wave after wave crashes over you.

Suddenly Tsushima gasps out a curse and begins thrusting again, faster and faster until he collapses on top of you, spasming and clutching you until you can barely breathe.  You feel his cock twitch inside of you, suddenly slipping freer in the extra wetness as he empties himself.

He lays there, not moving, his chest heaving and eyes closed, fingers tensing and loosening reflexively like a drowning man who’s just been pulled to shore and collapsed, exhausted and barely alive.

Eventually he withdraws, wincing slightly as your muscles fight to keep him inside, and rolls to the side with one bandaged wrist over his eyes.

You sit up shakily, touching yourself between your legs where his semen is leaking from you to join the wet spot already formed on the damp sheets.

“I think we should heat up that curry now,” Tsushima says, eyes still covered.  “I could really eat.”

*

*

“Hey,” the owner waves you down as you exit the break room, smoothing down your apron.  “Tatami room.  Get in there, they’re asking for you.”

“Asking for me?”  You grab a pitcher of water, confused.  She must not mean asking for you in particular, but just clamoring for service in general.  The restaurant’s tatami room is seldom used, more of a novelty really.  In fact you’ve only been in there to dust or retrieve extra sake sets stored in the sideboard.  The traditional private room in the back is usually reserved for parties and special occasions, equipped with authentic floor seating, artificial ikebana arrangements, off-the-shelf artwork, and shoji doors for privacy. 

You slide the door open, expecting to find a lively group of party-goers celebrating a birthday or school function, and are greeted by a single dark figure seated at the furthest table.

Much like the morning you first saw him, he’s dressed in a long black overcoat with a striking crimson scarf looped about his neck.  The collar of the coat is turned up, framing his pale face in the dim amber light of the room meant to imitate candlelight, and his dark hair is loosely-bound at the nape of his neck, a few strands falling free at his forehead.  A pair of white gloves is laid neatly on the table next to a platter of sashimi.

Rintarou lifts a piece of sushi with his chopsticks, regarding it solemnly with tired amethyst eyes. 

“Do you have any idea, young lady, how much mediocre sashimi I’ve had to eat this week in order to locate you?” 

You laugh, kneeling to set the pitcher of water on the table and smoothing your skirt over your knees.

“How is ours?”

“It’s fair,” he responds, chewing thoughtfully.

“We have a good sushi chef,” you nod.  “He’s the genuine thing, from Japan.”

“Men do make the best sushi chefs.  Some myth about women’s hands being too warm.”

“I’ve heard that,” you reply, glancing at his glass of water.  It’s full.

“But warm hands are perfect for pouring sake,” he quickly adds, following your eyes, then guiding them back with his to the sake set at his elbow. 

“Oh yes.  Sorry.”  You pick up the ceramic bottle and pour some into the diminutive cup he pushes towards you with his index finger, lifting it and offering it to him with both hands like the owner showed you.

“Yes,” Rintarou hums appreciatively, his fingers grazing yours.  He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip.  “It tastes so much nicer when it’s been poured by a pretty girl.”

You blush, taking the corner of your apron between your fingers and rolling it to avoid gazing back into his intense eyes. 

“So… how is the conference going?” you ask, flustered.

“Ah.  You know how these things are.”  He nudges the cup back to you, and you refill it.  “Not particularly engaging but I’ve decided to extend my stay here in Los Angeles.”

“Oh really?  Why?”  You look up with genuine curiosity.

“Because, my dear, I’ve found an… interesting opportunity here that I’ve decided to pursue.” 

It’s uttered in a perfectly neutral manner, but you set the bottle down a bit too hard.

“That’s right,” you murmur, looking back down at the glossy slabs of fish on his plate on their bed of shredded daikon.  “You said you were into business.”

“This would be both business and pleasure.” 

Without even looking up you can feel the slow grin spreading across his face.

“How are things going with your young man?” he asks, idly.

“That’s a little… that’s sort of personal.”

“Come now.  It’s fatherly concern.  As I’ve said:  I have a son about your age.  Tell me:  is he serious about you?”  Rintarou shakes his head, clicking his tongue regretfully.  “Young men are so foolish, they don’t know the value of what they’ve been given.”

You struggle to find an answer.  What are you to Tsushima?  What is he to you?

You should answer by getting up and leaving, that’s what you should do.

But you have nobody to talk to about Tsushima, and Rintarou is waiting expectantly for your response.  You look up between your lashes, struck by his cool, handsome features.

“I… don’t think we’re very serious.  Yet.  I don’t know where things are going.  I’m just waiting to see what happens.”

Rintarou scoffs.  “A man who knows what he wants acts on it.  And quickly.  If I were in that young man’s place…” He trails off meaningfully.  “Does he treat you well, at least?”

“Yes, of course,” you reply quickly, shifting in discomfort.  How on earth do Japanese people sit on their heels like this?  Your feet are falling asleep.  “We haven’t been seeing each other for long, only a week but he…”

I go over there.  I bring him food.  And we end up in bed.  And that’s about it. 

“If I were in his place, I’d waste no time giving you every experience you deserve.  If I were in his place, you understand.”  Rintarou delicately selects another piece of sashimi, this time a scallop, and slides it between his lips.  “Youth is wasted on the young.  We think we have all the time in the world.  Until we don’t.”

“Yes, well…” You rise to your knees, reaching for the pitcher of water.  “Is there anything else you need?  I should be getting back up front…”

“I have a proposition for you,” Rintarou says quickly, setting his chopsticks aside and motioning for you to sit back down.  You do, surprised at your own obedience.    “Seeing as you and your young man are not seriously committed, I would like to take you out.  Ryuichi Sakamoto is playing at the Hollywood Bowl.  And there are so many truly fine restaurants to try.  I’m a little tired of Japanese food.”  He smiles weakly, gesturing around him.

“Oh, I don’t know…”

“I’m alone here in Los Angeles, you are also new to the area… and what fun is it dining and going out without a friendly face across the table?  What’s wrong with that?”  He shrugs, holding up both hands as if to show they are empty and guileless.

“Still, it might seem…”

“Oh!”  Rintarou’s eyes widen as if a shocking thought has just occurred to him.  “You think… No no, my dear.  This would be strictly for companionship.  Ah, Americans are so… funny.”

“Funny?”

“Yes, in Japan we appreciate the companionship of a young woman for the simple pleasure it brings.  It needn’t be sexual.  Like looking at cherry blossoms, or savoring a fine cup of tea properly served.  Oh, why are Americans so… coarse?” he mourns.

Wait, was he not just hitting on you?  Did you misinterpret?

 You straighten, irked somewhat at the insinuation that you’re less-than-cultured.

“Well, I didn’t assume…”

He cuts you off swiftly, his expression brightening.  “So you’ll consider it?  It could be quite mutually beneficial!”

“I… I don’t think I have anything to wear for that sort of thing,” you demur, sidestepping his enthusiasm.

“Interesting,” Rintarou muses.  “So you won’t say yes, but you’re too polite to say no.”

“It isn’t that.”

“Well, either way.  I’ve planted the idea in your head, and now I’ll wait.  What it is they say in English?  Patience is a virtue?”

“Hey!” 

The shoji door slides open and one of the older waitresses peers through, a harried expression on her round, usually-cheerful face.

“I just got seated a party of twelve,” she explains apologetically.  “Could you come help me set up?”

“Of course,” you reply, thankful for the easy exit.  You stand, picking up the pitcher of water and bowing awkwardly to Rintarou who smiles indulgently.  “I have to go.”

“Of course, my dear.  I won’t keep you any longer.  You’ve been so kind to pour my sake.  It’s been pleasant having your company once again.”

You leave him there, alone at the table in the dimly lit room, and follow your coworker out to the noisy dining room. 

“He wasn’t creeping on you, was he?” your coworker asks, shooting a glance back over her shoulder at the tatami room. 

“No, it’s not like that,” you reply hurriedly, grabbing a stack of menus. 

“Well… he sure was hot.”  She pokes at your ribs playfully.  “And the way he was looking at you…” She waggles her eyebrows meaningfully.

You roll your eyes, wishing your palms weren’t sweating so much on the slippery menus.

Perhaps ten minutes of flurried activity later you realize you ought to go check on Rintarou.  You lift your eyes from the computerized till at the front of the restaurant and (speak of the devil) find him walking towards you past the sushi bar.  His dignified presence in the noisy room is palpable, his dark coat swirling past the crowded tables as he pulls on his white gloves. 

Tadanobu looks up from his post behind the sushi bar, his stoic face unreadable.  His hand wavers, knife poised over a slab of tuna as Rintarou passes him.  For a split second he seems to pale.  Then he looks back down, resuming his smooth, slicing motions.

“Thank you again, my dear.”  Rintarou leans in, his words for you alone, sliding an envelope into the front pocket of your apron.  “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

For some reason you shiver.  The chaos of the restaurant dims and tunnels until it’s just the two of you.

Then he turns to push his way through the front doors and disappears into the night.

Around you, piece-by-piece, the restaurant returns to life.

It’s only at the end of your shift, when you retrieve your purse and hoodie from your locker in the break room, that you dare to pull the envelope from your pocket and open it.

Inside are ten crisp one-hundred dollar bills, and a note penned in painfully neat handwriting:

“To wash one’s hair, do one’s makeup, and put on scented robes; even if not a soul sees, these preparations still produce an inner pleasure.”
A lovely girl deserves lovely things.
- R

With shaking hands you slide the envelope into the zipper pocket of your purse, sealing it away.

Chapter Text

Everybody knows the scene is dead
But there’s gonna be a meter on your bed
That will disclose
What everybody knows.
-  Leonard Cohen, “Everybody Knows”

“I’ve planted the idea in your head,” Rintarou had said.

He did.  That idea grows.

The days with Tsushima go by like drifting deep underwater, caught in his current, rolled helplessly and pleasantly in the riptide of his warm red sex.  You come up to surface only when you go to work and during the increasingly infrequent trips to your forlorn apartment. 

Even then he tangles around your ankles like sea grass, pulling you back down.

After the first week he invites you to do laundry at his place, seeing as the machines in his laundry room are complimentary for tenants (unlike the rust-stained coin-op ones in your building).  After that the clothes in your basket never make it back to your place. 

He waits for you after you’re done with work.  You let yourself in with the door code, usually bearing a pizza or carryout from the restaurant.  Sometimes he’s waiting for you at the door, or reading in bed from the growing stacks of books in both Japanese and English littering the floor.  Some are novels, others are poetry. 

Sometimes he’s passed out on the couch and you clear away the empty beer bottles to recycle and sweep the pot seeds and stems from the coffee table into a napkin to throw away.  You do this silently, reverently, mindful of the aura of stale sadness that drifts through the apartment like the smoke curling from the joint forgotten in the ash tray.

But oh God, it feels so good when his eyelashes flutter open and he wakes to find you, deep coffee eyes turning warm and he reaches for you, arms held up like a toddler’s.  He pulls you down on top of him, wrapping you in an embrace that inevitably turns into more.  On the couch, on the bed, on the kitchen table and the bathroom counter…

No friends call him.  Nobody texts.  As far as you can tell he never receives any personal mail.  He has no computer, only a video game system plugged into the big-screen television that he never turns to a news channel. 

It seems, at times, that he has completely fallen between the cracks of life. 

In fact, sometimes when you straighten up in a moment free from the cloud of sex and substances to look about you it’s almost as if he never was.  As if he sprang up for you, fully grown, in this apartment with no past and no future.  There are no personal effects, no mementos or childhood photos. The clothes of his that you fold all seem to be recently-bought here in the U.S., with the sole exception being his tan trench coat that hangs on a hook by the front door.  That one has a Japanese label and has definitely seen use.

He never asks about your prior life, and doesn’t talk about his own.  Other than his single mention of a job waiting for him in two years he speaks of no plans or aspirations. He’d said he wanted to attend language school but no brochures, books or enrollment papers appear on the credenza next to the front door.   Any attempt to initiate an inquiry with him is met with either a brain-numbingly sexy grin and a knowing caress that causes you to forget what you’d been about to say or something that you’ve come to refer to as his clowning:  silly little soliloquys and mental gymnastics that leave you laughing but still reveal nothing.

And almost as if Rintarou had known somehow, Tsushima never takes you out.  Sometimes you can tell he’s been to a nearby shop while you’re at work based on the empty shopping bags and new bottles of beer and sake on the counter, but apart from your first date in Koreatown he shows no desire to explore the city.

Isn’t it normal for two people starting a relationship to spend most of their time fucking?

Fucking is all we do.  That, and getting high.

Sounds great.  I’m not complaining.  Why are you?

“Tsushima, what are we doing here?”  You set the basket of laundry on the couch next to him.

“Hmm?”  He puts down his video game controller and plucks a folded paper from on top of the clothing that’s already cooled and settled into wrinkles.  He looks at you, dressed in your laundry-day clothes:  an old band tee-shirt and short, flounced skirt.  He waves the paper.  “What’s this?”

“Another love letter from your neighbor.  You left the clothes in the dryer all day again.”

“Oh yes.”  Tsushima unfolds the paper thoughtfully, lips pursed as he peruses it.  “Another suggestion for where I can put my laundry.  Wow, with the car and my laundry up there, not going to be much room.  Obviously a man with an anger issue.  Or anal obsession.  Or both.”

“Really, Tsushima.”  You take the note from him and set it on the coffee table next to an ashtray holding a small swirled-glass pot pipe.  “What are we doing?”

“Hmm.”  He leans forward, knocking out the pipe and examining the tiny wire screen, eyes crossing as he holds it close to his nose to see if it needs to be replaced.  It doesn’t.  He pushes it back into the pipe and repacks the bowl with a bud that he rolls between his fingers.  “Well, first I’m going to light this up, and then I’m going to kick your ass again at Bust-a-Move.”

“How about we go out somewhere?” 

“Huh?”  His mouth falls open.  “Like where?”

“Like anywhere.  I’ve been in Los Angeles for weeks now, and so have you.  I haven’t even seen the Tar Pits and I live right next to them.”

“Tar Pits, huh?”  He picks up a lighter and puts the pipe to his lips, trying and failing to get a flame.  “Is it hot like lava?  If I stuck my arm into it, would it come out as a skeleton arm?”

“No I don’t think it’s hot,” you retort, readying yourself for his clowning and deft deflection.  “It’s just a big pond of smelly tar.”

He looks up, eyes sparkling with sudden interest.  “If I threw myself in, would I sink?  Like in quicksand?”  He pauses, pipe wavering by his lips, and you can tell he’s imagining himself flailing helplessly as the tar sucks him down.

“I think if you jumped in you would just land on top.  And lay there.  Like an idiot.  And then somebody would come and pull you out.”

“Disappointing,” he mutters, trying again to get the lighter to work.

“Then how about a concert,” you suggest, your fists finding your hips and settling there.  “Ryuichi Sakamoto was just in town.  We are in the entertainment capital of the world…”

“Ugh!”  Tsushima flops back on the couch as if just the thought wounds him mortally.  “The traffic, the people, the parking!  Blech.”  He shudders.

“Then someplace quiet!  Someplace other than this apartment!”  You grab the basket of laundry huffily, heading to the kitchen table to fold it.

“Got everything I need right here,” Tsushima replies petulantly, turning and slinging his arm over the back of the couch to watch as you shake out a towel a little too sharply.

“You have a car,” you remind him.  “We could go up the coast, to Hearst Castle.  Or even see the Redwoods.” 

“We could stay right here and watch Citizen Kane, or Vertigo.  Hey.”  He shakes the lighter by his ear.  “This one’s out.  Could you grab me a new one?  Bedside table drawer, left side.”

“Fine.”  You set the towel down in a wad and head to the sleeping area, climbing the few steps and snapping on the lights. 

Not sure what you’re hoping to accomplish here but I wish you’d stop.  It’s like you’ve got a thing for messing up a good situation.

I know, I just… can’t help it.

Please try.  It’s like watching a horror movie and begging that girl not to go into that barn but she goes there anyway…

You slide the drawer open, expecting to find a scatter of condoms, lotion and loose change or whatever it is men keep in their bedside drawers.

There’s nothing in it but a small stack of black and white photos.

You pull them out curiously, seating yourself on the edge of the bed, flipping through slowly.

The first is Tsushima, wearing a tie and a black formal overcoat much like Rintarou’s, perched cross-legged on a barstool.  There’s a large bandage over his right eye where you’d seen that small scar.  Along with another plaster on his left cheek it obscures half his face but the cocky grin on his thin lips and shaggy dark hair are unmistakably him.  The smile is mirrored by a scruffy calico cat who looks pleased to be included in the photo. 

Tsushima looks… both sad and happy. 

The next photo is of a different young man, his mouth half-open as if caught mid-protest that he didn’t want his picture taken.  He’s young and very… Japanese, for lack of a better description.  He’s wearing a business suit that is too mature for his baby-smooth face.  His large round eyeglasses catch the light and his combed-back hair that’s too long, like a forgetful academic’s, is coming un-gelled.  He looks mildly exasperated.  The same calico cat in the background looks quite dignified by comparison.

The third photo is of a slightly-older man, his cheeks and chin stubbled with two days’ growth of sparse facial hair.  His dark shirt is disheveled like an artist’s, and his light-colored eyes are doe-like and achingly sensitive.  It appears that all three of them could use a decent barber because this man’s hair, much like Tsushima’s, falls over his forehead and ears in unkempt clumps.  This time the cat is seated on the man’s shoulder.

The final picture is of the three of them, standing and posing stiffly, facing the camera like youngsters playing at being adults.  The cat is nowhere to be seen.

Must’ve been the one taking the picture.

Stern fingers snatch the small stack of photos from your hand and stuff them back into the drawer, closing it firmly.

“Hey!”  You look up, hiding your chagrin at being caught snooping behind righteous indignation.  “You told me the left drawer!”

“Your other left,” Tsushima snorts, crawling across the bed and opening the opposite bedside table drawer and rummaging around in it.  His hand reemerges with a lighter and he clicks his tongue in satisfaction, scooting his butt back on the bed until he’s nestled into the pillows piled against the headboard.  He sparks the lighter, then holds the flame to the bowl of his pipe and inhales.  The flame quavers and dips.

“Who are they?”  you ask, settling against the pillows next to him.  He hands you the pipe and you take it, absently.

“Just… friends.”  He runs a hand up your leg beneath your skirt.

“Friends from Japan?”  You hold your breath in for a moment, then exhale, watching as your smoke mingles with his.  “You miss them?”

“I don’t know.  You could say that.”  Tsushima ceases stroking your thigh and motions for the pipe back.  He takes another hit.  He’s looking down, his hair falling over his eyes casting his face into shadow and you angle your head, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression. 

“Ever talk to them?  What are their names?” 

“One more, take a big one then I need to repack it,” he replies, handing you the pipe and lighter.  He waits for you to kill it off, then accepts it back from you and heads to the couch.

“You never talk about any of your friends.”  You pursue him, noting the sudden stiffness to his shoulders as he drops back into the couch and pokes around with one finger in the little plastic bag of weed.

Leave it alone, just drop it… Do NOT go into that barn, girl…

“That’s right, I don’t.”  He begins packing the bowl again, eyes still in shadow.

“But you can.  I’d like to know.  You never tell me anything.”

Finally he looks up and for a moment he’s a different man.  One you’ve glimpsed before.  His eyes are shallow and flat, unreadable. 

“I’d rather not.  You’ll stop asking if you know what’s good for you.”

“What?”  You take a shocked step back, steadying yourself on the arm of the couch against the head rush.  You have no idea where Tsushima gets his steady supply from but it’s strong stuff.

“I mean,” he shrugs innocently, beaming.  “There’s not much to tell.  And everything worth mentioning… you already know.  I don’t understand where this is coming from.  Things are great!”

“They’re not, Tsushima!” 

Sometimes I feel alone, even when I’m with you. Why won’t you let me in?

Fuck fuck fuck, please stop.

“Just sit down and let’s get a game going,” he tries to soothe you, handing you the pipe. 

“No!”  You’re watching yourself from outside your own body, helpless to intervene.  You take the pipe anyways for yet another deep hit, preparing your next words.  “You tell me nothing.  I know nothing about you.  We never go out.  I’ve been letting you have unprotected sex with me and that’s not something I do casually.”

“Me, neither.”

The little monsters on the video game cheer over the poppy eight-bit music as the match begins, ignored in the background. 

“Oh?  So… are we even exclusive?  We’ve never even talked about that.”

Inside, you’re screaming.

“What do you mean?”  Tsushima’s eyebrows rise up into the shaggy fringe of his bangs.  He takes the pipe from you and sets it aside.

“Am I the only person you’re seeing?”

“Well, I, uh…”  He gestures with the controller helplessly.  “I hadn’t thought about it.  But yeah.  I see you off to work.  I’m waiting for you to get done.  When would I even have time for somebody else?”

Not exactly the answer you wanted to hear.

“What do you want me to say?” Tsushima’s eyes narrow as if he’d heard your unspoken thought.  “Do we really need to define this?”

“No!  I don’t know!  God!”  You press your fingers to your forehead, massaging.  “Everything is just… drifting.”

“You’re stoned.  Don’t freak out.”

“That’s not it.”  You shake your head.  “I’m not saying we need to define anything, I’m not looking for a commitment, that’s ridiculous.”

“Then what do you want?”  He tilts his head to the side, puzzled.  “I’m confused.” 

“Maybe I am, too,” you admit.  “I don’t know what I want.”

I want to know you.  We’ve been as close as two people can physically be.  But I don’t know you.

“If you don’t know what you want, then how am I supposed to know?”  A tiny edge of annoyance is creeping into Tsushima’s voice and you can feel him drawing away from you.  He tosses the other controller towards you.  You make no attempt to catch it.

“All we do is come back to this apartment,” you murmur, looking down at the controller laying on the couch cushion sadly.  “And then we fuck.  It’s like… that’s all you want from me.”

“Ugh!”  He looks up at the ducts in the ceiling for assistance, then looks over at you, a forced smile on his lips.  “So that’s not okay with you?  It seems you’ve been okay with it.”

“I am.  I like it.  I just…”  It hurts to say it out loud.  “You said that people use each other.  Is that really all that’s going on here?”

Tushimi’s fingers tighten on the controller, the beds of his fingernails whitening. 

“Why did you even bring me here,” you whisper, suddenly empty and regretful.  That’s it.  Your final card and the deck’s played out.  You’re empty and it doesn’t feel good.

“Because.”  Tsushima lets his controller fall to his lap in exasperation and absolutely levels you with a flat, dark glare.  “I wanted to fuck.  And you were easy.  Is that what you want to hear?”

You stand there, frozen, as the little monsters on the forgotten video game groan and turn gray.  The match is over.  With nobody playing the timer’s run out.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, spinning to grab your purse and shoes. 

For a moment you pause at the door, half-hoping he’ll get up.  That he’ll try to stop you, tell you he didn’t mean it. 

He doesn’t.  He’s sprawled on the couch, head hanging over the back, staring up at the ceiling. 

Good job, your internal voice praises you, dripping with sarcasm as you let the door swing shut behind you. 

Stupid, so stupid, it scolds as the elevator slides open.  You were worried about feeling alone.  And now you are alone.

You step from the elevator blinking back tears of frustration, through the lobby and rush out onto the nighttime plaza. 

“Oh!  Sumimasen!”

The man leaving the tea shop next to the grocery store holds his drink up, fumbling not to crush it between your bodies as you blunder into him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, turning aside to hide the tears brimming in your eyes.  You see only the black cashmere of his very fine overcoat and you’re silently thankful you didn’t cause him to spill.  The coat must cost a fortune.

“My dear?  Is everything okay?  We do keep bumping into each other.  This time literally.”

“Rintarou?”  You look up, shocked.

He’s peering down at you, concern etched in his handsome face.  In the bright light of the signs above his purple eyes are lilac flecked with black.

“What are you doing out here!  And without a coat, again!”  He pulls you aside from the throng of shoppers leaving the grocery store.  “It isn’t that young man, is it?  Has something happened?”

“Nothing happened,” you reply, shaking your head and looking down.  His hand is still on your shoulder, massaging it gently, comfortingly.

Your worn leather flats are close to his impeccably-shined loafers on the gray pavement.  They’re nearly touching. 

Suddenly resolved you look up, meeting his eyes.  “I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

“My… offer?”  He releases your shoulder and unwraps a napkin from his to-go cup of hot tea, dabbing at his hand where a little has sloshed over.  “I would be so pleased!  Shall we say tomorrow night?  I haven’t got any reservations for tonight, you see, and it’s a little late to make any.”

“Just take me back with you,” you say, taking a deep breath.  “Now.  I don’t care where.” 

The wintery night air feels good in your lungs that are still tingling from the sting of Tsushima’s weed, and the lights of the plaza are prettier than they usually are.  You can smell Rintarou’s cologne.  It’s refined, mature and dignified.  Hard woods, exotic incense and beneath it a mysterious, almost antiseptic smell.  You lean your cheek against the dark wool of his coat, feeling its smooth texture.  You shiver.

For a long moment his arms hover uncertainly.  He doesn’t dare clasp you to him.  He also doesn’t push you away.

“I, ah… Do you really mean it?”  His voice rumbles pleasantly in his chest beneath your ear.  He slides a finger beneath your chin and tilts your head up, his eyes searching deeply into yours.

“I do.  Just get me out of here.”

“Of course.  Yes, of course,” he says quickly, setting his tea aside on one of the cement planters.  He takes off his coat and drapes it around your shoulders, then slides an arm around your waist.  “My car is right over there.  Let’s get you out of this cold – quickly.”

The limousine is waiting at the edge of the plaza where you’d first met him, a black-suited driver next to it staring straight ahead with his hand on the door-handle.  He opens it, not glancing down as Rintarou ushers you inside and pulls the door closed.  The interior is dark and luxurious, just as you remembered it.

“Perhaps we could order something in,” Rintarou considers, pulling out a flip phone as the limo begins to move.  “There’s a very nice Italian restaurant just beneath my building, with excellent carpaccio.  Do you like –mmmph!”

He’s cut off as you throw his coat aside and clamber over him, straddling him on the leather seat and forcing your mouth onto his.  Rigid shock gives way quickly as his muscles grow slack with pleasure.  His phone falls from his hand, forgotten.

It feels strange.  His mouth that opens to accept your tongue, his hands ghosting over your waist and hips, rising to cup your face and form a private space just for the two of you -- they arouse little in you.  You deepen the kiss, urging yourself to feel something.

When you pull away he’s breathless and smiling.  It’s an enigmatic smile, like in a masterful painting that conveys so much and yet so little.

“I suppose dinner can wait,” he breathes, the light from the passing streetlamps traversing his pale face like shadows of clouds rolling over a wintery moonlit landscape. 

You roll your hips forward and he gasps as you find what you’d been hoping for:  a telltale hardness growing between you.  You reach for it, sliding your hand down his firm stomach to verify.

“Ah,” he chides, pulling your hand away and setting it aside on your thigh.  “There’s no hurry.  I want to savor this.  And so should you.”  He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, considering.  “You’ve had only boys and over-eager young men.  Haven’t you.”

You swallow as he slides a palm behind your neck, pulling you towards him slowly.  His lips glide over your forehead, then to your ear, nuzzling into the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Let me show you what a grown man can do for you,” he breathes.

The limousine stops behind a towering downtown skyscraper, near the loading bays.  Above you the buildings form a dark canyon that stretches up and up.

Rintarou takes your hand to assist you from the limo as he again tucks his coat around your shoulders.  His arm finds your waist.

“This is your hotel?”

“No,” he replies, leading you up a ramp, towards two more dark-suited men waiting in the gloom of a doorway.  One of them holds the door open and he guides you through.  Neither one of them so much as glances at you.  “Once I decided to stay longer I leased a penthouse.  It’s much better than a hotel.”

“I see…”  You look about yourself at the long, gray, featureless corridor that he guides you down.  Your two pairs of footsteps (his certain, yours less so) echo unnervingly.

“It doesn’t look like much, not here,” he concedes, massaging your hip and waist with anticipation that you don’t share.  “This is the utility entrance.  But I promise you:  you won’t be disappointed.  Here we are.”

The hallway culminates in an industrial elevator with a single button that he presses.  The extra-wide door slides open instantly, revealing an interior shrouded with thick, quilted blue blankets of the type used by moving companies to protect from scratches.  On the inside, too, there is only one button marked “PH.”  Rintarou pokes it and turns his head up to the dim fluorescent lights, watching as the lighted digital arrow blinks green and the floor lurches upwards beneath you.  It settles into a smooth velocity.

We’re moving so fast… that must mean penthouse.

You glance at Rintarou’s profile, your heart sinking.  He’s handsome, almost unbearably so, in an icy way.  His jaw is sharp and well-defined, his clean-shaven skin immaculate except for a smattering of what you assume are old acne scars near his cheekbones.  With his eyes on the lit arrow he is as still as a cat watching a bird.  His eyes slide down to yours.  He smiles.

Shit, I don’t want to do this.

But with every second that passes, with every floor taking its place between you and the outside world far below, turning and leaving feels less and less possible.

No.  You can leave.  Just tell him.

I’m so sorry, Tsushima. 

The elevator door slides open and Rintarou guides you into an expansive lobby.  And you truly are left breathless.

In contrast to the grubby industrial space you step out of, the lobby is like something from a museum.  An intricate marble mosaic floor spreads away in front of you, with an enormous carved table in the center bearing a towering floral arrangement that would occupy most of your living room.  You reach out a cautious finger as you pass it, grazing a white lily.  It’s real.

“Do you like it?”  Rintarou smiles, the sparkle of a half-lit crystal chandelier suspended in the darkness high above catching in his amused eyes.

“It’s… incredible.” 

He leads you around the table, past a wall cut with cleverly-illuminated niches that display suits of samurai armor. 

“It is, isn’t it?”  Rintarou flashes you a pleased glance.  “In my line of work I find it’s not only pleasing but necessary to surround one’s self with reminders of beauty and strength.  Pleasing to myself.  Necessary to remind others.  This way, please.”

Yet another expressionless, black-suited man opens a door and Rintarou breezes through with you in tow.

You had found the floor-to-ceiling window in Tsushima’s loft impressive.  This leaves you speechless.

Most of Los Angeles is spread before you, glittering in the night.  You can make out Wilshire Boulevard, a diamond necklace stretched in a black-velveted jewelry box crowded with lesser ornaments, extending towards the ocean in the far distance.  In the near distance other skyscrapers reach up towards you like black and silver fingers, their pinnacles topped with flashing red and green spires.  A helicopter passes by, heading towards a helipad somewhere below.  Through the thickness of the window you don’t hear the throb of its rotor blades but feel it beating against the glass.

“Would you like something to drink?” 

You look up, realizing Rintarou has left you alone in the center of the vast living room, the lapels of his black cashmere coat clutched in your numb fingers.  He lifts a bottle from a bucket of ice stationed to one side, along with a champagne flute. 

“I…” you lick your lips.  “No thanks.”

He twists the cork from the bottle expertly, catching it in his palm. 

“You don’t mind if I do, do you?”  He grins, pouring himself a glass of the pale liquid.  He sips it, then loosens his tie. 

You shake your head, hardly daring to look about you.  Paintings you’ve seen in textbooks line the back wall of the room.  A white grand piano occupies an entire corner.  In the center is a massive sunken conversation pit with white leather couches and black lacquer coffee tables dripping with orchids.

“A bit too formal for my tastes,” Rintarou says, taking your hand in his.  He looks at the room with you as if he, too, is seeing it for the first time.  He clicks his tongue, taking another sip of his champagne.   “Allow me to show you the bedroom.  It’s much more… comfortable.”

The room Rintarou guides you to is smaller than the main room but no less daunting.  Another window occupies an entire wall.  Some sort of film or sheer curtain blunts the piercing city lights, blurring them into stars like strings of Christmas lights.  The room itself is dim, lit only by a pair of Tiffany lamps that bracket a low platform bed strewn with white silk sheets, tufted comforters and pillows.

“Is this better,” Rintarou whispers, sliding his black coat from your shoulders and tossing it aside onto a leather-upholstered armchair. 

You shiver at the sudden loss of warmth, keenly aware that you’re wearing only your grubby band tee-shirt and mismatched skirt. 

“Take off your shoes,” Rintarou suggests, settling into the armchair and toeing his own off.  He bends down, arranging them neatly beneath the coffee table, then removes his socks and tucks them inside.

You step out of your own worn flats, feeling the plush pile of the Persian rug beneath your toes.

He’s watching you, his eyes dark and hooded in the gloom, a pleased expression on his face as he empties his champagne flute. 

“Now.”  He pats his thigh, setting his empty glass aside.  “Come here.”

The buzz you had leaving Tsushima’s apartment is mostly gone, leaving in its wake a surreal post-high clarity.  As if watching yourself on a video feed you approach him slowly, hesitantly, wiping your sweating palms on the hem of your shirt.  He seems to mistake it for coquettishness, judging by his pleased smile.

“Come here, my dear,” he repeats, this time more insistently.  He spreads his thighs slightly to accept your weight as you drop into his lap.  “That’s a good girl,” he breathes, leaning forward and catching your lips with his.  Against your hip you feel the insistent lump of his growing erection.

Tender fingers creep beneath your skirt.  Your eyes sag shut as his lips find your chin, your cheeks, your earlobe, his other hand pushing the neck of your shirt aside to mouth at your clavicle…

Please, please get wet, you beg your reluctant body.  As skillful as Rintarou’s mouth is on you, it elicits no response. 

“Oh!”  Your eyes fly open as Rintarou pushes the gusset of your panties aside and he draws a dry fingertip over your folds.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe.  “I’m a little…”

“Nervous?”  He asks, nuzzling against your breast.  He pauses there for a moment, then looks up at you.  “Ah, female arousal is such a complex, mysterious thing.  Don’t worry.  I know what to do.”

He shifts his hips, urging you to get up, then rises and pulls you towards the bed. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, turning his back as you settle cautiously onto the luxuriant silk bedding. 

Rintarou unbuttons his shirt, then slides his belt from its loops and steps out of his pants.  He does it matter-of-factly, stripping until he’s wearing only a pair of black silk boxers.  He’s gorgeous in the dim light, his pale physique as flawless as a classical statue… and just as cold.  You watch as he folds his clothes loosely and sets them on a bureau, sliding the top drawer open and pulling out a small bottle of personal lubricant.

“Here we are,” he soothes, getting into the bed next to you.  He props himself against the headboard, adjusting the pillows behind his back for comfort, and gestures towards his lap.

“I… what do you want me to do?”  You look at him dumbly, unsure what he intends.  You roll to crawl towards him, reaching for the outline of his cock tenting his black silk boxers, licking your lips and readying yourself for what you assume is a request for oral sex.

This could work.  If all he wants is a blowjob… we can manage that.

“No no,” he leans forwards, catching and turning you until you’re clasped with your back against his hard, bare chest.  Firm pectorals flex against your shoulder blades and well-toned biceps encircle you, pulling you upright.  His rigid cock digs into the small of your back, just above the cleft of your buttocks bracketed by his slender thighs.

“A woman’s arousal can be elusive,” Rintarou narrates as he lifts the hem of your skirt and pushes down on the sides of your panties.  “So many men ignore the fact that foreplay, usually in the form of direct stimulation, is necessary.  Take them off, my dear.” 

You comply, lifting your hips, careful not to crush his erection as you slide your panties down and off.  After a second’s hesitation you also pull your skirt off, tossing it aside.  He grasps you around your chest, pulling you back against him again and flicking open the bottle of lube one-handed. 

“Ah, that’s nice,” he sighs admiringly, his breath caressing your cheek.  His long, dark hair grazes your neck as he looks over your shoulder at your clothed breasts squeezed against his forearm and your naked lower half.  Your legs are splayed loosely, arrayed before you on the slippery sheets.  You resist the urge to draw them up protectively to your chest.

Cool fingers glide over your hip, over the crease between your legs and settle over your mons possessively.  He curls his fingers and grips you, eliciting a feeble whimper. 

“Patience, my dear,” he admonishes you, his lips curling against your cheek as his other arm slides around you and he coats his fingers with a generous glob of lube. 

You gasp as the cool substance makes contact with your flesh.  Sure fingers slide in, deftly finding your clitoris and massaging it.  He’s incredible skilled, undoubtedly experienced in the way he rubs tiny circles around the stiff bundle of nerve endings.  Slower, then faster, then slow again.  His fingers glide over and around you, exerting exactly the right amount of pressure.  Occasionally he dips his middle finger down, recoating it with the lubricant pooling at your entrance before returning to his objective.

Being manipulated like this without the spark of arousal feels… oddly clinical.  The tendons in the back of his slender hand flex, his knuckles rise and fall as he works at you.  His hand feels alien.  Unsure what to do with your own hands you let them lie limply at your sides.

A twinge runs through you as he curves his finger, finding the sensitive bare peak of your clitoris and pressing against it.  Your legs twitch reflexively and your fists tighten in the sheets.

“Good girl,” he sighs, his voice rumbling in his chest against your back, whispering into your ear.  He tightens his free arm around you, up higher towards your neck.  “Just relax.” 

Despite the strangeness of the situation (or because of it) your nerves spring into responsiveness.  It’s obvious what he wants:  for you to come.  Faking it won’t work; not for someone this experienced.  Resigned, you give in, allowing his skilled fingers to manipulate you.

Not wanting to look anymore you close your eyes and let your head loll onto his shoulder, arching to ease the pressure of his erection that is starting to soak a damp patch on your lower back.  He grinds his hips upwards, clutching you harder, bicep flexing in tandem as he rolls against you, his deft fingers never ceasing.

A stuttering gasp breaks from your lips as the first wave of an impending orgasm twists your insides, flowing up through your abdomen and hardening your nipples into tingling peaks inside your bra.  The pressure of his finger lessens, becomes languid and you moan softly as the wave recedes.  Your legs slide up and fall open.

“Patience, remember?”  Rintarou’s voice is husky with lust at your shoulder, almost amused.  You’d nearly forgotten the man was there.

Again and again he pulls you towards your peak, backing off just as your muscles tighten and thighs begin to tremble, only to bring you closer yet again.  Real arousal begins to form between your legs, mingling with the lube.  The slick, wet noises of Rintarou’s fingers working your flesh are mildly embarrassing but it’s obvious he doesn’t mind based on the quickening of his breath against your ear.

“Are you close, my dear?”  His disembodied voice at your shoulder curls around you.

Your lips have dried from your shallow, panting breaths and you lick them, pressing them together and nodding.

“Ahhh…” He leans forward, arm tightening.  He increases the pace of his fingers.  He’s making tiny, pleased, encouraging noises deep in his throat.  “Come for me… Come for me…”

You do.  Pinned to him, spread on his silk sheets your legs tremble helplessly and your core tenses with the oncoming orgasm he’s expertly drawing out of you.  An inevitable tension is growing inside of you, clenching and unclenching around nothing, aching for release and with a stuttered gasp you arch against him and come.  It’s shockingly intense, blindingly so and for long moments you’re aware of nothing but the physical sensations pulsating through your body.

His fingers slow, eliciting a last few twitches and panting moans from you before stilling, leaving you breathless in his arms.

The relief is incredible. 

“Better?” He chuckles, allowing you to slide from him arms to lie on your side next to him, your fingers still curling spasmodically into the soft sheets.

You nod, swallowing hard.  As the waves of your orgasm recede you wonder if he’ll be content with this.  You wonder if you can thank him and leave.  But most likely he’ll want more.  You roll to him, hand closing around the front of his boxers, running numb fingers up and down the outline of his cock through the sleek fabric, tracing over the darker patch of precum staining the silk, then continuing on to the waistband.  If you can get him off quickly, in your hand…

“Did you know,” Rintarou says, placing a hand on the top of your head and sighing as you pull down the band of his boxers just an inch, “doctors used to stimulate women to orgasm as a medical treatment?”

You ignore him, intent on your objective.  You lower his waistband further, exposing him.  He’s not like Tsushima, and it takes you a moment to recognize the difference.  Tsushima’s cock is pink, sleek and pretty – the perfect shape and size that makes you want to wrap your fist around it and kiss it.  Rintarou’s, by contrast, is much more visceral.  He’s larger, darker, uncut, generously-veined with a demanding-looking head protruding from within the receding folds of his foreskin.  Had you never seen Tsushima it would hold a certain animal appeal.  But now…

You swallow, gripping his shaft firmly in your hand and testing the slide of his foreskin over his glans.

“Yes,” Rintarou sighs, sinking back more comfortably into the pillows.  He’s gazing down at you in his lap with languid, heavy-lidded eyes.  “It was prescribed as a treatment for female hysteria.”

“I… I didn’t know that.” 

He leans forward, gripping the bottom of your shirt and pulling it off over your head, forcing you to release him.  You fall forward, not wanted to be exposed to him this fully.  Yet his deft fingers find the clasp of your bra and unsnaps it, tossing that, too, aside.

He hums, stroking your hair distractedly as you fumble forward, settling your cheek against his slender, muscular thigh and steeling yourself to take him into your mouth.  “The patient would be restrained and stimulated until she came, leaving her docile and compliant.  The idea that orgasm could be compelled like that…” He slides a finger beneath your chin, lifting your flushed face and examining it.  “…isn’t that fascinating?”

You don’t respond, pumping him gently in your fist, squeezing a generous bead of satiny moisture from him.  It drips over your fingers, falling to his abdomen in a long, thin line.  You open your mouth, readying yourself for him.

“No.  Not like that.  Come for me again,” he breathes, pushing your reaching mouth away.  He glides out from beneath you and hooks one arm beneath your leg. 

You land on your back, startled, and he quickly parts your legs with his knees.

“I... just did.  I don’t think I can again.”

“Nonsense.”  He pushes his boxers fully down and kicks them away.  He grips your hand, forcing it down between your legs.  “Unlike men, women have little to no refractory period.”

“N-… no!”  You squirm away, pulling your hand from his. 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he soothes, looking down as he takes himself in his hand, drawing the head of his cock over your entrance in a leisurely manner, coating it with the leftover lube and shameful evidence of your orgasm.  He looks up at you, grinning, his features fish-eyed by his proximity to yours.  “You’ll enjoy this.”

“Wait!  Protection,” you protest, trying and failing to close your legs.  His muscular thighs and slender hips prevent you.  “Do you have a condom?”

“Relax,” Rintarou says, readying himself.  “I’m a doctor.”

“Relax,” Tsushima grunts, the head of his cock catching your opening, sliding back and forth over it to spread the arousal over himself.  “My father’s a doctor.”

“I have a son about your age.”

You gasp as Rintarou pushes in, your mind reeling.

“You’re a doctor, then?”

“Mmm-hmm.  Or I was.  I still am.  But after the war I went into business.  I’m the head of a large… organization…”

No.  No no nonono… it can’t be.  It’s too much of a coincidence.  You stiffen, placing your palms flat against Rintarou’s straining chest, willing him away.

“Not long after, he -- my dad -- got a chance to take over a large organization.  He raised me in it, with the expectation that I’d work for him and maybe even someday take his place.”

“Young men are so foolish, they don’t know the value of what they’ve been given.”

You half-gasp, half-sob as Rintarou grips your hand, bringing it back down to where your bodies are joined.  His cock sliding in and out of you feels wrong, like nothing more than an unwelcome invasion in your unwilling flesh.

“One more time,” Rintarou pants, his sleek dark hair swaying about his face above yours.  He slides to his knees, angling your hips up and making sure to leave room between his groin and yours for your fingers.  “Touch yourself for me.”

“I can’t.  Please.  Just come.” 

“Not until you do.”  He pulls out slightly until just the head of his cock is inside of you, thrusting in short, fluttering motions. 

You close your eyes and turn your head to the side, unwilling to look at him.  Like this, with your cheek pressed to the pillow, you can block him out.  You can imagine he’s anybody. 

You can imagine he’s Tsushima.

Come on, you can do this. 

Your fingers stutter to life, tracing a path you know so well.  It’s familiar, and devoid of any emotion.  It’s nothing more than physical and you concentrate on it like a glowing thread that will guide you home and away from this.

“Ah… I can feel you loosening… lengthening,” Rintarou grunts, pushing in deeper.  “You’re ready for me… so ready…” 

You gasp, eyes squeezing shut tighter.  You are not aroused but somehow your body is responding.  The head of his cock is brushing against something very sensitive inside of you and you stiffen your legs around his hips in an attempt to temper his thrusts.  He’s dredging so much wetness out of you.  It coats his groin and drips down the crack of your backside to the sheets below.

Rintarou hisses in disapproval, sitting back further on his shins and gripping your hips.  He pulls you towards him roughly, grabbing your left ankle bruisingly and lifting it to his shoulder.

“Take it,” he pants.  “You can take it.  I want to see you.  I want to feel you.  Come for me… come for me…”

I can’t…

You can. 

A stuttered moan bursts from your lips as you dig down as deeply in your mind, reaching for that elusive pinpoint of arousal, deepening it and widening it.  As soon as you catch it, it slips away.  You whimper, fingers scrabbling around his shaft where it’s buried in you, catching the fluid gathered there and returning to your clit.

There.

You flex your stomach and curve forward, allowing Rintarou’s energetic thrusts to push you towards the headboard.  With your free hand you reach up, bracing yourself against it.

“Nngh…”  Rintarou withdraws and releases your ankle, squeezing his cock in his hand, head hanging and shoulders trembling with effort.  A weak spurt of cum escapes him, pattering to your pubic hair in a sticky cobweb. 

“Did you… did you come?” you ask, rising to your elbows, trying not to sound hopeful.

He shakes his head.  “A little bit.”  He looks up, grinning, a strand of dark hair stuck to his flushed forehead.  “I’m not done yet.  I’m waiting for you, my dear.”

He slips himself back inside, resuming his relentless assault, grabbing your ankle again and pressing it up to your shoulder.  The position splits you wide, nearly lifting you from the bed.

Fuck.  This guy isn’t going to stop until we come…

You half-roll, twisting into the pillows that have bunched against your head.  Rintarou grabs them, tossing them aside.

Your ribcage rises and falls, breasts jouncing as he pounds into you tirelessly.  Your fingers work frantically.

Fuck, please let it end.  Please, just come.

Rintarou grips you by the hair, forcing you towards his chest.  You shake your head, confused, your leg pretzeled between you.

“Suck it,” he says, forcing your mouth towards his small, perfect nipple. 

You do, half-heartedly tonguing at it. 

“Ah, that’s good,” he encourages you, never faltering in his rhythm.  “That’s nice… good girl.”

After a moment he pushes you back down, hunching over you and gripping your breast harshly, lowing his own mouth to it and tugging at your nipple. 

You close your eyes against the contented noises he makes.

Improbably, you find a reaction in yourself.  Your fingers quicken and Rintarou groans in approval.

“There we are… there we are,” he whispers, releasing your nipple and gripping your chin in steely fingers.  “Let me see your face when you do.”

You clench your teeth, eyes squeezed tightly shut, willing yourself to find that cliff and slip over the edge.

“Ah!” he gasps, as a gasp of your own bursts from you.  Your breath hitches, catches, and you hold it, legs trembling and stomach muscles tightening.

“Yes… yes…”  He slaps into you harder, wet noises of flesh hitting flesh surrounding you.

Everything fades and recedes into a tiny point of existence and sinks away, someplace very deep and very lonely.  You throb around him, no longer aware of your responses, no longer able to control anything, swept away helplessly in terrible ecstasy.  You’re dimly aware of him releasing your ankle, withdrawing from you and coating your stomach and breasts with warm, sticky semen before collapsing atop you.

After a polite amount of time you push at him gently, urging him to roll away.  He does, seating himself cross-legged and looking down at his softening cock before glancing at the sheet between your legs.

“Oh!”  You get up carefully, legs wobbly, bracing yourself on the edge of the mattress as your feet hit the soft carpet.  You wince at the feeling of cooling cum coating your stomach.  But more than that:  Something wet is coating the insides of your thighs.  It’s far more fluid than you’re used to.  A corresponding patch of milky wetness is soaked into the sheets where you’d been moments earlier.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you flush, voice shaking with exhaustion.  “That doesn’t usually happen.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Rintarou smiles warmly.  “I’m flattered.  It means I’ve done well.”  He gets up, fully nude, careless of his softening cock that bobs between his legs as he makes his way to a doorway and snaps the light on.  He emerges a moment later with two hand-towels and comes around the bed, giving you one.  He swabs absently at his crotch and thighs as you wipe first at the damp patch on the bed, then between your own legs.

“A mixture of ejaculate, arousal, and vaginal excretions stirred up by vigorous intercourse,” he comments, tossing the towel aside.  “Expelled by muscular contractions from a particularly strong orgasm.”  He lies back on the bed, avoiding the damp spot and rearranging the pillows behind him contentedly.  “A job well-done, in other words.  I should keep this sheet as a trophy.”

“Um.  Sure.”

He pats the bed next to himself.  “We still might have time for dinner?”

“I think… I should be going.”  You begin to search for your discarded clothing, collecting up your bra and tee shirt. 

“Come now,” Rintarou frowns.  “You can stay.  Of course you can stay.  You’re welcome to spend the night!”

“I… I’d rather sleep in my own bed,” you stammer.  “I’m more comfortable that way.”

“Please, I insist.”  He gets up, finding your skirt on the other side of the mattress and handing it to you. 

“Look, I… had fun,” you say, pulling on your clothes and straightening the sheet to check its folds for your panties.  They’re nowhere to be found and you give up.  Leave them -- you’d rather get out of here, fast.  “But that’s all I was after tonight.  And it was great.  Really, it was.  I’d like to go home.”

“I see.”  Rintarou pulls on his boxers, following you out to the main sitting room, grabbing a dark cotton yukata from behind the door as he does.  “I suppose I understand.  Although I am disappointed.”

“Thank you for this,” you say, shouldering your purse and worrying the strap with your fingers.

“Anytime, my dear,” he whispers, leaning in for a kiss that you turn to avoid.

He desists, opening the door to the elevator lobby and motioning for one of his black-suited men who appears from somewhere out of sight.

“Please take this young lady home,” Rintarou orders him.  “See to it that she gets there safely.”

The man bows, a nearly-imperceptible bob of his head and shoulders.

He guides you into the waiting elevator. 

You get in, turn, and look down, not wanting to meet Rintarou’s eyes as the door slides closed.

It isn’t until you’re completely alone, seated on the floor of your cramped shower, allowing the water to run over you and rinse away the dried fluids coating your stomach and crusting your private parts that it fully hits you.

Your confused thoughts swirl and coalesce, focusing like the water running down the drain.

Dear god, what the FUCK did you just do?

Chapter Text

When you next open your eyes, it’s to brilliant sunlight and a deflated air mattress.

Both bad things. 

The air mattress, of course, because it’s only a few weeks old and your arm’s gone numb where it was pressed in an awkward position against the hard floor beneath. 

The sun is bad because there’s only an hour or so per day when it’s straight overhead enough to shine down into the canyon of apartment buildings your bedroom window is buried in.  Meaning, it’s almost noon.  You don’t have a shift today but for some reason sleeping in this late makes you feel more depressed than refreshed. 

Crawling to a sitting position on the floor you rub your tingling arm, collecting your thoughts.  The events of the night before return to you in fragmentary images.  Some of them you’d rather forget:  Tsushima’s head, hanging limp over the back of the couch as you closed the door behind you.  Rintarou’s knowing smile.

In the bright light of day it seems ridiculous that, in the heat of the moment, you’d thought they could be father and son.  Although it does seem like a huge coincidence.  Still, the fact that you ran out on Tsushima and into the arms of the next man who showed you the slightest bit of kindness isn’t a good sign.

Like a gorilla swinging from vine to vine, right?  You really fucked up this time.  If you care about Tsushima or yourself at all you’ll walk away from this whole mess.

Shit.  Guess we’re starting over again.  At least we’ve got a job this time.

We’ve started over so many times before.  It’s getting easy.

Is it?

Suddenly you realize what roused you from your sleep.  There’s an insistent tapping at your apartment door.

You get up, pulling your hoodie on over your tank top and pajama pants, grumbling.  Must be a delivery man with the wrong apartment number or a door-to-door salesman who’s slipped in through the shitty security door downstairs. 

You squint through the peephole, cursing yourself when you realize whoever is outside has seen your shadow block the pinprick of light.  Too late to pretend you’re not home.

You’re greeted by the sight of something frilly and white, with a red splotch in the middle.  It’s quickly lowered, revealing Tsushima’s broad grin fish-eyed through the tiny lens.  He’s wearing his usual tan coat (it seems to be his “going out” uniform) and his turquoise bolo tie.

“Good morning, purinsesu,” he sing-songs cheerily.  “Can we come in?”

“Tsushima?  Who’s we?”

“Me and Mr. Bear here.”  He holds the white object up again, waggling it in front of the peephole.

You lean your head against the wood of the door, heaving a sigh.  This is the last thing you wanted to confront this morning.  “I don’t feel like it, Tsushima.  Please leave me alone.”

“Oh.”  You can imagine his face dropping into a disappointed grimace.  “Well, tell that to Mr. Bear,” he insists, his voice muffled through the reinforced wood.

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking. 

After a minute or so, Tsushima’s voice rises again.  “We’re not going away, you know.  So could you let us in?  It’s sort of creepy out here in this hallway.  No offense.”

Giving up, you undo the door locks one by one:  button, sliding chain, deadbolt.  You pull the door open and Tsushima breezes past you, his arms filled with crinkly cellophane-wrapped bouquets of flowers.

“What are you doing here,” you ask, annoyed at his blasé attitude. 

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says, as if this alone explains his appearance on your doorstep.  “It kept going through to voicemail.  You know, I could help you set that up.  Give my number a fun ringtone.  I’m good at phones.”

“It’s probably out of batteries.”  You frown, following him through to the kitchen.  “Or maybe I didn’t want to talk to anybody.  You think of that?”

He ignores you, humming happily to himself.  “Did you know they have a flower market downtown?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder. 

“Is that were you got that?” You grimace as he sets the slippery pile of bouquets and a big, lopsided arrangement of white carnations on your kitchen counter.  It’s roughly the shape of a teddy bear, with a red rose in the center of its chest and little black buttons for eyes and nose.  The cheap blue taffeta ribbon draped across it reads “Congratulations.”

“Ah, yes.  It is.  I guess you’re supposed to go there early in the morning for the best selection.  Still, pretty good, right?”

“I suppose,” you mumble, poking in one carnation that’s sprung loose from the foam form beneath.  “I mean… what do you mean?”

“Well,” he jumps onto the counter, pulling up his legs and wiggling his skinny butt into a more comfortable position.  “You said you wanted to see more of the city.  So I woke up this morning and decided to try it.”  He plucks the bear up, holding it next to his face and directing himself towards it.  “What do you think, Mr. Bear?”

“Bear-y good, Tsushima-kun!”  he praises himself in a high-pitched, silly voice. 

“See?”  Tsushima turns the bear towards you.  “Mr. Bear approves.”

You shake your head, ignoring Mr. Bear… you mean the floral arrangement.  You dig in the cupboard at Tsushima’s shoulder for your mug and the little red canister of instant coffee.

“So you’re just going to walk in here like nothing’s happened?  Like everything’s fine?”

“Nothing did happen.” Tsushima lowers the bear, watching as you fill the mug with sink water and pop it into the microwave.  “Did it?”

You’re just attacking him because of what you did with Rintarou.  Making yourself feel better by making him feel bad.  That’s pretty low.

 That’s not true.

It’s partly true.

So we’re never telling him, right? 

Never.  That’s right.  But I still feel like I can’t look him straight in the eye and that’s no good. Like you said:  we need to cut him loose.

“Look,” Tsushima persists as you stab at the microwave buttons and the mug slowly rotates inside.  “We said some dumb things.  We were both high.  I’m not upset, are you?  Let’s just forget it.”

“Was it dumb?  Even high, I still think there’s a little truth to it…”

“Yeah, so…”  Tsushima looks down at Mr. Bear in his lap.  “I’m making an effort, alright?”

You stir the coffee granules in, wishing you had some milk or sugar.  But you’ve been in this apartment too infrequently as of late to stock it with milk, and you’ve used up the last of the sugar packets you pocketed from the restaurant. 

“Right?” Tsushima repeats, angling his head to insert himself into your field of vision. 

“I don’t know, Tsushima,” you sigh, wincing at the bitter coffee.  “This all happened too fast.  Maybe I need some time to think.”

“But I missed you,” he breathes.

“Missed me?  It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”

“Shit,” Tsushima sets the bear aside, jumping down from the counter with a thump.  “That’s the wrong thing to say.  I don’t know… what am I supposed to say?  Sounds like a thing guys say…”  He scratches his shaggy dark hair, considering.

You don’t reply, instead taking another sip of coffee as you watch him struggle.

“I suppose…” He shrugs helplessly.  “I suppose I’m not very good at these things.  I don’t know what people want to hear.  Or what I should tell them.”

“Tell them what you want to tell them, Tsushima.” 

“That’s the problem.  All my life, people have felt… strange to me.  Like I couldn’t possibly guess what they’re thinking.  So it’s confusing to know what I want to say.  What I should say.  I spent so much time confused that I guess I stopped saying anything real at all.  If I ever did.  If that makes sense.”

“Everybody feels that way sometimes, Tsushima.” 

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, his dark eyes suddenly becoming flat and hard.  “Not like this.  I thought I was fine the way I was but…  Somebody changed my mind.  Put me on a different path.  I’m not sure how well it’s working out but like I said:  I’m trying.  It’s not easy.  I hope that’s okay with you.”

“You don’t need my approval.”  You exhale slowly, setting aside your mug and crossing your arms.

“So…” He looks up at you through thick eyelashes, batting them hopefully.  “Yes?”

There it is again.  That look.  He knows what he’s doing.

“Yes, what?”

“You’ll come over?”

“Not right now, Tsushima.  I need to do some stuff.”

You have no stuff to do.  And what happened to cutting him loose?

“I need some space,” you reply out loud to your inner voice.

“Sure, sure,” Tsushima nods.  “I’ll give you until seven o’clock.  What would you say to a nice, home-cooked meal?  No pizza, no carryout?  I was thinking a nabe, with beef and vegetables, and some miso black cod.  And salad.”

“Really?” 

That does sound good.

“Really.  And I’ll give you space -- I won’t even jump you right away!  I’ll let you eat first.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you laugh, despite yourself. 

“Yep.  Candles, flowers, and everything.”

He gathers up the flowers, leaving Mr. Bear on the counter and giving him a final prim pat on the head. 

“See you at seven,” he says, sliding sideways out the door.  His smiling face is the last thing to disappear.

Dammit, how does he do that?

Tsushima trampling all over your resolve is something you’ve gotten very used to.

You think about that as you find your purse and confirm:  your phone is dead.  You plug it into the charger on the counter, and after a few seconds it comes back to life and buzzes with stored alerts.

You recognize a few missed calls and texts from Tsushima’s number.

It’s the number you don’t recognize that turns your stomach.

The first text is a picture of your panties.

Unknown:  Cinderella left her slipper here.

Timestamped a few minutes later, another text:

Unknown:  I’d like to see you again tonight.

Around a half hour later, there is a missed call.  And then another text.

Unknown:  Again, this could be a very fulfilling arrangement.  You may believe you’ve seen what I have to offer, but you don’t know the half of it.

You shiver.  Perhaps he had meant the text to sound enticing.  It sounds anything but.

“Creepy,” you mutter to yourself, deleting the texts and turning your phone face-down on the counter. 

God, what a mistake.  Maybe going to Tsushima’s tonight is the best idea.  At least that Rintarou guy doesn’t know exactly where we live…

The thought doesn’t exactly comfort you, and you spend the rest of the afternoon counting the hours until seven o’clock.

“So what happened to a home-cooked meal,” you ask, poking at the tray of spaghetti and meatballs from the ready-cooked meals section of the grocery store.  “Nabe, cod…”

“Oh right,” Tsushima hums, cracking open a beer and setting it next to you.  He seats himself across from you with his own beer, unsnapping his chopsticks and rubbing them together. “I realized I don’t know how to make any of that stuff.  But we do have flowers and candles.”

“Uh-huh.”  You reach forward and gently move aside one of the huge bunches of carnations and baby’s breath he’s stuffed willy-nilly into water glasses, revealing his pleased smile.  His face is uplit by a pair of votive candles he must’ve bought from a Santeria shop.  A dozen more are lit around the dim apartment.

“Romantic, right?  Do you not like it, my dear?”  He reaches across to run a finger across your hand and you freeze. 

“Are you close, my dear?”  Rintarou’s disembodied voice at your shoulder curls around you.

It seems for a moment Tsushima catches your hesitation, and withdraws his hand.

“Right.  Space.  You said that.”

“It’s… it’s okay, Tsushima.”  You pick up your own chopsticks, poking at the mess of soggy noodles and the two little grilled hot dogs tucked into them. 

“So… what now?”  He asks, cocking his head to the side, a noodle disappearing between his thin lips.  “What would make my princess more at ease?”

“I suppose… maybe we could talk.”

“About what?”

“How about your family.”

Tsushima grimaces, slurping in a noodle and patting the sauce from his lips with a carryout napkin.  Then he shrugs.  “Well, I guess I said I’d make an effort.  What do you want to know?  I already told you all the pertinent details.”

“Your dad… what is he like?”

“Oh…”  Tsushima leans back in his chair, sipping his beer thoughtfully.  “I don’t know.  He can be intimidating.  I told you:  head of a big organization.  He didn’t get there by being a nice guy.”

“What does he look like?”

“Average middle-aged guy.  Average height.  Wait, maybe on the tall side.  Thin by American standards (no offense), but average for a Japanese man.  I guess just… average.  Although handsome, he’s got that going for him.  But in a cold way.  He’s got these light-colored eyes, that’s not average…”

The spaghetti tastes like plastic in your mouth.

“What color hair.”

“Black, of course.  Straight, about shoulder length.”

Calm down, that could still be anybody.

“Where’s your dad at now?”

“Tokyo, I’m guessing.  Or actually, do you know Yokohama?  It’s sort of the same city as Tokyo.  That’s where his business is.”

Oh, this is bad.  The certainty you’d felt that morning that Rintarou being Tsushima’s father was too far-fetched is fading fast.

 “What’s his name,” you ask, your voice strangely thin.

“Well, it’s, um…” Tsushima pauses.  “It’s Mori.  Mori Ougai.  I didn’t take on his name when he adopted me.” 

You hope your relief isn’t palpable.  You’re suddenly almost giddy with it.

“Really?  Mori Ougai?”  You laugh.

His father’s name is Mori Ougai… Not Rintarou.  It’s Mori.  That’s wonderful.

“Sort of an old-fashioned name,” Tsushima agrees, smiling.  “What else do you want to know?”

“Who are the two guys in the pictures,” you ask, the tension melting from you now that that idea has been set to rest.

“That’s still… that’s still a little off-limits,” Tsushima says, looking down.  “Nothing to do with you.  Nothing I mean to hide from you.  I just… haven’t worked through it myself yet.”

“Sure, I get that.”

And you do get it.  Space… you’d asked for it yourself.  You can’t begrudge him that.  Besides, you’re feeling so good with the knowledge that Rintarou (the businessman) and Mori Ougai (Tsushima’s father) are in fact two very different men that the haunted look on Tsushima’s downcast face slips past you unnoticed.

“So how’d I do?  Did I share enough?”  Tsushima looks up hopefully. 

“Enough for what?”  You set your chopsticks aside, grinning at the calculating look on his face.

“Enough for some make-up sex, of course.”

Don’t do this.

“Effort should be rewarded,” Tsushima grins, sliding from his chair and dropping to his knees and shuffling towards you.  He sets his shaggy head in your lap, nuzzling in between your legs.

It ignites something in you.  You thread your fingers through his dark hair, combing it thoughtfully.  He exhales deeply, contentedly at the touch.

Okay shit, I guess we’re doing this.

“You have tried very hard,” you concede.

“I’ve been a good boy?”  He looks up at you, eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

“Mmm-hmm.  You have.”

“Great!”  He pushes your chair back, you still in it, and stands. 

“Hey, what the-”

You’re cut off as he lifts you bodily and slings you over his shoulder.  The candlelit loft twirls around you as he carries you to the bed and slings you down onto it and you bounce, laughing, as he lands on top of you.

“What are you doing?!” you gasp as he rises to his knees, undoing the front of his pants and shucking them off. 

“Told you:  make-up sex.”

His enthusiasm is infectious, sweeping you up in it as he undoes your pants and struggles them down.  Next is your shirt, then his.  He tugs at your bra straps, yanking the cups down, sliding his arms around your ribcage and lifting you to him, his hot mouth searching blindly for your nipple.  He groans contentedly as he finds it, sucking fiercely.

“God!” you gasp, clutching him to you.  “Tsushima, give me a second!”

He shakes his head, breast still in his mouth, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and undoing it.  Then he pushes you backwards onto the bed and admires you.

“I thought I wouldn’t have this again,” he says softly.  He pushes down his boxers absently, exposing himself.  You note, detachedly, that’s he’s fully-erect.  He, too, is looking down at himself in curious detachment.  When he looks up his expression is needy, intensely sad.  “It didn’t feel good.”

“Tsushima, I’m here…”  You curl towards him, arms reaching.

“Yeah,” he responds simply, pushing you back down.  He splits your legs deftly, falling on top of you ravenously. 

He pushes in quickly, not waiting to warm you up.  You’re wet, and getting there, but not quite wet enough.

You cry out as he forces himself in a little too hard, tearing at your sensitive skin that’s chafed from the night before.  It’s painful but instead of pushing him away you find yourself reaching up to embrace him, arms and legs twining about him.

Two, three, four urgent thrusts and he’s inside, dredging up enough wetness to finally slide easily.  His thin backside rises and falls at the edge of your vision just above his shoulder, his mouth buried on your neck sucking warmth to the surface.

It’s rough, it’s quick and it leaves you breathless.  Once again his need carries you away and you give in to it.  The grinding of his pubic bone against your over-sensitive clit is borderline unbearable, it’s a sharp pinprick of hurt but inside of it is pleasure that you cling to like you cling to his straining body, his shoulder blades standing out starkly on his muscular back beneath your fingernails.

With a grunt he flips you, pressing you face-first into the mattress and you turn your head, fighting for breath.  He squeezes your thighs together between his and hunts for your entrance, his cock gripped in his fist.

“Let me help you,” you gasp, raising your hips to him slightly.

He ignores you, slamming into you hard, knocking you flat onto the bed.  The air leaves your lungs in a drawn-out wail and he, too, cries out.

“Tsushi- Tsu- too hard!”  You try to reach back behind you, hand flailing to find his hip.  He grips your wrist and brings it up above your head, then the other, squeezing them there and pinning you.  You twist your hands, trying to ease the pressure that is turning your fingers numb.

The noises his body makes against yours would be embarrassing if they weren’t drowned out by both of your rhythmic moans.  His hard chest against your spine is painful, his thrusts forcing fervent cries from both of you over and over… 

This guy is going to break us…

“Please, Tsushima,” you gasp, finally freeing one of your hands from his and slipping it down beneath your body.  Crushed to the bed as you are, you can barely move your fingers. 

He notices your motion and reaches beneath you, pushing your hand aside and replacing it with his own.  His fingers are clumsy and stiff with need, he’s doing it much too hard for as sensitive as you are and each twitch of his fingers is interrupted by another hard thrust pushing you into the mattress but oddly it’s bringing to your peak incredibly fast.

“Fuck!”  you wail, struggling beneath him.  His cock in you is incredibly hard, invading you deeply, forcing its way bruisingly into your swollen cunt.  Yet as painful as it is pleasure begins to build in you and you are crying out, over and over again, incoherent pleas for him to use you, to take you, to come inside of you because you’re almost there.  Your fists tighten in the sheets, tearing at them, pulling them loose in your attempt to find enough leverage to throw yourself back against him and urge him in deeper.

With a final, choking sob your body coils and releases, back arching and hips rising and he abandons your clit, gripping your backside in both hands and grinding himself against you until, with a stuttering groan, he stiffens.

A few more gentle thrusts and he’s done, falling over you heavily, both of you breathing hard.

You feel absolutely swept bare by him.  Every thought and worry in your head is scoured away leaving you absolutely empty yet simultaneously filled with him, him, nothing but him and you drift in that bottomless depth that you sometimes see in his dark eyes when his defenses fall away.

He kisses you then, again and again, his warm lips on your back, your shoulders, your neck, the side of your face.  He waits until he softens before pulling out, then rolls you to your back and curls around you protectively, hand tracing the lines of your heaving chest in the flicker of the candles on the bedside table.

You’re floating in that post-coital daze, both staring up at the ceiling, too sated and exhausted to be fully awake, too charged to fall asleep when he speaks again.

He adjusts his position, turning towards you and placing his sharp chin comfortably in the crook of your neck, one hand dreamily trailing over the mound of your breast.

“We were talking about my family,” he says, his breath close to your ear.

“Mm-hmm.”  You tighten your arm around him, eyes closing as you nuzzle into the tousled hair failing over his forehead.

“Well… a little information got me this far so… If it’ll get me anything more, I have a younger sister.”

“Do you?”  You smile, eyes still closed so it’s only the rumble of his low voice drifting through you, waves of sound against your mind.  The thought of Tsushima with a little sister sounds sweet.  “How old?  Do you miss her?”

“She’s eleven or twelve.  It’s a strange situation.”  His chin is poking into you as he talks, so he lays his cheek on your shoulder instead, thinking.  “She’s sort of adopted, like me.  Neither of us has a mother, and my dad – Mori – he’s not married.  I guess we’re not too close because of the age difference but… she’s really something.”

“Like how?”  The pleasant haze dissipates slightly.  Eleven or twelve years old… didn’t Rintarou have a daughter?

“For one thing, she’s a spoiled brat,” Tsushima’s smile curls against your neck as he edges closer, pressing his lips to the side of your face and cupping it with his free hand.  “It’s sort of funny seeing a little girl push around the head of a powerful organization.  Mori lets her do whatever she wants.  She doesn’t even call him father or Oto-san or anything.  Super rude, for a Japanese kid.  If I acted that way he would end me.  Hmm.  Maybe I should’ve tried it.”

“What does she call him.”  Your hand tracing the line of his bicep stills.

“It’s sort of funny.  She calls him Rintarou.” 

Pushing Tsushima aside you sit straight up in bed, any vestige of languor gone as if somebody’s poured ice water down your spine.

“Why would she call him that?”  you ask, trying your best to sound natural.  You look around for your panties, trying to make it look like you’d sat up on purpose.

“I guess it’s his birth name.” Tsushima rubs his head, puzzled, watching as you pull on your panties and shake out your jeans, searching for the leg holes in the dim candlelight.  “Sometimes Japanese people take different names to mark a significant event in their lives.  Like an author taking on a pen name.  Why?  Is that… are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just…”  You fasten your jeans, fingers shaking.  Your head is buzzing, fighting for an explanation to give him for your sudden one-eighty.

What are you going to tell him?  Hey, Tsushima – I fucked another guy less than twenty-four hours ago?  And oh yeah, it was your DAD?

He’s looking up at you, the sheet tangled around his legs, dark eyes deep and confused beneath the tangle of his hair.

“I just… you know… need some space all of a sudden,” you explain quickly.

“Oh right.  Space.”  He presses his lips together, chewing the inside of one cheek, propped on the pillows on one elbow.  “Did I push this too fast?”

“No… no!”  You finish fastening your bra and pull on your shirt and hoodie.  “I think I just need to… think,” you conclude, lamely.  “And sometimes, Tsushima, you make it really hard for me to think.”

Yeah, sure.  It’s his fault.

“Uh-huh.”  He gets up, letting the sheets fall away, and retrieves a pair of boxers from the dresser.  He puts them on quickly, as if he no longer wants you to see him naked, and it makes you cringe.  “If I leave you alone, can you think here?  If I promise I won’t touch you again tonight?  We could just play video games or watch a movie…” 

“No, I need to get home,” you reply, although it takes everything you’ve got to ignore the pleading look on his face.  It’s like kicking a puppy.

“Fine,” he sighs, following you to the door as you collect your purse and hoodie from the credenza.  “I don’t understand it at all but… I’m not going to stop you.”

“Thank you,” you say, turning and kissing him quickly on the cheek.  His arms rise slightly to embrace you but he stops himself halfway.

Inside your purse, your phone buzzes on silent.

“I’ll… see you later?  I guess?”  He ignores the phone as it buzzes again, as do you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, looking down. 

He reaches past you and pulls on the door handle and you escape into the hallway, your mind still reeling as you get into the elevator and, once safely out of sight, flip open your phone.

Unknown:  I need to see you again. 

Unknown:  Now.

You shudder as the elevator door slides open onto the lobby, vision tunneled to the black text on the little gray screen.  You pause by the mailboxes, jumping as another text comes through in your hand.

Unknown:  Come downstairs immediately.

What are you going to do? 

Go to the restaurant, it’s still open.  You can’t go home if he’s waiting there for you.  And you can’t go back upstairs to Tsushima’s.

Yes.  That’s it.  You’re not working tonight but you can walk to the restaurant and wait there until it closes.  Tadanobu the sushi chef can take you home and make sure you’re safe.  The guy is stony-faced and for sure wouldn’t approve of you getting into a mess like this but you wouldn’t have to explain the whole thing… only that some creeper might be following you.  He’s imposing and scary-looking enough that he could deal with Rintarou… Mori… if he’s still there.  And if he is, you’ll call the cops.

Yeah.  Maybe by the time you get home he’ll be gone.

You tap out a hasty reply as you open the front door with your hip on the push-bar. 

You:  I told you I had fun but this was a mistake.  Let’s leave it at that

As the cold night air of the plaza hits you, you decide on a second message and hit send:

You:  I’m not at home right now

Maybe that will throw him off.  Maybe it will dissuade him and if he’s really waiting beneath your apartment he’ll leave…

Unknown:  I know you’re not at home.  Come downstairs.

I know.

A wave of fear washes over you, leaving your face and fingers numb.  You look up at the deserted weeknight plaza.

Rough hands grab you from behind and a hand is clapped over your mouth.

“Boss wants to see you,” the man’s voice growls at your shoulder.

Eyes wide with fear you shake your head as best you can beneath his grip, scanning the plaza frantically for a passer-by, a witness, anything… but the storefronts are dark, the grocery and bookstore chained behind you.

“Not a request, darling,” the man chuckles, lowering his hand.

“I’ll scream,” you whisper, voice hoarse.  

He sighs, gripping your wrist and twisting your arm behind your back.  You feel something hard pressed to your spine.  The silencer of a gun.

“Go ahead,” he says, pushing the silencer in hard.  “But I sure hope you don’t.  I’m supposed to bring you in unharmed.  I don’t want to make the Boss mad.”

The Boss…

All at once it makes sense, and there’s no way you didn’t see it earlier.  Maybe you just didn’t want to admit it. 

I can’t believe how often I’ve had to say this lately, but what the FUCK did you get us into?

Rintarou’s “organization.”  The black-suited men who shadow him everywhere.  His wealth, the evasive responses about his business dealings… Tsushima, on the run from him, “laying low.” 

You raise your eyes to the edge of the plaza where the limousine is parked.  It’s like a black hole in the pool of light cast by the streetlight.

Stunned, you allow yourself to be pushed inexorably towards it.

Chapter Text

The empty interior of the limousine is one of those dead spaces, like an airport lobby or an emergency department waiting room, where nothing can or will happen until it does.  And so you sit, merely a passenger.

Trying the doors would be senseless.  You know they won’t open from the inside.  Not unless the driver, barely visible through the tinted privacy screen, hits the release button.  He won’t do that.

And so you watch the streetlights, stoplights and street signs of the city flicker past overhead.  Olive.  Grand.  Hope.  Flower.  You wonder where it is in this mess of streets and buildings that Tsushima bought his flowers.  Thinking about him is safer than thinking about where the limousine is going.

You think of Tsushima alone, in his apartment.  All you’d had to do was nothing and you’d still be there, safe in him arms.  Stupid, so stupid.

“Everybody uses everybody else, that’s just how it goes,” he’d said. 

The thought of Tsushima calls to your attention the wetness that’s soaking through your panties to your jeans.  You wish you’d at least taken a moment to visit the restroom and clean yourself before your precipitous exit from his place because he’s leaking out of you.  In the past it’s felt warm and comforting, in a bodily way.  Human.  Now it feels clammy and shameful.

“We can use each other,” Tsushima breathes.

You shift on the smooth leather of the limousine’s seat, hoping you don’t leak any more or you’ll soak through your jeans. 

You wait for the little voice inside of you to say something.  She’s usually got plenty to say.  This time, she’s silent.

The limousine comes to a stop by the darkened loading bays and the driver exits.  He comes around and to the passenger side you and you don’t even try to run.  Spotting the gun holstered beneath his suit coat as he pulls the door open you know it would be useless.  Instead, you allow yourself to be led through the double doors past the faceless guards in black business suits that line the sterile corridor.

Down the featureless gray hallway, to the industrial elevator.  You know what’s awaiting you at the top.  Once the man leans in, presses the button to ensure “PH” is lit and leans back out to let the door slide shut you’re alone, with no way out other than up to the lobby where yet another black-suited man awaits you.  This one – indistinguishable from the last one – acknowledges your existence by turning his back and leading you past the massive flower arrangement and suits of armor.  The strange facemasks suspended beneath empty helmets leer down at you, lips twisted in eternal snarls.

“Ah!”  Rintarou – no, Mori – looks up in delight as the door opens and you’re shoved through.  He’s standing at the enormous window, silhouetted by the city, pale face illuminated only feebly by the ambient lighting in the vast room.  He’s wearing his long black overcoat, collar upturned, and red scarf despite being indoors.  His shoulder-length hair is unbound and his white-gloved hands are clasped behind his back.  He’s the very picture of power itself.   

The door clicks shut behind you, the snick of a lock letting you know you’re trapped.  

Mori rushes towards you obsequiously, ignoring how you shrink away.

“My dear, I hope my men weren’t too rough!  How unpleasant!  But really, you should learn not to ignore my texts!”  He takes your hand in his delicately, like a prince in a novel greeting his princess, and leads you towards a drink cart set out in the center of the room.  “Let me get you something!  Do you like wine?  I have an excellent vintage here.  One of my newest executives recommended it to me.  Romanée-Conti, if I’m not mistaken…”

You stare down at the cart dumbly, watching as he selects a bottle and holds it aloft, amethyst eyes glittering as he surveys the label keenly.

“It’s a 1964,” he announces happily, pouring out two glasses.  “A very good vintage!”  He presses one of the glasses towards you and you are unable to lift your hand to take it, mind reeling.

“You’re Tsushima’s father,” you blurt, the revelation finally bursting out of you like infection from a lanced wound. 

“Ah-hah!”  Mori cocks his head to the side, amused.  “That’s right:  that’s what he told you his name is.”  He sets your glass aside and chuckles, taking a sip from his own.  “Yes, I suppose that does make sense.”

“And your name isn’t Rintarou,” you add, voice wavering on accusation. “It’s Mori.”

“Very good!  Are you surprised?  After all, people lie to each other all the time.”

“No…”  You shake your head.  “People lie to each other.  But not like this.  This is… wrong.”

“Really?  Your boyfriend has been lying to you.  His real name is Dazai Osamu.  Or Osamu Dazai, as you Americans might prefer.  What do you think of that?”  Mori swirls his wine in his glass, sniffing it thoughtfully.  “Is my lie much worse than his?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you protest feebly.  “And you… you’re a criminal.”

“Please.”  Mori waves his hand dismissively.  “Let’s give credit where credit is due.  I’m so much more than a criminal!” 

“You were onto me the whole time,” you add, voice barely audible.  “From the first morning.”

“Yes,” Mori smiles, taking both glasses in one hand.  He guides you down the couple of steps into the conversation pit lined with couches, sets the wine aside on a glass coffee table next to a stack of papers and an orchid arrangement, then drops into one of the white couches.  He pats the empty space next to himself.  “I told you I’d found an opportunity too good to pass up!  It was a fun little chase, wasn’t it?  I have to admit:  I’d half expected you to be a man.  That seems to be his usual preference.  Something I could’ve managed but… I’m glad you’re female.  It does make it easier.”

You look at the space next to him on the couch, then choose a seat opposite him in an armchair.  You have no desire to make yourself at ease across from this monster.  Rather, it’s more that your legs will no longer support you.

“Why are you doing this?”  You shift, your damp panties sticking to you uncomfortably.  “I’ll stop seeing him, if that’s what you want.  I think it’s already over.  Just let me go and I’ll never see him again.”

“No no!  That’s not it,” Mori shakes his head, his lips pursed in amusement.  “You might not believe me but I’ve been honest from the start:  this could be very mutually beneficial!  You see…”  He leans over, sliding an envelope from the stack of paperwork next to him and tossing it into your lap.  “…you will continue seeing him.  It’s the illusion of choice, of course, but I also intend to compensate you.”

The envelope is smooth beneath your fingertips.  You don’t need to open it to feel the weight of the currency inside.

“What do you want from me.”

“Simply that:  to continue seeing him.”  Mori finishes his wine and, after a moment’s consideration, lifts the glass he’d poured for you.  “Do you mind?  This really shouldn’t be wasted.”  He lifts it to you and, seeing the tiny shake of your head, shrugs and takes a sip.

“Do you want me to convince him to return to you?  I don’t understand.”  You run your fingers over the edges of the envelope, noticing that although your fingers are cold you’re leaving faint sweat marks on the creamy paper.

“A honeytrap?  Ah, no.”  Mori tsk’s his tongue, tilting his head to the side and examining you detachedly.  “You’d never be able to convince Dazai to return to the Port Mafia.  What you have between your legs is quite special, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t that special.”

“Spy on him?”  You swallow, squeezing your thighs tighter together. 

Mori notices, a deliberate grin curling the corners of his thin lips.  He takes another slow, appraising sip of his wine.

“I have no need for that, either.”

“Then what?”  Your eyes flick to the envelope in your lap, to the wineglass in his hand, to the orchid on the table, anywhere but at Mori.

“I want you to keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Mori responds.  In the corner of your vision you see him set his glass aside and slide from the couch, rising slowly to approach you.  White-gloved fingers curl beneath your chin and he lifts your gaze to his.  He’s leaning in so close, looming over you, that the ends of his fine dark hair are nearly brushing your cheek.  “You’ll return to him.  You’ll behave so that he doesn’t suspect anything is amiss.  You’ll continue on with him, then report back to me when requested.  Only that.” 

“No.”  You twist your head away, refusing to look at him.  “I won’t do that to him.”

Mori laughs at this, one gloved finger ghosting over your lips.  His eyes crinkle as he leans in even closer, his lips nearly brushing your forehead.  He taps you lightly on the nose.  “My dear, you don’t have a choice.  You’ll do it.”

“Or what,” you ask, squirming.  “Will you hurt me?”

“Heavens, no!  I’m not a monster.”  Mori opens his eyes wide and leans back, aghast, his thin brows arching in disbelief.  “I’ll hurt him!”

You freeze, eyes widening.  He’s smiling down at you, sharp eyes catching every nuance of your expression.

Lying.  He must be lying.  There must be some way out.  Your mind spins futilely, trying to grasp the horror of the situation.  All you had done was accept a ride from a stranger.  How could it have led to this?  And yet you see everything, laid out like dominos, set into motion by a single tap of his white-gloved finger.  The end game is incomprehensible to you but you must stop it.

“I won’t!  I won’t do it.”  You chew your lower lip to keep it from trembling. 

“Why not,” Mori snaps, poking at the envelope in your lap.  “Do you think he actually feels anything for you?  I assure you:  Dazai is not capable.  I know him better than you ever will.”

“It’s wrong,” you whisper, sliding the envelope away and glancing about yourself.  There must be some way to escape…

But there isn’t.  Even if you were to barricade yourself in another room, where would you go from there?  The hallways are lined with black-suited men, and you’re easily sixty stories up.

“Oh please.”  Mori sighs, rolling his eyes and removing his gloves.  He tosses them aside on the end table beneath the drooping orchids.  “Right, wrong… You have no reason to protect him.  Protect yourself!  Everybody uses everybody else, isn’t that what he said to you?”

Your head snaps up at the words, the blood draining from your face.  How had he known that?

Suddenly it makes sense:  how Mori was always conveniently right there, at just the right moment.  That first morning.  The bookstore.  The other night, after your fight with Tsushima… Dazai. 

“Tsushima’s loft,” you breathe.  “It’s bugged.”

“Yes,” Mori hums, clasping his hands behind his back and grinning down at you.  “Shoddy work on the part of the agency that sent him here.  The exposed ducts are an interesting architectural touch, I agree, but sound does carry.  I’m disappointed Dazai hasn’t thought to check it thoroughly himself.  I thought I raised him better.”

“That’s…”  Your blood pressure is throbbing in your ears, making it hard to think.  “You heard everything.  That’s…”  Sick.  You feel sick to your stomach.  You slide away on the smooth leather of the couch, half-rising, ignoring the envelope that slips from you lap.

Mori turns, lighting-fast, snatching at your chin and squeezing it hard, pulling you up close against his hard chest. 

“You will do it.”

“No!”  You wrench at his forearm, trying desperately to free yourself.  His stony fingers on your jaw are painful.

“You owe him nothing!  He cares nothing for you!  Do you understand me?”

“Stop it!  Stop!”  You finally succeed in twisting out of his grip, falling against the couch, breathing hard.

Mori suddenly brightens, his handsome face lifting into a cheerful grin as if he’s just thought of something humorous.  “Did you know your Tsushima has another name he’s known by?  Would you like to hear it?”

You shake your head, tears of frustration springing to your eyes.  You chew the insides of your cheeks to keep the tears from spilling over.  He’s toying with you… you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“The Demon Prodigy,” he says happily, spreading his hands.  “My prodigal son!  He’s murdered over a hundred people.  Granted, most of those were upon my orders.”  He tilts his head to you, smirking.  “But I didn’t order him to take such pleasure in it.  That was beyond even my expectations.  That is the man you’ve been spreading your legs so enthusiastically for, dear.  Let that sink in.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

You clutch at the cool leather of the couch, trying to center yourself.  Your head is spinning.

I’m an ex-yakuza on the run from the Japanese mafia, he’d told you.  A shady government organization has put me here to hide out until my sordid criminal past can be expunged.

The truth.  His joke had been the truth, laid out right in front of you.  And just how sordid was that past?  You don’t need to look at Mori’s satisfied expression to know it.  You’ve seen it in Tsushima’s eyes when he doesn’t know you’re looking.  How flat they are, dead, like the fish nestled in the ice behind the sushi bar…

“You should be more careful with your partners, dear,” Mori chuckles.  “You were, hmm, how did Dazai put it?”  Mori slides down behind to you, caging you against the couch with his arms.  He leans in close to your ear.  “Easy.”

You gasp in disgust as his hand finds your thigh, your backside, sliding down between your legs and finding the small wet patch at your crotch.  You struggle away, trying to climb onto the couch but he grips your hair and wrenches your head back painfully, hips falling against you and pinning you.

“How was my son tonight?” he whispers.

You shudder, body tense with disgust as he works his other hand around you, tracing over your breasts and your stomach to the waistband of your pants.

“Please don’t,” you whimper as his deft fingers undo the top button, dragging down the zipper.

“Did he come in you?”

“Stop… just stop…”  You pitch your hips forward, trying to squeeze your pelvis against the couch to impede the slow downward creep of his hand in your panties.

His other hand tightens in your hair and he yanks you back harder against him, sitting back on his heels and you fall into his lap.  His fingers dip into you, searching and you choke with revulsion, clawing at his forearm.

“Mmm…” he releases you suddenly, letting you flail forward and crawl away. 

You wedge yourself into the corner of the couch where the two arms make a right angle and huddle there, breathing hard, scalp aching where he’d grabbed you, sobbing in disgust and shame.

He’s seated on his heels, black coat askew at his shoulders and pooling around him, a thoughtful look on his face as he lifts his fingers to eye level and observes the fluid collected there.  He rubs his fingers together and, to your horror, lifts them to his nose.

“Very fresh,” he observes, glancing over at you.  He produces a handkerchief from a pocket and wipes his hand, then stands, approaching you.  His amethyst eyes are wide and dark, irises nearly consumed by the pupils.  “Do you know the theory of sperm competition?”

You twist quickly, attempting to climb over the back of the couch but one hand darts out lightning-fast and grips your ankle, dragging you back towards him.

He struggles with you briefly, tendrils of his hair swinging loose about his face and he’s much stronger than you.  He shoves you roughly against the couch, face-first, pinioning your hands on either side of your head.  His pelvis falls heavily against your backside.

“Evolutionarily-speaking, women are made for multiple partners,” he whispers, his voice flat but his excitement belied by the slight hitch in his voice as he nuzzles your hair aside and runs his lips over your neck.  “The more partners she succeeds in mating with, the greater chance she has of producing viable offspring.  The spermatozoa themselves compete, and the strongest win.  Males know this on a subconscious level.  Even the shape of the human male genitalia is made for it, to scoop out the semen of a competitor and replace it with his own.  Some men find a woman who’s been recently-fucked to be quite… exciting.”

You cry out in disgust as he releases one of your hands, reaching down to adjust himself.  He’s hard, and poking against you.  Frantically you try to twist, to claw at him but he deals you a quick blow to the back of your head that leaves your ears ringing.

“Stop struggling, and this will be easier,” he admonishes you, pulling your jeans down around your trembling thighs and caressing you, his fingers running down the cleft of your buttocks and lower, dragging his fingers through your slippery folds.

When he tries to insert his finger again you jolt into action, your tense body snapping in protest.  You  thrash against him blindly, looking for anything to kick at, to bite at, anything to stop what you know is coming.

“Stop!” he orders you, gripping you by the back of the neck and shoving you down hard.  You feel his hand working behind you to undo and lower his own pants.  “Don’t be foolish!  This is nothing you haven’t done before.  You did it with him just tonight.  You did it with me the night before, willingly!  It’s no different.” 

It is different.  It is but you can’t possibly explain that as he lines himself up and you feel the head of his cock at your entrance.  Tsushima’s cum is a poor lubricant, and he fights to breach you.  His cock tears at your delicate folds, your flesh catching and dragging as he forces himself in.  You gasp, unable to escape the sensation that he’s turning you inside-out.

“There we go,” he soothes, picking up a steady rhythm as he dredges up enough moisture and his rigid length sinks all the way in.  He places his hands on your shoulders, pressing you down firmly into the smooth white leather, taking a moment to grind luxuriantly against you.

The couch is well-made, the leather smooth with just a hint of pebbly texture.  The topstitching, even, is pristine white.  You focus on it, mind empty, recording how the stitches are perfectly-spaced.  You focus on it even though the motions of the man behind you jolt you forward, again and again, your vision wavering with each relentless thrust.  It seems to go on forever.  It seems to take no time at all, happening in a vacuum where time itself is meaningless.

Strange to be subjected to this, in a completely unaroused state.  Or maybe not so strange.  Maybe it’s something you’ve experienced before.  You pray he comes quickly.  The head of his insistent cock is nudging against your bladder and you clench up as a weak trickle of warm fluid runs down the inside of your thighs.  You’re not sure if it’s Tsushima’s cum, dredged out by Mori’s cock, or urine.

Mori groans, feeling you tighten.  He adjusts the angle of his hips, pounding in harder.  You don’t dare to look at him, you have no desire to see the face of the man doing this to you but based on his panting gasps he’s quickly reaching his summit.  You hear the rustle of his overcoat, the jingle of his belt buckle and the wet slapping of his flesh against yours. 

Even more nauseating is the way the nerves in your most intimate places react, being dumb to the difference between the violation inherent in the act of sex and violation, pure and simple.  Wetness, similar to that of arousal, begins to form in you and Mori’s rigid length slides in easier.

“Ahh… you see…” he gasps, quickening his pace.  “You see that your body can like it, even if… even if…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching yourself tightly but he grips your buttocks and spreads them, shoving himself deeper.  He’s painfully hard, his breath coming in gasping pants.

“That’s good,” he groans.  “Ohhh that’s good… my good girl…”

Please, please let it fucking end.  Your hands, curled into fists, loosen and you lie limp, allowing yourself to be used by him.

The bile rises in your throat as he reaches a feverish pitch and with a few last, urgent thrusts he falls over you gasping and trembling, his cock twitching in you as he spills.  You can feel his wetness in you, hateful and heavy.  You want it out, you want to shove him away screaming but you don’t dare move. 

He withdraws, his softening penis followed by a thin dribble of fluid that drips onto your jeans and the expensive rug you’re kneeling on.  He pats your backside affectionately.

“That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” he asks, tucking himself wet into his pants and fastening them back up.  He removes his black overcoat and tosses it onto the arm of the couch, swiping a strand of limp dark hair away from where it’s become pasted to his cheek with sweat.  He rises, loosening his tie, and collapses on the couch, reaching casually for your forgotten glass of wine.

And still you don’t move, kneeling next to the couch with your backside exposed, your jeans around your thighs and face pressed to the smooth leather.  No tears come.  You feel nothing but empty.

“Straighten yourself up,” he suggests.  “We’re done.  I’ll have one of my men bring you home.”

Home.  That sounds good.  You reach down numbly, finding the waistband of your panties and your jeans and pulling them up together.  You crawl away to the corner of the couches, private parts aching at just the brush of the damp fabric of your clothing.

He watches you for a while, his face impassive, then fishes out the forgotten envelope that’s slid between the couch cushions and tosses it to you.  It lands next to your feet and you make no motion to take it.

“Do we have an understanding here?”  He rises, swirling the dregs of the wine in his glass, then walks to the drink cart and pours himself a half-glass more.     

You nod, pulling yourself upright on shaky legs, picking up the envelope and clutching it to your chest.

“Very good.  Do not mention this to him.  Do not try to evade me.  Answer me when I call for you.  And remember:  the smallest hint that you might try to warn him and your usefulness to me is over.”   

You wait, head lowered, as he walks to the door and opens it, gesturing to the man waiting outside.

“This young lady needs a ride home,” Mori says to the bowing man.  “See to it that she gets there safely.”

You keep your eyes trained on the floor in front of you.  You focus on placing one foot in front of the other.  Down through the elevator, the long gray hallway, out into the night air and into the limousine. 

You are silent until you lock the door of your apartment behind you and strip off your soiled clothing, tossing your panties and the envelope filled with cash into a corner of the bathroom and crawling into the shower.

You sit on the floor of the dingy bathtub, letting the water run over you, scrubbing at your privates until they’re raw and cupping the water against yourself with shaking hands in an attempt to rinse him out of you. 

And even still the tears don’t come.

Chapter Text

The air mattress no longer holds air for more than a couple of hours.  After a while, you stop rousing yourself to press the little button on the built-in device that re-inflates it.

That’s a hundred bucks down the drain.

There’s an envelope beneath a damp towel in the bathroom with far more than a hundred bucks in it.

And so you sleep on the floor.  The weight of your shoulder and hip pressing in sharply barely register amongst the other aches and pains that inhabit your body. 

The back of your head is bruised.  When you run a brush over your scalp you notice it, palpating it with curious fingers.  It isn’t so bad.  No worse than knocking your head against a low-hanging door. 

Your left ankle and wrists, too, are bruised.  You recall Mori dragging you from the couch by your ankle, his harsh fingers digging in painfully, but you don’t know why your wrists look like they do, ringed with coin-sized circular marks. 

You sleep all through the day, fitfully, an hour or two at a time.  When you wake up you want only to fall back asleep again because at least when you’re sleeping you don’t think about it.

Over and over again you replay the events of the past weeks.  It’s like driving the same stretch of freeway in an endless loop, eyes peeled for that exit you should have taken to prevent this from happening. 

You should have refused to walk Tsushima home.  You should have kept his wallet rather than return it.  You should have declined a date with him, knowing where it was leading.  You should have listened to the screaming alarm bells in your head and walked away from Mori in the bookstore.  All the things you should not have done.

What about the things they should not have done?

Your phone stays charged, on the counter next to the awful teddy-bear shaped flower arrangement Tsushima brought you the other day.  Without water the white carnations are starting to wither and brown, the ribbon across its chest still happily proclaiming “Congratulations!” 

You don’t dare let your phone run out of batteries.  At some point, in the darkness of the second night, you jolt awake thinking that you’ve heard it ring and you stumble into the sad little kitchen, reaching for it. 

The screen is flat and black.  Neither Mori nor Tsushima calls or texts.  It’s almost as if they’ve forgotten you entirely; as if it never happened.  But the damp envelope lying on the bathroom floor, the soreness in your body and the clothes you wore that night that you bundle into a plastic shopping bag and slide down the smelly trash chute without examination are irrefutable proof that yes, it did happen.

*

“You look like shit,” Tadanobu grunts.

“Thanks.”  You select an apron from the wire rack.  The employee “break room” is really nothing more than an alcove behind the kitchen with a couple of old chairs too ratty for the dining room pushed up against the walk-in freezer.  There’s a stained old desk in the corner with a mismatched office chair, the black pleather patched with electrical tape.  Rusted steel shelves of cleaning supplies and old soy sauce buckets provide a divider of sorts from the prep area.

You stuff your purse into a locker.  You tie your apron and flick your phone open.  It’s been two days and still no texts.

“Boy problems?”  Tadanobu asks, shrugging out of his beat-up winter jacket and hanging it in the locker next to yours. 

“Feeling talkative today?”  You give a half-smile, stuffing your phone into your back pocket.  This is the most you’ve ever heard the stoic sushi chef say.  Tadanobu is a monosyllabic man, and his English is rough, at best.  You have to concentrate to understand him through his accent.

“Is it the skinny clown boy?  With the hair?”

He pulls a white chef’s jacket from a hanger and shakes it out and you notice that his arms are covered in tattoos that circle his wrists and run up his biceps, disappearing into his white v-neck tee and reappearing just at the line of his collar.  The scales of a koi fish.  An Oni mask.  A snake-like serpent that coils around his forearms.  All in dark blue ink accented with red.  Beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the break room the tattoos look like they are swimming along his skin until he slips the jacket on, covering them up.

“No, it’s… I’m okay.”

“Don’t like him.”  Tadanobu mumbles, fastening a red bandana around his neck and pulling his dark hair into a ponytail, an elastic tucked between his lips.  “No good.”  The elastic bobbles in his lips. 

You move over to the little stainless steel sink and roll your sleeves beneath the peeling laminated sign that says, in English and Spanish, “all employees must wash their hands before starting or returning to work.”

“Do you want me to beat him up?”  Tadanobu adds, tucking his ponytail beneath a cloth cap. 

It takes you a moment to work out what he’s said, and that he’s serious.  When you do you relax and huff out a short laugh, looking up from rinsing your hands.  Tadanobu’s expression is deadpan. 

“That’s very sweet of you to offer,” you smile, pulling down a handful of paper towels from the dispenser.  “But-”

You jump as your phone vibrates against your hip bone.  You finish drying your hands and toss the towels in the trash, pulling out your phone and opening it with trembling fingers.

Unknown:  I need you to go to him

Your mind blanks, unsure what to reply.  The break room disappears around you as your vision tunnels on the little screen.  Finally you type out an answer.

You:  I’m done with my shift at 10

Unknown:  No.  Go now

You close your phone, fingers numb, and stare at it in your palm.

Go now.

“Is somebody hurting you?”

Looking up you realize Tadanobu is standing next to you at the sink, his impassive gaze focused on your wrists exposed by your rolled sleeves.  He silently takes your hand, closing your fingers in his around the phone, and turns it over to expose three purplish smudges on your inner arm fading to yellow.  There’s a matching on, this one darker and bigger, by your wrist bone. 

“It’s nothing.”  You jerk your hand away as the phone buzzes again with an incoming message.  The blood drains from you face.  “I have an emergency.  Please tell the boss that I needed to go home.  I don’t… I don’t feel well.”

He nods, watching mutely as you untie your apron and toss it in the “used” bin and retrieve your purse and hoodie from the locker.

“She will not be happy,” he calls out after you as you push through the noren curtains and through the dining room.

You:  Are you there?

You text Tsushima twice during the short walk through Little Tokyo to his condo building.  There is no reply.  The sky is darkening with the winter evening and you shiver with more than the chill wind that sways the unlit lanterns overhead.  Dead leaves swirl at your feet.

You:  I’m coming up

The walk and the ride in the elevator seem interminable.  You hadn’t envisioned punching in that door code again.  You’ve carefully kept the man inside safely out of mind for the past couple of days. 

Or have you?  How many times have you checked your phone, hoping you’ve missed a call or a text from him?  How many times have you wondered why he hasn’t so much as reached out?

Why the silence?

“Tsushima?”  The loft is dark, the only illumination that of the lowering sky through the big window on the far wall.  The lights of the city haven’t come on yet and the atmosphere is gray and airless.

The place feels funereal and very, very still.  For a moment you wonder if he’s left town.  But the big space doesn’t quite feel vacant.  In that way rooms have of letting you know something living is inside, you sense that he must be there. 

“Tsushima?”  You remove your shoes, stepping into the kitchen, setting your purse down. 

The two bentos from the last time you saw him are still out on the table, the spaghetti noodles drying and shriveling around the little grilled hot dogs.  A jar used as an impromptu vase has tipped over, the flowers scattered across the polished concrete floor dying of thirst in a puddle of water.  The candles that he’d lit are all burned down, leaving sooty marks inside their colored-glass cylinders where they’d guttered and died.

The bathroom is dark.  The sheets of his bed are crumpled and twisted but empty. 

The loft is a bell jar, the contents unstirred by the outside world.

“Tsushima?”  you whisper, turning towards the sitting area.

There is a pale hand on the floor, the owner hidden behind the couch, as motionless as everything else in this strange still life.

You take a step forward, then another, breathless.  The hand is so out of place that you don’t know what to make of it at first.  The fingernails are bluish.  The bandages wrapping the wrist are loose as if somebody’s torn at them. 

Slowly the rest of him reveals itself.  A shock of dark hair, his face obscured against the cold tile floor.  Shoulders, bare back, slender backside and legs.  He’s wearing only his boxers and his pallid skin looks waxy.

A confusing tangle of thoughts tumble through your mind.  You’re unable to parse out any of them.  Perhaps Mori caught up with him.  Perhaps there was some sort of accident. 

That can’t be.  There’s no blood on him, no visible injury.  None of it makes any sense.  Not even the most obvious explanation.

You crouch next to him between the couch and coffee table.  Next to your knee an amber-colored prescription bottle catches your vision and you pick it up, shaking it.  It’s empty. 

Coward

Everything coalesces on that bottle in your hand and forms a sharp, stinging focal point.  Tears spring to your eyes and the closest emotion you can find to attach to it is anger.

All the fear, the shame, the confusion and humiliation you’ve kept tamped down surges to the surface in an ugly eruption.  You choke back a sob not of sadness but of pain.

The worst part… what hurts the most is the realization that he is sleeping peacefully.  He is utterly oblivious to you suffering next to him.

You smooth away his hair, running your hand over his uncreased forehead, over his neck where the warmth of life still beats feebly.  He’s much colder than a body ought to be but unmistakably alive.  His ribs expand and contract shallowly, so infrequently that you have to watch a long time to catch it.

You’ve seen dead things before.  A beloved pet.  A bird on the ground, its tiny claws curled.  You know that final stillness.  The man in front of you is not like that.

Now.  You can get up and walk away.  Step over him.  Collect your things.  Close the door and leave all of this behind you.

But your legs won’t respond. 

His eyelids flutter at your touch.

“Purincesu,” he mutters groggily, eyes opening just a slit.  The pupils struggle to focus, moving rapidly side-to-side beneath his lashes.  “You came back.”

“I came back,” you agree, wiping the tears that are streaming down your cheeks in hot streaks.

“I knew you would.  I knew…” he trails off, lifting his hand weakly to yours, touching the pill bottle in your hand with one languid finger.  “I should have saved some for you.  We could have… done this together.”

Not a bad idea, at this point.

You sob out a shaky laugh.  “Fucking idiot.  I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No… no ambulance.”  He tries and fails to grasp your hand, his hand wavering loosely and finding your thigh instead.  “Please, no ambulance.  Can’t overdose on Valium.”

You hesitate, reading the label on the bottle in your hand.  Diazepam.  Generic for Valium.

“Why, then?” 

“Why.”  He rolls to his back, eyes closed, one bandaged wrist covering his eyes.  “Why?  Disqualified.  Disqualified as a human being, why… why me…”

He’s pitiful but not pitiable.  You toss the pill bottle aside in disgust and it rolls away under the television stand. 

Somewhere in the kitchen your phone buzzes on silent, buried deep in your purse. 

“You must be freezing,” you observe, tugging at his limp arm, peeling it away from his face.  “Let’s get you to your bed.”

It’s a struggle, like lifting a dead weight.  He’s no help at all, leaning into you heavily and swaying against you as you stumble your way towards his bed.  It’s so similar to the night you first met.  Déjà vu sweeps over you as he falls to his hands and knees on the stairs and makes it the last few steps of the way crawling.

He falls heavily over the mattress, on his stomach, and you push and shove his limbs to a more comfortable position before pulling up the comforter and covering him.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he sighs.  “You can use me.”

“No thanks,” you reply, glancing towards the kitchen. 

“You should.  I wish you would… Do whatever,” he slurs, snuggling in deeper to his pillow.  You pull it away so his face is on the flat sheet, worried he’ll smother if he passes back out.  “Just don’t go.”

“I…”

Your phone buzzes again.  You register it but the half-unconscious Tsushima doesn’t.

“I have to run down to the store quick.  Looks like you’ll live but there’s nothing to eat or drink in this apartment.”

“Mmm… don’t go…”  Worn out by the effort he again becomes very still, sinking flaccidly into the mattress.

You get up slowly, not wanting to wake him, and grab your purse from the counter.  Then you slip on your shoes and open the front door slowly, as quietly as you can.

Unknown:  He’s right.  Diazepam won’t kill him

Unknown:  Come downstairs

The limo is exactly where you expect it to be, near the crosswalk at the edge of the plaza.  A cold rain begins to fall as you approach, the few drops beading and glinting on the polished black, not yet heavy enough to roll down.

The door locks click open as you reach out for the handle.

You get in.

“My dear,” he says as you slide into the furthest seat from him, watching him warily in the chilly gloom of the passenger compartment. 

You shiver as he looks you over disapprovingly.  His amethyst eyes are flat.

“Why, why am I always catching you in the elements with no jacket?”

Chapter Text

Rain speckles the dark tinted windows of the limousine.  The driver makes no effort to pull away from the curb, nor does Mori direct him to.  Instead the vehicle sits stolidly at the crosswalk.  Pedestrians stream around it like water around a river rock, hurrying towards their destinations across the intersection against the oncoming rain.  Their dark silhouettes against the lights of the plaza are ghostly, like shadow people.  Here and there one raises an umbrella as they slip past.

It isn’t a good, honest rain yet -- only a few large drops fall amongst dreary needle-like spray. 

Somewhere in the mountains to the north and the East it must be coming down as snow.

The man across from you lacks the coiled energy you’ve seen him with in the past.  He’s slouched into the leather seat, shoulders slack and face cast into shadow beneath the limp dark hair falling across his pallid forehead.  Instead of his usual crisp appearance he seems disheveled; disoriented.  His black cashmere overcoat is askew, as is his black tie and deep purple dress shirt beneath.  He’s a shadow in a shadow.   For some time he makes no movement at all.  He seems limp, almost listless, deep in thought.

You keep your eyes on the floor, on your feet.  An empty wine bottle lolls half-beneath the seat, and your eyes flick up to the dimly-lit console table to find another bottle there in its holder, nearly empty.

You seal your mind against memories.  He doesn’t seem to be quite the same man from a couple of nights ago and it hits you:

Drunk.  The man is stone drunk.  He’s hiding it well but…

“How is he,” Mori finally asks, lifting his eyes and calling your attention to his dull amethyst gaze. 

 “He’s… he needs a doctor,” you reply nervously.

“I am a doctor.” 

“No.”  You shake your head, examining your fingers interlaced in your lap.  “He needs help.”

“I am helping.”  Mori uncrosses his legs and throws his arms across the seatback behind him, letting his head loll back.  He closes his eyes.  Despite his intoxication his words are purposeful.  “Now tell me:  how is he?  What does he look like?  Appearance, alertness, breathing, coordination.  Any vomit?”

Your stomach lurches at the memory of that pale hand outstretched on the floor and Mori’s clinical dispassion but you swallow, trying to focus on his questions.

He can hear what’s in the apartment but not see… that’s why he’s asking you…

“His… his lips and fingernails are blue.”

“Mmm.”  Mori nods, eyes still closed.  “Classic diazepam poisoning.”

“He seems groggy but… he talked to me.  And I don’t think he threw up.  At least I didn’t see any.”

“Respiration?”

“Slow but… even, I guess.  I’m sorry but I think I should call an ambulance.”

“No.”  Mori lifts his head to look at you, arms and legs still outspread on the seat.  “It’s been well over twenty-four hours since we’ve heard movement in his apartment.  An ambulance would do nothing for him now.  And just as my presence here isn’t necessarily… sanctioned… neither is his.  You’d be doing him more harm than good.”

“But he’s…”  You hesitate to pronounce the thought.  “He’s your son,” you conclude weakly.  “Don’t you think he needs somebody?  Something?”

“He does not.”  Mori lifts his glass, squinting at the contents, then gropes for the bottle next to him.  He pours more wine, sloshing it and staining his crisp white gloves with red.  He tsks his tongue.  “This isn’t the first time he’s done this.  In fact, it’s how he came to me:  after a suicide attempt.  He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“He’s done this before?”  You frown, remembering his past offers of a double-suicide, his silly songs and jokes.  They don’t seem so silly now. 

“Oh yes.”  Mori sips his wine, eyes narrowing in reminiscence.  “Many times.  When he was brought to me after one attempt he was no more than fourteen years old.  A strange boy.  You know that I served in the Great War, do you not?”

You nod, uncertain where he’s going with this non-sequitur and not at all sure you want to follow.

“I was an army doctor.  First, do no harm.”  He chuckles softly to himself.  “Do no harm…” he trails off, swirling the wine in his glass, then rouses himself.  “It’s innate in all living things, you realize: the will to survive.  Well, that, and to procreate.  I observed it so often in those young men and women I was tasked to protect:  to live, no matter what!  I thought that to do no harm meant to preserve life, at all cost.  I learned quickly that is not the case.  Sometimes perpetuating life itself is harm.”  He lifts one red-stained glove to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose.  He lowers his hand, shaking his head with a sigh.  “My error was… disastrous.” 

You are unable to follow him at all but his words are hypnotic.  As repellent as the man across from you is you find yourself unable to look away, so raw is his obvious emotion.

“Sometimes life must be taken to preserve it.  I told you Dazai has killed over a hundred men.  Can you imagine it?  Look around you!”  Mori gestures with his glass towards the edge of the plaza, towards the wraith-like figures of the people drifting towards you.  “There aren’t even fifty there, in your sight.  Imagine more than double that, all gone.  Like this.”  He snaps his gloved fingers.  “Now, how many dead souls do you think I’m responsible for?”

You hesitate.  “I couldn’t guess… I don’t know.”

“Thousands.”  He leans forward, his eyes glittering through the intoxication.  “Tens of thousands.  And day by day the toll rises.”

“That can’t be.”  You shake your head, your stomach knotting.  Gooseflesh rises on your arms and you clasp them to yourself, rubbing them absently as you picture the plaza filled with shadow people.  A legion of them.

“I assure you.”  He sets his glass aside and removes his scarf, shrugging off his jacket and placing it across your lap.  He clasps his hands in front of himself.  “Did any of them want to die?  Of course not.  At least, not at the outset.  To survive… all living beings desire that.  And yet it is not always the most life-preserving choice, in the end.  Do you know what it is, to be burdened with that task…  This one dies, so others might live.  To see it in their eyes, that dawning awareness.”

For a moment there is silence.  You think of the man up in the loft, lying on the bed.  Tsushima…  no, Dazai.

“Dazai was different,” Mori says suddenly.  “He was brought to me with no will to live… indifferent to his own life or death.  I could see it in his eyes – that absence of fear.  It was… refreshing.  After everything I’d seen in the war, after everything I’d learned I suddenly realized I had a thing of singular beauty and potential in my possession.  How could I not want to take him?  To guide him?”

As if in wonder he holds his hands out before him, observing his red-stained gloves.  Then he laughs, lowering them. 

“Well.”  His thin lips press into a rueful smile.  One by one he plucks at the fingertips of his gloves, loosening them, removing them and setting them aside.  “They say that having a child is like having your own heart outside of your body.  This was true of my daughter, Elise, to an extent you could not imagine.  You should meet her.  I think the two of you would get along well.” 

You shrink away as he closes the space between you, setting one knee on the floor of the narrow passenger compartment and inhaling deeply, leaning forward to rest his hands on the seat on either side of you.  His pale face glows, the shadows of the raindrops on the window streak down his cheeks.  When he exhales his breath is sweet and acrid with stale wine.  You turn away slightly as it assaults your senses. 

“But Dazai… They also say that from the moment our children are born we are but ghosts in their memories.  That is Dazai.  And I can’t let go.  I orchestrated his departure perhaps but can’t… can’t let go.”  He sinks his head forward, dark limp hair falling over his cheek as he rests his head in your lap like a child longing for comfort. 

Petrified you remain motionless as his hands slide beneath his coat to your hips.  The soft wool of his coat bunches as he clutches at you, rubbing his forehead against your stomach.

“You must think I’m a monster,” he breathes, his voice muffled in the black cashmere.  “Saturn devouring his son.”

You have no response, simply staring at the shirt that strains across his shoulders.

“I am not a monster,” he sighs.  “I’m something worse:  a human being forced to behave like one.  No.”  He shakes his head.  “That’s not true.  Who chose to behave like one.  But Dazai… I’m not sure he was ever human to begin with.  And in that lies strength that I never had.  He may surpass me one day.  Not yet, though.  I’m not…”  He burrows his head in deeper, pulling the coat aside despite your attempt to hold onto it, his breath warm against your inner thigh.  You struggle not to close your legs in disgust. 

“I’m not ready to give him up,” Mori sighs, letting the coat fall to the ground between you.  He bites down gently on the flesh of your pubic mound through your clothes and finally something within you snaps.

“Don’t,” you whisper, gripping his hair and pulling his head back, inadvertently tipping his face up to yours.  “Don’t touch me!”

“Ah!”  Mori grins, eyes opening wide, allowing you to bend his head back until his neck is stretched taut.  “Do you like that my son is circumcised?”

“Do I… what?”  You release him in shocked disgust and he slumps forward laughing as you wriggle out from beneath him. 

“Most men in Japan aren’t circumcised,” Mori replies, righting himself and falling backwards on the floor against the seat behind him.  He straightens his tie and reaches up for his wine glass, patting about the console table until he finds it.  “Usually it’s done for aesthetic purposes.  With Dazai, it was hygiene.  As soon as I began to suspect he was sexually active, it became immediately apparent that he might be of the… promiscuous sort.  Understandable, given his history.”

Without the warmth of Mori’s coat you shudder in the cool compartment.  You shrink away into the furthest corner from him, glancing about you at the windows and the shadowy figures that pass.  They are indifferent to what is happening inside the parked vehicle. 

Mori smiles up at you from his seat on the floor, taking a deliberate sip of his wine.  “I performed the surgery myself, when he was fifteen years old.  You see, Dazai has never known what is good for him.  I tried to teach him, the best I could.  At times I was a less-than-perfect father, I’ll admit that.  But I always had his best interests in mind.”  He sets his wine glass aside, lifting himself slowly, approaching you on his hands and knees.  “So tell me:  do you like it?”

Your eyes flick about, searching for anything to protect yourself with.  The wine bottle is out of reach, as is his glass.  You cringe away as his hands once again find your thighs, squeezing at your knees to part them, his chest close against yours.  You squeeze your eyes shut.

Gentle fingers graze your lips, nudging them apart, tracing your teeth.

“Do you remember, my dear, how I told you I was relieved that you were female?”

You nod, eyes still shut tight, steeling yourself.

“It’s not for the reason you assumed.  Or that you assume right now.  It’s because the women are strong.  An obstacle that would frighten discreet men is nothing to a determined woman.  They dare what men avoid.”

You stifle a whimper as he shoves his hips in hard between your legs, pinning you to the seat. 

“You think I have no respect for you,” he breathes.  “To the contrary… I admire you so much.  Only a woman could bear this.”

“Please let me go,” you whisper, turning your head aside as warm lips find your neck.  Crawling fingers trace the contours of your breast through your thin work shirt.

Not again please no not again

A whimper escapes you, futile and desperate, as two hands slide up to cup your face and he tilts you until his forehead is pressed to yours. 

“I will let you go.  For now,” he whispers, his wine-soaked breath arching into your nostrils, causing you to wrinkle your face in disgust.  “Because I need you to stay with him.  I need you…”

His lips brush against yours, soft and seeking, then hardening and deepening.  The taste of his saliva sickens you.  Every part of your being recoils against him but he is holding you in an iron grip, his mouth working fervently against yours.  He squeezes your jaw tightly, forcing your mouth open and his tongue dips in, searching.  The noise that escapes you is half-sob, half groan of disgust.

Suddenly he withdraws, leaving you breathless.  He retrieves his crumpled coat, producing a slim leather wallet from an inside pocket and withdrawing several bills.

“I suppose you need sufficient funds.  You haven’t touched the envelope I gave you the other day,” he comments dryly, handing you the money.  When you refuse to take it he sighs, grabbing you by the waistband of your work pants and jerking you forward.  He stuffs the money into your front pocket, then resumes his seat across from you.  He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Supportive measures,” he orders.  “I could give you something to counteract the sedation effects or some activated charcoal but he’d suspect you’ve been to see a doctor.  So for now, buy plenty of electrolytic drinks.  Absolutely nothing containing grapefruit.  Caffeine might be helpful.  And make sure he uses the restroom.  You may need to treat him later with a laxative.  Contact me if his condition worsens, or if he develops a rash.”

You wipe his saliva from your mouth discreetly with the back of your hand, stunned at his sudden shift in demeanor. 

“Now go,” he gestures vaguely. 

Slowly you edge towards the door, wondering if there is yet some sort of trap to be sprung. 

But Mori simply pours himself another glass of wine.  By all appearances he is done with this interaction.  

You jump as the door swings open at your shoulder.  A black-suited man holding an umbrella assists you out.  Before the car door is shut you catch one last glimpse of Mori slumped in the shadowy compartment, head bowed, the wine glass held limply in his lap.

“Let’s go,” the man says, offering his arm.  You refuse it and he shrugs, instead taking your elbow in his hand and guiding you towards the lit grocery store.  The automatic door slides open and he halts at the threshold of night and light, letting you continue onward.  You turn and he bows slightly, umbrella held stiffly aloft, then turns on his heel back in the direction of the waiting limousine.

You hadn’t even noticed, while with Mori, the adrenaline coursing through your body.  Now, faced with the mundane riot of colorful products lining brightly-lit aisles, overhead lights reflecting off polished linoleum and cheerful pop music playing somewhere overhead, your vision suddenly swims and your legs wobble beneath you.

Act naturally.

With shaking hands you select a green plastic shopping basket and sling it over your arm.  Feet you barely feel carry you to the drinks section and you tip bottles in.  Lemon tea.  Milk tea.  Calpico.  Anything that looks familiar goes into the basket until it’s almost too heavy to carry, digging painfully into the crook of your arm.  After that a few ramen, some cellophane-wrapped pastries and rice crackers.

The cashier totals it up and says something, lips moving but nothing registers through the ringing in your ears.

“Hmm?”  You look up at the young man with the lip piercing, dazed eyes confused.

“Um… money, Miss?”  He taps the little glowing numbers on the display.  “Your total?”

“Oh.  Right.”  You momentarily panic, realizing your bank card is empty and you have next to nothing in your wallet.  Then you remember the cash in your pocket.  With tingling fingers you pull it out and let it fall to the countertop next to the register.

“Yeah, that’ll be enough,” the cashier scoffs, staring down at the pile of folded hundreds.  “I’ll just…”  He pushes his fingers around in the bills and extracts one.  “Okay?”

You nod, biting your lip, cheeks burning as he counts out your change and adds it to the pile of money, sliding it all back to you along with your two shopping bags.  “There you are.   And… I don’t know what you’re on, but maybe don’t go flashing that around.”

You nod, gathering up the money in your fist and shoving it back into your pocket before stepping out into the rain.

Tsushima is exactly as you left him, sprawled on the bed.  You watch him for a little while, rubbing the chill from your damp arms.  You glance up at the exposed ductwork high above you.

“Hey,” you finally say, bending down to pat the shape of his thigh beneath the gray flannel comforter.  “Let’s get you up and to the bathroom.  And then something to drink.”

“M’fine,” he mumbles, stirring slightly.  “Get in here with me.”

“No.  Not until I know you’ve gone pee.”  You pat his thigh more insistently, then grab his hip and shake it. 

“If I do… promise you’ll get in here with me?” His words are muffled against the sheets.

“Yeah.  I promise.”

“Mm-kay.”  He pushes the comforter aside and you help him to his feet, guiding him unsteadily down the stairs to the bathroom, worried he’ll fall and take you with him.  Once in front of the toilet he wavers, steadying himself with a palm on the countertop while you help him lower his pants and seat himself on the toilet. 

“Well?” you ask, wondering if you should turn away.

“Workin’ on it,” he replies, slumped on the toilet with his hair falling over his eyes.  You wonder if he’s fallen asleep again when you hear a weak trickle and he sighs.  “Happy now?”

“So happy.”  You unroll a few squares of toilet paper and hand them to him so he can dab, then help him back up, flushing the toilet without looking. 

“Hey you’re really taking care of me now, huh?”  He grins at you lopsidedly as you help him back to the bed, pulling up his boxers one-handed as he stumbles at your side.  He falls heavily, sitting on the side of the mattress, watching groggily as you go to the kitchen area and uncap one of the liter bottles of lemon tea.  “I told you, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, you did.  I know.  You’re irresistible.”  You return to the bed, hand him the glass and watch as he drinks, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his bandages. 

He sets the glass aside and falls onto his back, patting the mattress next to himself sleepily.  “Now get in.  But take off those clothes.  You’re all wet.”

 You’re too exhausted to do anything else but comply.  Wet clothes hit the ground around you and you clamber over him wearing only your bra and panties, shivering, and pull up the comforter.

He rolls to you contentedly, prodding at you until you let yourself be the little spoon.  He drapes his arm and thigh over yours.

For a long time sleep evades you. 

When you open your eyes you are lying on the pavement in the central Plaza of Little Tokyo.  It’s nighttime, and raining, but you don’t feel the cold or wet at all.  You realize you are completely naked but don’t mind even though pedestrians are passing by.  There are a hundred of them, a thousand, ten thousand.  Their faces are obscured in shadow; only their legs are visible like a moving forest around you.  Not one so much as glances down at you there on the ground.

Something warm and heavy is on top of you.  Dazai is lying over you, fully-dressed.  He isn’t wearing his tan trench coat, vest and bolo tie but a long black cashmere overcoat like Mori.  He tilts his head back to the rain and the red lantern lights above and you realize, dimly, that he is wearing more than his usual bandages.  His right eye is covered with gauze, blood seeping through.  On his left cheek, where you’ve noticed a scar in the past, another square of gauze is taped on.  It seems you’ve seen him like this once before but can’t place it.

Dazai, too, seems careless of the pedestrians walking past.  His hands rove your naked flesh languidly, without a hint of possession, his one dark eye finding yours and you see yourself reflected in the mirror-like surface of his pupil.  He sinks his head down as if for a kiss but evades your lips, traveling lower and lower.  He mouths at your neck, at your breastbone, and lower still.  His dark hair catches on the rain beading your stomach and thighs as he comes to rest between your parted legs, his tongue slipping into you easily.

You moan, fingers tangling in his damp hair as you lift your hips to him.  It feels unbearably good.

One of the pedestrians stops, umbrella a void against the lanterns obscuring his features against and you stare up at him.  He bends down, coming into focus.  A slow smile curves his thin lips; admiration sparkles in his dull amethyst eyes. 

“Well… Look at you,” Mori breathes.

.

.

“What a way to wake Snow White,” Dazai muses sleepily.

“Hmm?”  You turn to him, disoriented, not sure if you’re awake.  “What do you mean?”

“You were moaning,” he replies.  It’s still dark in the loft, far from morning but you can sense the smirk in his voice. 

“Oh.”  You settle in more comfortably, nestling into his shoulder.  He wraps an arm around you and pulls you in closer, kissing the top of your head.

“Were you having a sexy dream?”

“Sort of.”

“Was I in it?”  His smile curves against your hair as he reaches to unsnap your bra, his fingers clumsy.  You do it for him and he cups your breast, shifting down lower, his tongue finding your nipple and tracing it.  “If it was sexy I’m sure I was there…”

You don’t respond.

Holding him to you like this, his warm tousled head clasped to you, it seems like the past few days are a fading nightmare.  In fact even this doesn’t feel like reality.  In that strange space between wakefulness and dreaming you run your hands over his body, over the loosened bandages circling his chest.

When your hand strays lower he sighs, falling limply to his back and closing his eyes.  He takes your hand in his and places it between his legs.

He’s soft in your palm inside his boxers but you stroke him anyway, feeling the soft tube of flesh as it swells slightly.

“Sorry, can’t get it up yet,” he says.  “But it feels nice.”

“Yeah,” you agree, sliding your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers and feeling the silky texture of his pubic hair and sleepy cock.  “You said I could do anything I want?”

“Did I?”  He tucks his chin for a better look at you.  “Sounds like something I’d say.  What did you have in mind?  I mean… considering I might not be able to follow through on it.”  He tucks his head further, indicating his barely-aroused cock in your fist.

“Well…”  You pull his boxers down and drop them to the side of the bed.  Then you swing a leg over his hips, straddling him.

He smiles expectantly.  The smile falls from his face as you slip a finger beneath the bandages circling his neck and tug, pulling one end loose.

He does nothing to stop you, watching you with dark eyes that stare up at you solemnly like a cat backed into a corner.  Not fleeing, not ready to fight.  Merely observing in silence. 

You unwind the bandages and they flutter away, coming to rest in tangled piles around him.

Next come those circling his wrists, forearms and biceps.  These are easier.  You don’t have to pass your hands beneath him to unwind them but simply pull and they twirl and unravel.  His flexes his knees, lifting and parting his legs as you unwrap the ones around his thighs.  His chest you leave for last.  He grunts slightly, arching his back from the mattress as you pass your hands beneath him, over and over, your face close to his until finally he’s completely uncovered.

“Well?” he asks, looking up at you crouched above him in the darkness.  He does nothing to conceal himself. 

You nod, running your fingers over his chest.  He is covered with scars.  You take your time, and he allows you.  You trace the half-moon shaped ones on his biceps and ribs.  You run your fingers over the well-healed lattices on his inner thighs that appear to have been done deliberately, older ones crossed by new ones that are still pink.  Some are neat sets of perfectly parallel fading white lines, barely there.  One on his bicep is jagged and puckered.  Some are gnarled and shiny, obviously deep wounds that healed without proper care.  You lift his wrists to your lips, kissing the deep ridges one-by-one that run up the insides of his forearms for several inches before trailing off.  A slash mark on the front of his neck, just above his protruding collar bones, is criss-crossed with suture marks like tiny railroad tracks.

You dip downwards, hands planted on his pectorals, and press your lips to it.

He half-sighs, half-groans. 

“Sensitive,” he whispers. 

You respond by rocking your hips against him, grinding his softness against your panties.

“I’m sorry… I can’t.”  He places his hand on the top of your head as you work your way downwards, teasing each mark on his flesh with your tongue as you go.  His stuttering gasps pursue you.

When you reach his pelvis you bypass his cock entirely, instead mouthing at the insides of his thighs, feeling the ridges of the raised cut marks there against your lips, nuzzling at them. 

“Fuck,” he breathes.  “I wish I was hard…”

“It’s okay.  I want you like this.”

You take him into your mouth, relishing the feel of his softness, sucking at him gently. He fills your mouth perfectly, the ridged head of his cock fitting pleasantly into your soft palate as you swallow around him.  Like this, you can take him down easily, wrapping your lips around his base without choking.  When he swells ever-so-slightly it’s almost disappointing.

“It feels good.” 

You glance up to find him gazing down at you, face almost expressionless except for the depth in his warm coffee eyes.  They’re still unstable, unfocused, wavering slightly.  For a moment you hold eye contact, and then you swallow again and his eyes droop shut.

You clamber up his body, sliding your panties down as you go. You let your breasts drag against his warm skin, feeling his scarred chest instead of bandages on your hardening nipples.  You bury your face in his hair and inhale deeply.  He smells like stale, days-old shampoo and sleep.  Like unwashed pillowcases.  It’s pleasant.

“Whatever I wanted.” 

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding.

“This is what I want.  You, just like this.”

You don’t care that he’s only semi-erect.  You don’t care about the ducts above and who might be listening.  At the moment it’s only you and your need for the pliant body beneath you.  You lift yourself slightly where you are straddling his slender hips and lift his cock in your fingertips to your drenched entrance, pushing him into you.

He exhales sharply through his nose, squeezing your hips in his hands and rising up to meet you.

“Do you feel how wet I am?” you ask, fingers straying from your entrance to your clit, circling your hips to work his half-hard cock in as deeply as you can.  You can’t move much or he’ll slip out, but he feels incredible.  Sleepy and soft like this he fills you in an entirely new way, teasing at the nerve-rich ring of muscle shallowly inside of you.  Like this his cock is neither hard nor demanding.  It feels vulnerable, and tender.  You squeeze around him and he groans, throwing his head back.

Gently, carefully, you begin a back-and-forth rhythm matched by your fingers on yourself.  You whimper as a pang of arousal twists your insides.

He attempts to match you, pressing his hips up weakly but you stay him with a hand planted on his chest. 

“Don’t move,” you urge, eyelids growing heavy with need.  “Don’t move at all.”

He complies, relaxing into the mattress, hands loose on your hips as he allows himself to be rocked beneath you. 

“Fuck,” he breathes reverently.  His hair tousles like a dark nimbus beneath his head, spread on the sheets, and you reach forward to smooth it away from his forehead.  It’s so rare to see his full face like this with his high, intelligent forehead fully exposed.  He looks like a different man. 

You run your hand down his cheek, to his slim neck, wrapping your hand around the line of his scar and squeezing gently.  His pulse is slow and even against your thumb.

“Like that.”  He opens his eyes languidly, heavy-lidded and dreamy.  “Just like that…”

The pressure in your core builds as the pace of your fingers on yourself increases.  Reflexively, your hand around his neck tightens. 

“I’m getting… getting closer…”

“Yes,” he sighs.  “I can feel it… God, I can feel you…”

“I’m…”  You trail off, words failing.  Him beneath you, your fingers on yourself, his soft and sleepy cock in you… the sensations are overwhelming.  They burst out of you in a sharp gasp, your breath hitching with every jerk of your hips.

“Come for me,” he whispers.

“Ahhh…” Mori leans forward, arm tightening.  “Come for me… Come for me…”

A panting sob slips from you.

“Come for me.”  Dazai grips your hips, his fingers still weak, his head lolling against the mattress with every roll of your hips.  He appears submerged in your watery vision, a satisfied but tired smile spreading slow as watercolors bleeding.

You’re climbing a mountain, the wind stinging your eyes.  Looking up the peak is high above.  The air there is rarified and can’t sustain you for long but oh, how good to reach that summit.

The man beneath you watches, fading into the distance beneath as he falls away, arms outstretched and hair fluttering about his pale face.  His expression is serene, contented. Because he knows he can’t follow you there.

You climb and climb.  Sometimes you slip.  But still you continue upwards, leaving all behind, drawn by an inescapable need.

Your chest aches, soft red velvet lungs expanding and contracting to their limits in the cage of your ribs but you ascend.  Vision fades first into the darkness, then all awareness of anything other than your own body recedes.  Hands, sinews, bones. Nerves that send shimmering signals to fingers that melt into yourself and emerge over and over tracing patterns.  Your breath escapes you, pushed from you in hot exhalations, drawn back in cool and luxuriant. Motion, you are bearing yourself stubbornly upwards to the pinnacle you can no longer see but sense in the blood that rushes through you. 

Alone you reach for it, hand outstretched in the darkness.  It is nothingness, an apotheosis and it consumes you in such perfection that you wail, consciousness expanding until it reaches its limit and breaks, snapping back upon you violently, leaving you at once completely drained and completely filled.

You let go and you fall, and fall, and fall

Your stiff fingers loosen on his neck and you sink forward, slowly, until you’re lying atop him gasping.

Dazai cradles you to his bare chest reassuringly, welcoming you back.  You sob, throat hoarse as you cling to him.  You must have been loud, you realize as reality reshapes itself around you.  He must have been, too.  His thin chest rises and falls, he is panting with exertion, his neck that you press your face against throbs with his pulse and you realize your eyes are damp.

He turns his head slightly, kissing the tears from the corners of your eyes.

Neither of you moves or says a word, both of you lost in the rhythmic pulsations of your fading orgasm that squeeze his soft cock gently until it slips from you.

Even when you lift yourself from him he is silent, rolling towards you and tucking the comforter around you carefully as you drift back off to sleep.

This time it is dreamless.

Chapter Text

“O~hayo, Purincesu!”

You squint your eyes against bright morning sun and the chipper, sing-songy voice and twist further into the flannel comforter.  The brush of fabric against your bare skin lets you know you’re completely naked.

Not surprising.

He pulls the blanket down lower, revealing your sleepy face, and his dark outline looms close. 

“Tsushima?” 

“Hai~!”  He smiles broadly, leaning over you on his hands and knees on the bed, his shaggy hair close to brushing your cheek.  “Good morning!”

“Yeah,” you mumble, struggling out of the blanket as he leaps away and minces towards the kitchen area.  He turns with a flourish, waving his hand like a magician over the table. 

“I made breakfast!”

“So I see.”  The cold morning air hits your bare skin and you wince, squinting out at the weather.  The rain has stopped.  It’ll be a beautiful, crisp day. 

The first shirt you pick up is crusted with dried cum and you let it drop, heading to his dresser instead to select a fresh one and pull it on over your head.  Your panties are probably destroyed so you dig out a pair of his boxer briefs, stepping into them as you make your way to the kitchen, hopping one-legged like a flamingo.

“Looks, um… good.”  You glance at the offerings laid out on the table:  steaming Styrofoam cups of instant curry noodles with chopsticks laid across them, an opened can of crab (lid still dangling), and two bottles of beer, also opened. 

Tsushima nods encouragingly and you laugh, noticing he’s wearing crisp tan khakis, a white tee-shirt over fresh bandages and a frilled pink apron that would look at home on an anime maid.  The dead flowers scattered across the floor are peeking out of the trash can in the corner, and even the drying puddles of water have been wiped up.

“Well?  Hungry?”  He seats himself on one of the chairs, pulling up and bracing his bare feet against the edge of the seat.  He clasps his knees to himself in anticipation and picks up his chopsticks, waiting for you to do the same.

“You seem okay,” you say slowly, not sure how to broach the subject.  “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, tip-top!” He slaps his chest as if to prove its soundness, then digs in to the can of crab with his chopsticks.  He holds them incorrectly, you notice for the hundredth time.  Wedged into his palm, too close together.  He peels open his ramen and places a healthy dollop of the unappetizing, grayish meat on top.  “Why?”

“Well, it’s just…”

You were half-dead last night.  And now it’s like nothing happened.

Tsushima is staring at you, a puzzled expression on his face. 

“Never mind,” you mumble, poking at the noodles to loosen them.

“So what’s on the agenda today?”  He slurps his noodles noisily, washing them down with a swig of beer.  “I was thinking of being productive!”

“Starting with a beer?”  You eye the bottle of Asahi in his hand skeptically.

“Yep!”  He takes another swig, smacking his lips appreciatively.  “And then some laundry, get some groceries, maybe a quick fuck and take a nap…”

You choke on your noodles.  “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.  You owe me.”  His eyes crinkle adorably.  “You got off on me last night.  Gotta return the favor.”

“Hey that’s not-”

He cuts you off, waving his chopsticks towards the sleeping area.  “And then clear out a drawer for you.  Oh!  And we can buy you a toothbrush while we’re shopping.”

“Clear out a drawer?”

“Mm-hmm.”  He nods, noodles and flakes of crab dangling from his mouth.  He sucks them in with a slurp.  “I mean what else do you have to do today?”

“Well… I need to stop by my apartment to pay the rent.”

“Boo to your apartment!”  Tsushima looks up at the exposed ducts.  “You don’t even go there anymore.  I mean, not unless you’re mad at me.  You don’t need it.”

“I think I do.”  You frown, scooping noodles into your own mouth to hide your discomfort.  “And also, I have to check into work, see if I’m on the schedule.  I sort of took off early last night to… well, to check on you.  And now I’m not sure I even have a job anymore.”

“Boo to your job, too!” 

“Tsushima, some of us need to work.  You know… to make money?”

“What for?”  He gets up and tosses his empty noodle cup in the trash, on top of the dead flowers.  “To pay for the crappy little apartment you’re never at?”

“Well… yeah.”

“I’ve got a solution.”  He turns, crossing his arms and settling his skinny butt on the edge of the counter, patting at his pink apron to smooth it.

I’m afraid of what that might be.

“Live with me.  It makes perfect sense.”

It makes zero sense.

“I don’t think-”

He cuts you off again, hopping up on the counter, kicking his dangling legs against the cupboard.

“It’d be great.  Weren’t you the one asking me why this whole thing isn’t going anywhere?   Or if I was planning on seeing anybody else?”

“I was,” you admit, deciding that maybe you do need that beer, after all.  “But you were right: I was just freaking out.  It’s okay.  Like you said, we don’t need to define this…”

“Not defining anything.”  He hops down, his bare feet hitting the floor with a thump.  He heads to the bathroom, picking up the laundry basket as he goes.  “I’m not planning on seeing anybody else.  Are you?  Don’t have anybody on the side, do you?”

You swallow your beer and it claws its way down your throat. 

Tsushima makes the rounds of the bed, picking up socks and shirts, stopping to smell them before tossing them into the basket.

How to answer that…

“No…”

“Well then?”  He stops in front of you.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

His face falls in disappointment and it’s a stand-off.  You, seated at the table.  Him, looking down at you in his ridiculous pink frilly apron with the basket propped on his hip.  His eyes come to rest on the bottle of beer poised at your lips, then trail up your hand, coming to rest on the fading circular bruises on your wrist.

A sudden shuffling sound from the front door draws both your attention.

“What the…”  Tsushima sets the basket  on a counter and approaches the door cautiously.  He bends down to pick something up from next to his bare feet and returns to the kitchen, turning it over curiously in his hands.

“What is it,” you ask, the previous tension cut.  

“A note…”  He unfolds it gingerly.  Then, when nothing falls out, spreads it open on the table and leans over it, finger tracing the handscrawled writing.

“Dear Asshole Neighbor.  Hey!  That’s me!”  He looks up at you happily, then back down at the note.  “Maybe you grew up in some sort of very rustic community, or maybe you’re just an ob… oblivious idiot.”  He frowns, scratching his head.  “That’s not very neighborly…  anyway… The walls here are very thin and sound carries through the lovely duct-work the genius developers decided to leave intact.  Congratulations on your active and apparently healthy sex life but…” Tsushima turns the paper over.  “I am tired of hearing you fucking at all hours of the day and night.  Sincerely, your next-door neighbor.”

He lowers his hands slowly, letting the note fall to the table and squinting up at the ceiling. 

“I wonder if I could get a can of crab into those ducts,” he muses aloud.

“You wouldn’t!” you laugh.  “That would smell so bad!”

“True.  I’ll save that until we move out.  But he’s right.”  He rubs his chin thoughtfully.  “We are very loud.  That’s so inconsiderate.”  He grins down at you.

You nearly spit out your beer at the mischievous glint in Tsushima’s eyes. 

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand and pulling you from the table.  You barely get a chance to set your beer down before you’re running with him up the few stairs and climbing atop his bed together.

“Oh fuck!” he yells, jumping up and down on the creaking mattress.  “Fuck that’s good!  Mommy!”

You hesitate, laughing, watching as his apron flutters and his hair bounces around his manic smile.  Something about it feels good.  It feels normal.

“C’mon, Mommy,” he whispers, grabbing you around the waist and forcing you to jump up and down with him. 

You stumble, falling and slapping your palms flat against the wall to catch yourself, his pelvis heavy against your backside.  Deft fingers tickle at your ribs and you squeal, giggling.

“Stop it!  Stop it, Daddy!”

Maybe don’t say exactly that…

“Nnnghhh!”  he whines, slapping against the wall with his own palms, arm still wrapped around your waist and fingers still digging in, causing you to spasm and squirm in paroxysms of laughter.  “Spank me!”

You wrestle yourself free of him and twist, shoving him forward and bringing your hand across his backside with a strident clap.

“Gah!!!”  He yells, eyes widening and neck stiffening at the impact.  “Little too real, there,” he whispers. 

“Sorry.”

“Do it again.”

You do it again.

“Wow!” he shouts, balling his hands into fists and slamming them against the wall, the bed creaking beneath your jumping figures.  “I’ve been bad!  Daddy’s been… ah!  So bad! Please, not so hard!”

“Shut up and take it!” You wrestle him to the mattress and drop down heavily on his pelvis, over and over again.

“It’s too much!  Too much!” he cries, throwing one forearm over his eyes dramatically and grabbing the headboard with his other hand, rattling it.

“Here, bite down on this,” you offer, tossing a pillow at his head. 

“No!”  He bats it away.  “I want you to hear every loud, filthy word out of my mouth!”

You groan, high-pitched and exaggeratedly heady, continuing to bounce.  “Oh Daddy!  Daddy ohhhh…”

“Do you like it like that?” he growls.

“So much,” you respond, head tilted back to the ductwork above to ensure maximum carriage of sound.  “You fuck like a god, Tsushima!” 

“My dirty princess,” he replies, chuckling evilly.  He flips you onto your back, slotting himself between your legs and throwing your heels up over his shoulders.  “Take it!  Take it all!” 

“Ah!  It’s too much!  It’s too big!”

He laughs, bouncing himself up and down on top of you, your heels waving helplessly in the air and his pink apron crushed between you. 

“Just right for me!  So good for Daddy!” 

“Not there!” You yell, fists pummeling at his shirt.  “Not that hole!”

“No?”  He stops suddenly, staring down at you questioningly.  A slow grin curls at the corners of his lips.  “You sure?”

You want to laugh but… something in the suggestion (not to mention his hard, clothed cock that you become aware is pressing against you) starts you tingling.  You’re still a little wet and sloppy from the night before.  You’re not exactly daisy-fresh down there but that hasn’t stopped him from anything in the past…

“Are you sure,” he repeats, nibbling at your earlobe, his hair tickling your cheek and neck as a wave of excitement rushes over you.

A pink apron is lying forgotten in a scatter of clothing around the bed, gray flannel comforter pulled off and tossed into a mound at its foot.  Mid-day, the sun shining through the huge floor-to-ceiling window.  The exposed ductwork overhead is painted light gray.  The paint is fresh enough that barely any dust shades its top surface.  Still, a few motes drift down lazily, silently, in sharp contrast to the sounds echoing loudly through the loft.

“Fuck, Tsushima!”

Panting gasps, a groan, a breathy whine.

“Just a… just a little more!  Almost in!” 

“I can’t!  I can’t it’s too much!  Stop!”

“I got you.  I got you.  You can do it.  Relax!  Oh god that’s tight…”

Another long, low whine and the sounds of frantic fingers on slick flesh.

“I’m gonna come before it’s in, Tsushima!  I’m… right now!”

“No!  Wait for me!  I’m almost there!”

“Tsushima I… I can’t!  I can’t take any more!”

“You can!  Grab the headboard and lean back.  Try to relax.  Loosen up and… unh… lower yourself onto it slowly!”

“Fuck it’s stuck on something I… I can’t get past it!”

“You’re doing good… you’re doing good… Loosen up, it’s going in…”

A man’s hoarse shout of surprise, followed by a heady moan.

“Oh my god… oh my god…”

“I’m… I’m in.  I’m going to start moving…”

“No!  Stay right there!  Stay right there!  Ahhhhh…”

“I can’t I gotta move.  Fuck!  Fuck that’s tight! Unhhh!”

The rattle of a headboard, the creaking of bedsprings.

“Tshushi… Tsushima… Tsu… shimi… oh FUCK!”

The voices devolve into a litany of half-formed words and frantic pleas echoing through the loft.

“Closer…”

“Oh fuck…”

“Almost…”

“I’m coming!”

“Ahhh!!!!”

“Tsushimaaa!!!!!”

It’s depressing how easily the horrifying becomes commonplace.  Just background noise to your existence, really.

Mori had said that all living creatures are instinctively driven to survive.  As things are, you are doing exactly that: surviving.  In order to achieve that, it’s possible to overlook almost any discomfort or outrage.

How many times have you seen a terrible situation, maybe of domestic violence or extreme hardship or danger and wondered “why don’t they just leave?”  Maybe it’s because the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.  Or maybe it’s something deeper.  Maybe it’s that none of it matters too much.  Maybe it’s not just possible to live like that… maybe it isn’t even that objectionable.  Maybe, like those sea creatures that live at the bottom of the ocean under tremendous pressure, people become acclimated quickly and being brought to the surface would now destroy you.  It’s the pressure that’s keeping you alive.

You recall the sensation you’d had, of driving down a freeway watching the exits fly past, wondering each time why you didn’t take it, wondering if you should take the next one and then letting that one pass by, too.  And you realize that maybe… maybe you didn’t want to take any of those exits in the first place.  You did your calculations, and choosing one would have been more effort than not choosing at all.  Or maybe not choosing is a choice in itself.

It’s too confusing to think about; you can’t quite arrange your thoughts on the matter but yes, this is survival.  It’s better than survival.  Mori had said the second thing all living creatures desire is to procreate.  The pack of twenty-eight pills on Tsushima’s bathroom counter ensures that won’t really happen here, but still your bodies go through the motions.  A desperate dive into each other, over and over again, the ecstasy of it heightened by the drama of it all that you don’t dare mention aloud yet that he seems to sense.

Or maybe he’s simply like that.  Maybe he was born with a deep desperation already inside of him, and he’s found its match in you.

It’s soothing, that symbiosis.  When the pressure threatens to crush you and physical love isn’t enough, when the dull roar of confused feelings overwhelm, the two of you temper it with alcohol and weed.  It lulls you long enough that you nearly forget.  And then you rise out of it and find each other again.

Maybe he was right.  Maybe the two of you are using each other.

Whatever it is, it’s keeping you alive.

Which is not to say you’re perfectly… okay. 

A week goes by.  Two weeks.  Mori does not contact you.  You keep your phone on silent, checking it often.

You wake up in the middle of the night screaming, grasping at cool hands that hold you down until you realize it’s Tsushima.

“Were you having a bad dream?” he asks, his face pale and eyes deep in the darkness.

And you return to sleep, both of you, with nothing more said.

Nothing is said, either, when you reach beneath the bed to retrieve the pot pipe that rolled beneath and your hand closes around something cool and smooth.  You sit up, staring at the loaded gun in your lap.

“Just an old habit.”  Not Tsushima but Dazai appears kneeling next to you, eyes glassy and distant.  He takes the gun from your limp hands and slides it back beneath the bed, making sure it’s placed just so. 

You can’t tell him what’s hanging over the both of you, but sometimes the words are there.  You stop them before they come out.  Mori’s warning that he would hurt Tsushima if you said anything… would he really follow through on it?  Is he still up there, listening? 

Sometimes you forget he is.  Other times, when rage stabs through you out of nowhere with Tsushima inside of you, on you, panting in your arms you hope Mori’s getting an earful.

Other times, at the edge of the plaza on your way to work, you catch sight of a man in a long dark coat and you momentarily forget where you are.  Dread rushes over you, making your mouth go dry and your fingers twitch, coated with a crumbly feeling of cold sweat.

But the man turns.  It isn’t him.  Around you the plaza returns to life and you carry on to your job, doing what must be done. 

Surviving.

Hitchcock’s Vertigo is on the DVD player.  It’s stuck on the top menu and has been for… you’re not sure how long.  The orchestral theme plays over and over on repeat in the silent loft.

“Hey,” you say, running your hands over Tsushima’s hair.  You’ve been twining it in your fingers for so long, those thick dark curls, that his scalp must be sore.

If it is, he hasn’t noticed.  He’s greened-out on the couch in sweats and a tee, his head heavy in your lap.

“Hey,” you say again.  And you wait.

It takes a long time to travel to him, like a communication through miles-deep undersea cables but eventually comes a reply, dreamy and distant.

“Yeah.”

“We should leave this place.”

Another long delay.

“I like it here.  Don’t you?”

You’re not sure how to respond.  In fact, so much time and distance has passed since you posed the initial question that you’ve forgotten what it was.

“I do.”

Christmas decorations begin to appear in the plaza and the easy-listening radio station switches over to holiday music. 

It doesn’t feel like Christmas in this city where summer is unbearably hot and winters are cold and brown.  There aren’t four seasons to define the passage of the years.  Instead it’s like a book with no punctuation, no chapters, no place to put your finger and say “here it ends and here it begins.”

You’re in the back of the restaurant sorting through a box of cheap Daiso tinsel stars and shedding glitter snowflakes when the boss lady sticks her head in.

“Customer, sushi bar,” she announces briskly.

Damn.

You wipe your hands on your apron, aware that it’s going to be impossible to clean off all that glitter.  You’d been hoping to get the decorations up in the afternoon lull, before the dinner crowd started showing up.

“Be right out!”

You grab a rag from the prep area and brush it over your sparkling shirt, pushing through the noren curtains…

And you freeze.

Tadanobu is standing behind the sushi counter, face downcast in the shadows cast by the piercing overhead lights that dangle overhead.  A knife, sharp in his hand, is lying motionless against a pink slab of salmon.

In front of him sits a man in a dark cashmere overcoat, the tips of his shoulder-length black hair brushing the red scarf around his neck.  He turns, slowly, revealing his cool angular features by degrees until he faces you.

“Ah!  My dear!”  Mori’s eyes sparkle with delight.  “How wonderful!  Come, join us.”  He pats his thigh, inviting you to sit. 

The rag falls from your limp fingers.

“Here!”  Mori holds out his arm, beckoning you closer and you approach like you’ve been hypnotized to obey.  You come to stand between his legs, then lower yourself stiffly.  He hums happily, settling you like a child on Santa’s lap.

“I was just having the most delightful conversation with your friend Tadanobu-san!  Did you know he and I know each other?”  Mori’s eyes widen as if astonished by his own statement.

You glance at Tadanobu, who has not moved.  The man is an automaton whose spring has wound down all the way.

“Yes,” Mori continues, lifting a bite of sashimi on his chopsticks.  When you refuse it he pops it into his own mouth.  He chews and swallows.  “From Yokohama.  Tadanobu here worked for my predecessor at the organization.  I suppose he wasn’t happy with the change in leadership.  Is that correct?”

Tadanobu still hasn’t moved.  His lips are slack, no teeth visible in the dark space between them.  You would think he wasn’t breathing but for the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath his white chef’s jacket.

“Such things happen.” Mori tsk’s his tongue, shaking his head sadly as he dabbles a scallop in a tiny dish of soy sauce.  “It’s to be expected.  Still, I’m so glad you found other employment, Tadanobu-san.”  He swallows the scallop in one bite, then lifts the wine glass in front of him, draining it quickly and setting it aside.

He shifts you in his lap, reaching into his breast pocket and Tadanobu finally moves.  An imperceptible jolt, like a shiver up his spine.  His blank expression doesn’t change in the slightest.

Mori chuckles.  “My wallet,” he narrates, removing several bills and setting them on the counter next to his oblong plate.  “Thank you for a delicious meal… and the conversation.  Although one-sided, it’s been most stimulating.  My dear, if you will excuse me?”

He looks up at you, patting your backside to move.

You stand as Mori does, shifting aside and watching as Mori pulls on his white gloves and bows shallowly to Tadanobu who does not return it.

“Have a good afternoon.”  Mori nods to you and turns to leave, smiling and waving cordially to your boss who is standing at the front register greeting a party of diners.

As soon as the front door closes Tadanobu springs into action like a bowstring snapping.  He throws down his knife with a curse, spinning towards the kitchen and nearly tearing off the noren in his haste.

“Hey!  Hey wait!”  You follow him, trembling.  “What was that?  You know that man?”

“Do you?”  He doesn’t pause until he reaches the break area, ripping off his cap and untying his apron hurriedly.  He pulls off his white jacket and throws it aside, not even aiming for the bin of dirty linens. 

“I… I suppose I do.”

“Shit.”  Tadanobu yanks his locker open, running on hand over his tousled hair, then grabbing his winter coat and pulling it on.  He checks for his car keys and shakes his head.  “You’ve brought the Devil on me.”

“What are you going to do?” you ask, following him to the backdoor to the alley. 

“Try to run,” he responds. 

“Run?” you grab at his sleeve and he shakes you off with a snarl.

“You run, too.”

Vomitous fear is coiling in your stomach like an eel in a bucket.  You scan the empty alleyway, then his face like either might hold some clue, some directional arrow you should follow. 

“You can…”  You grab for him again and shake him pleadingly.  “…you can take me with!  Can’t you?”

“No, no.”  He turns to face you and the sheer terror on his face cuts through you more cleanly than the blade he’s used to slice fish.  He grabs your shoulders, one hand on each, and squeezes firmly.  “Too slow.  I am sorry.  I am already dead.”

And with that he turns and leaves, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking briskly towards the opening of the alley, towards the parking garage that looms in the break in the buildings.

“What was that?”

The boss lady appears at your side, watching Tadanobu’s retreating figure.

“I’m… not sure,” you reply.  “He just said he had to leave.”

“Huh.”  She sniffs, setting her hand on her hip, lips pursing in distaste.  “Wonder if he’ll be coming back.  It’s a real pain to find a new sushi chef.  And now Diego’s alone for the dinner shift.”    

You nod.

“Well,” she sighs.  “Come inside and shut the door.  You’re letting the cold in.”

“Yes.”  You close the door slowly, still peering up towards where Tadanobu had disappeared.

Still stunned you turn to follow her, picking up the box of Christmas decorations on your way back to the dining room. 

Chapter Text

The udon noodle wobbles, pinched lifelessly at the tips of your chopstick like a fat beige worm that’s drowned itself in curry sauce.  You regard it dazedly, concentrating to bring it into focus as the bowl beneath it and the table and everything else in the room blurs.  You run a hand through your hair, listless fingers barely sensing the texture.

“You going to eat that?  Or are you composing poetry for it?”

Dazai’s voice across the table makes you jump, pulling him into sharp focus.

“Uh… I…” You look up from your hunched posture.  You let the noodle drop from your chopsticks back into the bowl and poke at a slice of narutomaki, the white and pink stained by the yellow curry gravy.  “Um…”

“You should eat,” he says, stirring at his own bowl which is nearly empty.  He finds a long noodle and slurps it in.  You watch as it disappears between his lips, and he smiles.  “You’re getting skinny, you know.  Not like when we met: you had some curves.  It was nice.”  He leans over the table and purses his lips, making a show of critiquing you.  “Yeah, now you’re practically bony.  What’s with the bait-and-switch?”

You stiffen, unsure what to reply.  “Um…”

His eyes narrow.  Then he brightens, straightening up.  He stands to take his bowl to the sink and you don’t turn to watch, simply staring straight ahead.

“Well, maybe you worry too much.  You’ve been working too hard.  I’ve got just the thing for us to relax!” 

You’re still staring straight ahead into the middle distance, empty chopsticks still pinched in your fingers, unmoving as he heads to the coffee table to pack a bowl and switch on the video game system. 

No.  No, that is not “just the thing.”  What we need, Tsushima, is to get the fuck out of here. 

Tadanobu’s terrified expression floats past.  “I’ll try to run,” he’d said.  “You run, too.”

He’ll hurt me.

Mori looms over your shoulder, looking down at the bowl of noodles with you in amusement, his smooth cheek close to yours.  You can feel his silken hair brush your shoulder and you shiver. 

“Heavens, no!”  Mori says soothingly.  “I’m not a monster!  I’ll hurt HIM!”  He glances over at Dazai on the couch.

“Phone,” Dazai announces, thumbs twiddling on the controller as he scrolls through the game menu.

“Huh?”  At this, you do look up.

“Your phone,” he clarifies.  “It’s buzzing in your purse.”

“Oh…”  You set your chopsticks down and get up, retrieving your purse from the little credenza in the entryway, reaching into it as gingerly as though there might be a snake coiled inside.  You flip it open.

Unknown:  Come downstairs.  I require your assistance with something.

“Who is it?” Dazai calls out over his shoulder.  He’s browsing the fighters and their moves.  The overly-loud, upbeat music coupled with the characters’ battle cries and catchphrases almost drown out his voice.

You:  I can’t.  He’ll know

Unknown :  Lie to him.  You’re very good at it

“I, um…  It’s work,” you respond, aware that it’s the first thing you’ve said in over an hour that constitutes an actual word.

“Is it?”  Dazai’s face appears over the top edge of the couch, his dark eyes peering at you disapprovingly from beneath the dark fringe of his bangs tousled across his forehead.  He pushes at them, examining your expression, but instead of sweeping them aside he only manages to shape them into a clump that falls down the center of his face, brushing the bridge of his nose. 

“Of course, Tsushima.  Only two people ever text me:  you, or work.  So it’s work.”

“Well, what do they want?”  He turns his attention back to the game, selecting the woman fighter who’s dressed like a belly-dancer for some reason.

“They, um… Just got seated two huge holiday parties.  And one of the waitresses called out sick.  They’re asking if I can come in.”

“Tell them no,” Dazai picks up the pot pipe, waving it carelessly.  “Then get over here and pick a character.  This is a two-person game.  You want DIO?  Or Midler?  Although they really nerfed the High Priestess…”

“I… I’ve been calling out sick a lot, myself,” you mumble.  You can barely hear yourself over the sound of your blood pressure whining in your ears.  If Dazai were to look over he’d see the pallor of your face.  You turn away, looking for your shoes.  “I really should go in and help out…”

“Fine,” he sighs.  You hear the click of a lighter as he sparks the bowl.  He inhales deeply.  “I just hope they don’t keep you until closing time.”

“I’ll try to leave as soon as I can,” you assure him, reaching for the doorknob.

“Hey!”

Frozen with your hand on the knob you look over at him, slowly, trying to arrange your face into some semblance of normalcy. 

“Don’t you need your work clothes?” 

His upper body is draped over the backside of the couch, pipe in one hand and game controller dangling from the other, a half-smile on his lips. 

You look down at what you’re wearing:  your black work shoes, with a pair of his old sweats and a white tee-shirt, both a size too big. 

“Oh, right,” you agree, cheeks flaming as you rush to the sleeping area and pull open a drawer, dressing hurriedly. 

“See?  Working too hard.” Dazai shakes his head and goes back to browsing the game menu.

Of course the limousine is awaiting you at the usual spot, a menacing void at the edge of the nighttime plaza. 

Run.  You want to run.  But your feet carry you there as if they belong to somebody else.

Even if you ran, where would you go?  It would be pointless.  You can’t even save yourself.  And what would become of HIM?

The passenger compartment is empty.  It’s little relief that Mori isn’t inside, seated across from you on the black leather seat.  The driver activates the door locks as soon as you’re in and, without looking back at you, pulls away in the familiar direction of downtown. 

“How can you do this?” you want to shout at him through the sound-proof partition.  You want to bang on the plexiglass with your fist, screaming.  Not that he would respond.  You have no idea what’s happening inside the driver’s head.  All you can see is the back of his dark, slicked-back hair.  Maybe if you could get through to him you’d see a spark of humanity or pity in his eyes, and he’d unlock those doors and let you slip free. 

Probably not.  Maybe he’s just as trapped as you are.  Or maybe, like a robot, there’s nothing at all behind those dark sunglasses that he’s wearing even at night.

The limousine pulls up in the darkened loading area deep in the alleyway behind Mori’s building and the driver gets out.  He pulls the door open and reaches in, taking your arm as emotionlessly as pulling a suitcase from a trunk and you stumble along after him.

Instead of guiding you to the elevator he stops in front of one of the few nondescript metal doors you’d seen lining the gloomy industrial hallway.  He knocks.

“She’s here,” he says simply, as the door swings open and he pushes you through.

“Ah!  My dear!”  Mori looks up from where he’s standing in the center of the room, wearing a long white doctor’s jacket over his usual dress shirt and tie.  He smiles with delight, clasping his blue surgical-gloved hands together.  “I’m so glad you could make it!”

You glance at the door you’d just come through.  Two more anonymous, dark-suited men have closed it and taken up a position on either side, arms clasped behind their backs like soldiers at attention revealing the guns strapped to their sides.  Then you glance at the room, your chest clenching.

Just like the hallway outside, the room is gray and dismal:  Cinderblock walls, exposed pipes, overhead fluorescent lighting.  A few metal racks bearing bottles of bleach and disinfectant.  The floor is epoxied cement, the same shade of gray as the walls although an attempt was made to sprinkle in little decorative flecks of darker gray and black.  In the center of the floor is a circular metal grate, and on the far wall sits a small concrete tank with a bare faucet over it and a mop propped against large white plastic tubs bearing ominous caution symbols that you don’t recognize.  Possibly a storage area or janitorial room, but other than the items listed there’s little in it, other than a stainless steel wheeled cart at Mori’s hip of the type doctors and dentists use.  It’s laden with scalpels, hypodermic needles, bottles and gauze pads of various sizes and types.

And at his other hip is a heavy, old-fashioned office chair.  A man is sitting in it, still as a statue, head downcast.  He’s wearing a blood-spotted and grimy winter coat that you recognize.  You’d seen it just that afternoon, its owner hurrying down the back alley behind the restaurant.

“Tadanobu,” you breathe.

He does not react; he does not so much as twitch a finger on the arms of the chair but Mori claps his hands excitedly as if you’d guessed the winning answer in a quiz contest. 

“Yes!  It’s your friend, Tadanobu-san!”  He takes Tadanobu’s face in his hands and lifts it up, examining it thoughtfully.  Then he directs the man’s face towards you.  Tadanobu does not raise his eyes.  “We found him trying to leave town!  Can you believe it?  We were just in time…”

You swallow, hard.  The sushi chef’s face is nearly unrecognizable, his lip split and bloody and one eye swollen shut like a boxer’s.  The eye that’s still visible is glassy and resigned, focused on nothing.

“Come over here, my Dear,” Mori orders, tilting Tadanobu’s face to the side to get a better look in the harsh overhead lights.  “I’m afraid my men roughed him up a bit, bringing him in.”  He tsk’s his tongue disapprovingly, carefully palpating the swollen eyebrow and lid.  “Why did you try to fight, hmm, Tadanobu-kun?”

The pressure of Mori’s fingers on his bruised face gets a reaction from Tadanobu.  He hisses in a breath and flinches, but makes to move to jump up from where he’s seated on the chair.

You remain frozen, hovering close to the door, the two black-suited men blocking your exit. 

“Well?”  Mori looks up, impatience dawning in his cool amethyst eyes.  “I said come here.”

You do, stumbling forward with your knees turned to liquid, watching as Mori selects a scalpel from the tray next to him.  You glance at Tadanobu whose breath has quickened but who still has not met your gaze, nor has he made any effort to flee.

“Yes, yes.  This eye requires attention,” Mori hums, twirling the scalpel in his gloved hand.  The flat silvery surface flashes like a minnow at the corner of your vision.  “Here, my Dear.  Hold his head steady, like this:”  He demonstrates, tilting Tadanobu’s head to the side, stretching his neck so that his opposite cheek brushes the shoulder of his grimy winter jacket and tucking the collar away carefully.

You reach out, grasping the man’s head in your hands, one positioned on the top of his head and the other holding his chin.  He does not resist.  He seems utterly resigned to Mori’s treatment.

“Keep him steady, now,” Mori cautions.  “Don’t move your hands.”  He touches the swollen purple welt that is holding Tadanobu’s eye closed with the tip of the scalpel and then, with a motion as smooth as a striking viper, pulls his arm back and sweeps it forward, slicing across Tadanobu’s throat so cleanly and deeply that for a moment you see the gaping void of his opened trachea like a pink pearlized rubber tube sliced nearly in two.

You scream, jumping backwards and stumbling over your own feet, landing hard on your rear on the smooth concrete floor.  Tadanobu falls silently next to you, blood spraying from his opened throat in pulses that reach nearly to the metal shelves on the opposite wall.  He makes no noise, his mouth opening and closing silently, nor does he attempt to bring his hands to his neck to stop the gushing blood that comes weaker and weaker with each pump of his heart.

“So unfortunate,” Mori sighs, pulling his gloves from his hands and discarding them on the tray along with the scalpel.  Then he removes his blood-spattered white doctor’s coat and drops it to the floor.  “Clean this up.”  He motions to the two guards who step forward, grabbing Tadanobu by the arms and dragging him towards the concrete tub on the far wall.  His body dragged across the floor leaves a brilliant red smear, like a giant paintbrush dabbled in crimson ink.

You are frozen in place until you notice his feet twitching, pattering feebly against the concrete.

“He’s… he’s still alive!” you protest, scrambling towards Tadanobu on your hands and knees.  “Mori, do something!  You can save him!  He’s still alive!”

The two men pause and you fall atop Tadanobu, grasping at the front of his winter jacket, bringing your hands up to his throat in a futile hope to close the gash that opens beneath his chin like a second mouth. 

“No, no,” Mori chides you, gripping you by the collar of your work shirt and yanking you back before your hands can close on the gory mess.  “Don’t dirty your hands.  I assure you, he’s quite dead.”

“But he’s not,” you cry, twisting and kicking against Mori who is pulling you away firmly.  “Please!  Look at him!”  You appeal to the two men who have resumed dragging Tadanobu towards the tank.  Tadanobu’s legs twitch; his mouth is still opening and closing silently.  “He’s still moving!  Please Mori!  He’s still moving!”

Mori lifts you, turning you in his arms and cradling you against his chest, shushing you gently.  “Brain function as well as other functions might persist for a few moments after catastrophic exsanguination like this,” he explains, his voice rumbling deep in his chest against your ear that is mashed to his silky tie.  “But he is dead.”

“No.  No!”  You sob, hands balled into fists, beating helplessly against Mori’s arms that hold you firmly.

“Oh… poor thing,” Mori sighs, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, preventing you from looking at Tadanobu’s still-twitching body that the men are maneuvering into the tank.  “I’m sorry you had to be present for this.  But it was necessary.”

“Monster.  Monster,” you sob, falling limp against his warm chest.

“There, there,” he soothes, caressing you, making small sympathetic noises as he guides you towards the door.  You stumble against him, blinded by tears.  “It’s over now.  Let’s get you out of here.  Ah!  Watch your step!”  He points out a spray of red on the floor and pulls you closer, helping you around it.

The next thing you know you are in the elevator, sagging against Mori who presses the “up” button and settles you against the padded wall.

Both of you are silent as the elevator rises, dizzyingly fast, your blood thrumming in your ears so hard that its mechanical hum can barely be heard above the high-pitched whine that echoes through your skull.  It numbs you and you stare at Mori’s perfect black loafers.  There is a tiny spot of red on them. 

Then he is helping you through the upstairs lobby, past the suits of armor and the flower arrangement, past the guard who opens to door to his apartment.  The smooth white of the leather couch rises up beneath you to thump into your backside and still you remain silent and stunned.

“Please don’t think that I enjoyed that,” Mori says, selecting a few ice cubes from a silver bucket on the drink cart and dropping them, tinkling, into a crystal high-ball glass.  He pours in a few fingers of some brownish liquor and seats himself next to you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and swirling the drink in his hands.

“Why.”  Your voice comes out as a broken rasp.

“Why do I not want you to think that?  Or why did I do it?” 

“Why did you do that?”  you whisper.

“Oh.  I see.  I’ve told you before:  sometimes it takes a life to save many more.  What would have happened, if I had let Tadanobu go?” 

Mori offers you a sip of the drink. 

You shake your head, still stunned, mind reeling.  An afterimage of poor Tadanobu’s opened throat is burned into your mind.

“You didn’t need to kill him.”

“Come now.”  Mori pushes the drink at you more insistently.  “You’re in shock.”  When you still refuse he shrugs, taking a sip himself.  “Fine.  I’ll explain further.  If I’d allowed Tadanobu to escape, it would have shown that it is possible to leave the Port Mafia.  But there is no escape.  This is part of the code that holds the organization together.  Tadanobu knew this, years ago when he signed on.  And if this code were to break down, how many more would die in the chaos that would follow?

“Dazai left.  And he’s alive,” you reply.

“Ah, Dazai!”  Mori settles himself next to you more comfortably, loosening his tie.  “Dazai is a different story.  He can no more escape the Port Mafia than his own shadow.  Someday he may still take my throne.  And when he does, I welcome the scalpel at my throat.  As long as it is his hand that holds it.”

The image sends a shiver through you.  Dazai, a scalpel in his hand, a spray of crimson across a wall…

“Yes, I had to teach Dazai this lesson once, too, when he was a young boy.”  Mori leans back into the couch cushion, throwing one arm around your shoulder and pulling you into the crook of his shoulder as he reminisces.  You resist, stiffly.  “Hm.  He took the lesson well.  I hope you understand it too, with time.  Because I do this out of fondness for you, just as I did with him!  If I saw no potential in you, trust me:  I wouldn’t bother.”

He pulls you down again, and this time you allow yourself to capitulate into his arm, cradled against his side.  With his free hand, he strokes your hair.

“I truly am fond of you,” he sighs.  “It might surprise you, but I always wanted children.  There’s no greater joy than fatherhood.  Although it isn’t easy, not at all!  A sad fact of being a parent is there are hard lessons to be taught.  It isn’t all bedtime stories, pancake breakfasts and playing catch in the park…”

The idea strikes you as grotesquely funny.  In fact it’s the funniest thought you’ve ever had:  Dazai and Mori in black cashmere overcoats and baseball caps, tossing a ball in a sunny, bucolic park.  Dazai in his bandages, Mori’s red scarf fluttering around his neck as he throws one too high for Dazai to catch in his mitt. 

Something bubbles in your stomach like vomit, rising to the verge of your throat and then out through your mouth and suddenly you’re laughing.  You laugh and laugh, helpless against Mori on the white leather couch.  He raises his glass slightly to avoid spilling and glances down at you, waiting patiently until the paroxysms die down and you fall exhausted against him.  Then he drains his glass, sets it aside and wipes the corners of your eyes with the cocktail napkin.

“Are you quite done?” he asks.  “I do hope that you’ve gained a lesson from this, and we can put it behind us and move on to something more pleasant.  I’ve bought you a present.”

“A… a present?” 

“Yes!”  He stands briskly, pulling you up with him and guiding you excitedly to the bedroom.  “After something as unpleasant as that, I thought a little reward would be in order!”

You stumble along after him, watching as he retrieves a beautifully-wrapped gift about the size of a shoe-box from atop his dresser.

“It is nearly Christmas, isn’t it?”  He frowns when you refuse to take the proffered gift.  “I picked it out with you in mind.  It wasn’t cheap, either!  This is top-quality!”

You back away, terrified at what might be inside. 

Mori sighs and rolls his eyes, grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you forward.  He seats you on the bed and drops next to you, settling the box in your arms in a way that it would fall to the floor if you didn’t clutch it.  You stare down at the glossy silvery paper decorated with snowflakes and topped with a shiny white bow. 

“Well?  Open it!”  Mori clasps his hands excitedly, eyes glowing.

You swallow, stiff fingers finding the seam of the wrapping and sliding beneath it as Mori looks on in anticipation of your reaction. 

The wrapping paper falls away.  In your lap is a nondescript white box.  You lift the lid cautiously, parting the tissue paper.

What’s inside is puzzling.  A bundle of black straps and buckles, with a flat padded leatherette triangle in the center and, in the center of that, a rubber ring like a gasket.  You lift it, curiously, and beneath it…

“No!”  You stand quickly as if bitten, letting the box fall from your lap, the contents spilling to the floor.  “No!  No!”  You back away until the edge of the dresser presses into your lower back. 

“Oh, come now!”  Mori frowns, scooping up the mess of tangled straps and the pale pink, realistic dildo from the Persian rug.  “I admit:  I’m terrible at giving gifts.  But don’t think this is a gift just for me!  I thought we would both enjoy it.”  He approaches you where you’re frozen by the dresser, pressing the harness to your hips and pursing his lips as he eyes the fit.  “You’ve gotten quite slender.  It was the smallest size they had… hmm I hope it fits…”

“I don’t want it,” you gasp.  “Please don’t…”

“I wouldn’t.  You would be using it on me,” he insists, face falling with disappointment.  “I thought you might like that.  Just try it.  Please?”  He lifts the strap-on hopefully, as if to tempt you with it.

“No.”  You shake your head frantically, looking away.  In no way do you want that hateful thing on your body.  “Mori no… don’t make me…”

Mori sighs, setting the strap on the dresser and the pale pink dildo upright on its flared base.  He interlaces his fingers and places his fists beneath his chin, beseechingly. 

“Please.  Don’t be a stubborn girl.  If you try it, you might like it.”

“I won’t.  I don’t want it.”

“How do you know if you don’t try?”  He undoes his hands and leans over you, caging you in against the dresser, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he is attempting to be patient with a stubborn toddler.  “Just put it on.” 

“I won’t.”  You cringe away.  If it were possible to climb up the dresser to escape him, you would.  His anticipation is palpable, sickening.

“I said put it on,” Mori suddenly snaps, gripping you by the collar and reaching for the buttons of your work shirt. 

You cry out, gasping and whimpering as he tears at your clothing.  The top button of your shirt pops off, then he is fumbling for the second and third.  When he finally tosses it aside you cross your arms protectively over your chest, impeding him from removing your bra.  He goes for your pants instead, pulling them down roughly until you are in just your bra and panties. 

“Now step into this,” he orders, pulling the harness from the dresser and crouching at your feet with it.  He struggles with it for a moment to find the correct holes in the tangle of straps and pinches your ankles to make you lift them, one after the other, sliding the contraption up your calves and thighs and settling the padded triangle over you panties at your pubic bone.

You do nothing to stop him, horrified as he tightens the straps until they dig into the flesh of your hips and waist.  He takes the dildo, fitting it into the rubber ring in the center and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“There!  Isn’t that nice?” 

No, not at all.  You stare down at the fake appendage sticking out between your legs.  It looks ridiculous, jutting out there awkwardly.  Mori makes a few more adjustments and then, satisfied with the fit, begins to undress himself.

You watch, frozen in place.  As in the past he undresses efficiently, neatly, setting his tie on his dresser and shaking out his shirt before laying it on top.  His pants, too, he folds to keep the creases.  Last to go are his boxers until he is standing in front of you, his lithe, muscular body completely nude.  You close your eyes and swallow, seeing he is fully-aroused.

“Do you know how to do this,” he whispers, his voice husky as he pulls you into an embrace and looks down, admiring the strap-on against his thigh, next to his own erection.  The two appendages are nearly twins, of similar size, shape and color. 

You shake your head.

“But you’ve been on the receiving end.” Mori slides a hand down to run it over your backside.  You shudder.  “And you enjoyed it quite a lot.  I did, too.  I liked hearing it.”

He was listening.  He was listening.  But… I wanted to do that.  THIS, I do not want.

“Yes, you enjoyed it with him…” Mori continues, running a finger along the dildo thoughtfully.  He closes his long, thin fingers around it and strokes it, although you can feel nothing from the fake appendage.  “…with Dazai you enjoyed it.  You can’t pretend now that you don’t like it.”

Mori falls to his knees in front of you, pushing you back against the dresser.  One of the knobs is digging into your lower back painfully but you don’t dare move.  Instead, you watch in mute horror as he opens his mouth, leans forward and takes the tip of the dildo in his mouth.  He glances up at you, amethyst eyes half-lidded and sultry with desire.  Then he sinks his mouth to engulf it fully, cheeks hollowing as he sucks.

You gasp, stiffening.  You want to grab him by the hair, push him away.  His heated expression disgusts you as he bobs his head on the dildo, eyes never leaving yours.  He smiles, pulling off and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“No?  Nothing?”  He tsks his tongue and rises, sliding open the drawer next to you and withdrawing a tube of lubricant.  “Understandable.”  He flicks the dildo with his fingertip.  “I admit:  I’m also eager to get to the main event.”

He grabs the dildo, forcing you towards the bed.  The straps dig into your waist and thighs as you resist, legs wooden and unresponsive.

“People tend to think a lot of preparation is necessary,” Mori narrates, flipping open the cap on the lube and seating himself on the edge of the low platform bed.  He dispenses a glob of the clear jelly onto the dildo and smooths it carefully up and down the length.  “It really isn’t.  With proper relaxation, and a slow pace, anal sex is really quite easy.”

You watch, queasy, as he slides from the bed and onto his knees, turning and draping his chest over the mattress.  He squeezes another dollop of lube onto his fingers and reaches around, coating his puckered entrance that you glance at, looking away quickly.

“Straight in.  Slowly.  Stop when I tell you to.”

You shake your head, standing there awkwardly, trying not to look at his bare backside and the smooth line of his spine, the small divots in his lower back or the blades of his shoulders that stand out starkly. 

He twists, rolling his eyes impatiently, and grabs the strap at your hip, using it to force you down onto your own knees behind him.  A half-gasp, half sob escapes you as he reaches around to find the dildo and line it up with his entrance.

No.  No way.  No fucking way…

“Push.  Straight in.”

Your lips are dry as sandpaper.  You lick them, nervously, then inch your hips forward.  The pink appendage slips upwards, missing its mark.  Mori grunts and readjusts it, holding it steady against his flesh for a moment before releasing it and placing both palms flat on the bed in front of himself. 

“Wrong spot.  Now try again.  Harder.”

Fine.  If that’s what he wants…

Mori jolts as the dildo slides in, just an inch or two, his fists twisting into the bedsheets.

“Ah!” he gasps, his face smothered in the mattress.

“I… I can’t.  I want to stop,” you stammer, looking down in horror at the way his skin stretches around the tip of the dildo.

“Don’t… don’t stop,” he urges, his voice strained.  “Just… wait a moment.”  His ribcage heaves, expanding and contracting with his gasping breath until he recovers slightly and his white-knuckled grip on the sheet loosens.  “Okay.  Push again.  Very slowly.”

You swallow the gorge rising in your throat and try again, easing your hips forward to exert a slow and even pressure.  The base of the dildo is hard against your pubic bone but other than that it’s difficult to gauge exactly how hard you’re pressing against Mori’s flesh.  But you watch, aghast, as the dildo sinks into him.

Mori cries out, every muscle in his body tensing and coiling as you bury it to the base and your thighs come flush against his.  You place your hands on his hips, trembling, noticing that he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Ah!  Ah…”  He reaches back, hand trembling, and slides his damp fingers down the cleft of his buttocks until they touch the rubber ring holding the dildo in place, verifying that you’re fully seated in him.  “There… that’s good… that’s good…”  He withdraws his hand, rising up on his elbows on the mattress.  “Now, like I said:  in and out.  Not up and down.  Gently.”

You withdraw a couple of inches, carefully.  The straps of the harness pull against your waist and the backs of your thighs, digging in at the drag of his body on the dildo.  Then you press back in.

Mori exhales sharply, as if you’d punched him in the gut.  “Slowly!  I said slowly!” he chokes out.

You barely hear him, mesmerized at the sight before you.  There is the swell of his buttocks, and between them the flat plane of his tailbone, and beneath that only the slightly-darker ring of his flesh stretched around the pink dildo.  You withdraw again, cautiously, watching as his flesh protrudes slightly to grip the smooth silicone, then press back in.

Mori grunts, shoulder blades standing out starkly, dipping his head downward towards the mattress as he again fists at the bedsheets.  The back of his neck is exposed to you, a row of vertebrae, dark hair beginning to stick to his pale skin with exertion.

It’s hurting him.  This must be hurting him…

It’s hurting him.

You withdraw again, halfway, and instead of pushing back in slowly you snap your hips to him decisively.

Mori cries out, back arching sharply and thighs shaking and you vacillate, wondering if you’ve been too rough and angered him.  But it feels good, knowing that you’ve hurt him in this way… in this most intimate and humiliating of ways.  Maybe even as much as he’s hurt you.

“Again,” he croaks out, every muscle in his body standing out and sweat now running freely down his flanks.  “Do that again.”

Disgust and anger boils up in you, then spills over.  You withdraw, this time nearly all the way and slam back in.

Mori makes a choking noise deep in his throat that is cut off by another harsh slam of your hips into him and suddenly it isn’t enough.  You grasp his hips harshly, fingernails digging in for leverage as you ram into him over and over again.

“That’s it,” he gasps, sending his hips back to meet yours.  “It’s good, isn’t it my dear?  Ahhh… it’s good!”

You grit your teeth in rage at his elation, unsatisfied with the response.  You lift one of your hands and bring it down hard on his buttock with a strident clap. 

Mori throws his head back and laughs.

“Yes!  Harder!  Harder!”

You are beginning to sweat, yourself.  You hit him again, so hard it stings your own palm, numbing your fingers and he half-turns to you, amethyst eyes sparkling with excitement.

“I knew you… hah!  Knew you had it in you,” he pants between thrusts.

You don’t want to look at his face; don’t want to see the triumph in his expression.  You grip his hair roughly, pushing his face down into the mattress as you fall into a punishing rhythm.  The wet smacking sound of it, the smell of sweat mixed with Mori’s cologne and the synthetic odor of the dildo sicken you but also energize you, spurring you to even more violent efforts until suddenly Mori pitches himself backwards forcefully and you fall to your backside heavily.

“Come here,” he growls, grabbing you by the harness and pulling you onto the bed on top of him.  The straps dig in painfully to your skin, leaving red welts.  He rolls onto his back and tugs you between his parted legs, hand searching for a pillow that he stuffs beneath his raised hips.

With the momentum broken you again hesitate, looking down at your pelvis close to his and the dildo that he is trying to struggle into his stretched opening.  You shuffle your knees up closer, trying not to crush his testicles and his erection that is leaking a string of glossy liquid onto the barely-there trail of hair on his abdomen.  He grunts as you push in.  This time it is easier, but the position is awkward and rather than going in smoothly you fall on top of him.

“Ngg… easy,” he cautions you.  “Use your hips.  In and out.”

Fuck… this is hard… how do guys do this?  You adjust your position, dropping your hips lower and suspending yourself over him with your palms on his slippery chest.  You can’t see what you’re doing and it’s hard work.  After only a few thrusts of your hips your thighs are already burning.

Mori hunches forward, twisting his hands into the straps on your hips and assists you.  His lips are parted, teeth clenched into a snarl and nostrils flaring as he works you in and out. 

“Like that… like that,” he pants, red-faced.  The veins on his straining neck stand out sharply and you close your eyes thinking of all the blood that is coursing through them… all the blood on the floor of that storage room far beneath you… of what the two dark-suited men must be engaged in at the moment.

A loose scream slips from your lips and you lift your hand from his chest, balling it into a fist and bringing it down hard.  It feels good.  In fact, it feels incredible.  The frantic rhythm leaves no room in your mind for any thought other than anger and domination.  Again and again you strike at him, pummeling his chest and tearing at him with your nails.  Mori doesn’t even react, his eyes finding yours as you lift your hand again, open it and bring it across his face in a harsh slap.

This does get a reaction from him.  His head snaps back, his hands on the harness momentarily falter and he sighs in near-ecstasy.  When he lifts his head he grins, teeth tinged pink and a thin trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his cut mouth.

Enraged you hit him, again and again, hips thrusting into him so violently that you barely notice his hand slipping downwards and he grips his cock in his hand, squeezing and pulling and suddenly something wet and warm spurts in a creamy strand across his reddened chest and still you slap at him.

And then he is shoving you away, he is getting up and you scramble backwards until you fall off the edge of the bed and roll to your hands and knees exhausted, retching and sobbing.  Authoritative hands tug at the buckles holding the strap-on to you and it falls away from your trembling body.  There are bare feet in the corner of your vision as you pant, then they disappear for a moment.  There is a rustle of cloth and a towel lands between your stinging hands that have curled into claws on the soft Persian carpet.

“Clean yourself up,” Mori orders, tying the belt of his cotton yukata.  

You look up at him, stunned and empty-headed, nose running and a thin line of drool slipping from your half-open mouth.

“You’re a mess,” he concludes, crouching down next to you and grinning.

*

*

“Hey!!!”  Dazai calls out as you open the door and let your purse fall to the ground in the pile of slippers and shoes in the entryway. 

When you don’t respond he peers over the back of the couch.  Somewhere behind him, Jotaro is pummeling Midler on the video game.  “Did you bring anything for dinner?” he asks, cheerfully.

You shake your head, proceeding directly to the bathroom and turning on the water in the shower.  You peel off your clothing and, without even waiting to see if it’s warmed, get in under the spray and lower yourself to sit cross-legged on the floor.  The water is only lukewarm but you don’t care.  It pounds on your head, running into your eyes and blurring your vision as you watch the rivulets coalesce into a little whirlpool between your legs and spin away down the drain.

Dazai enters.  You watch in your blurry peripheral vision from between the strands of your wet hair as he lifts your pile of work clothes and sniffs them, curious.  He finds the torn button, touching it with one finger.  Then he lets the clothes fall back to the floor.

You close your eyes as he begins to undress and the shower door opens.  He settles himself behind you, wet bandages pressed to your back and brushing your thighs.  He slides his arms around you wordlessly.

“Please don’t touch me,” you whisper.  “I don’t want any sex.”

“No,” he replies quickly.  “No sex.  Just let me do this.”

He presses his forehead to the back of your head and is silent.  You wish he’d go away but… you also don’t. 

For a long time the two of you stay that way, the water pouring over you and filling you with white noise.

Chapter Text

“You,” the restaurant owner hisses, flapping a stack of menus and snapping you out of your reverie.  “End of the sushi bar, new customer!”

You look up anxiously from where you are wiping and refilling a tray of condiment jars, a spoon of sweet red pickles in your hand, and set it aside nervously.

“I’m so sorry,” you say to the older woman, peering through the bustling room, cheeks flushing in mortification.  “I’ll get to them right away!”  You take a menu from her and weave through the diners, inwardly cursing yourself. 

Approaching the customer from behind you can see he’s a young man.  And a quirky one, at that.  He’s wearing a long, rumpled tan trench coat that is decidedly not in style.  Unkempt, shaggy brown hair brushes his shoulders.  As he lifts his hands animatedly towards the sushi chef, with whom he’s engaged in jovial conversation based on the usually-taciturn man’s smile (Tadanobu never smiles), you catch a glimpse of white bandages circling his wrists peeking out from his rolled sleeves.

You hesitate.  What a character.  Skid Row isn’t far from here… but he doesn’t seem like a homeless or crazy person who’s wandered in off the main plaza.

No.  This is…

“Tsushima,” you say, reaching for his shoulder and turning him.

And he turns, but you never catch a glimpse of his face.  Instead, you’re looking again at the back of his head.

“Hey, that’s not funny.”  You reach again for his shoulder.  You turn him again.  And again find yourself looking at backside of his tan coat and his shaggy dark hair.

Are you seeing this, too?

You look up at Tadanobu for confirmation.  He shrugs, a barely-there motion of his shoulders in his white chef’s coat.  The scarlet bandana knotted about his neck bobbles with the motion.

Something is wrong.

“Tsushima,” you plead, yanking at his shoulder so violently that his whole chair moves and he turns to you but there’s a blur, he turns right past you yet again.  There’s only the back of his head, as if he has no face.

“Stop it!”  You grab his tan trench coat, wrenching at him.  Moments ago you’d felt equal parts annoyance and fear.  By now fear has crowded out everything else as you try to force him to turn, desperate to look him in the face.

Nothing works.  No matter what you do, he is faceless.

You look at Tadanobu and he is staring at you, his expression vacant.  A red stain is spreading down the front of his white chef’s jacket.  Its slow progress is artful; almost beautiful, now nearly reaching his waist and you follow it up to its source.  What you’d assumed was a red bandana around his neck is a deep slash, with blood pumping from it in lazy spurts.

“Tadanobu - help me,” you whisper.  “I can’t see his face.”

Tadanobu opens his mouth and tries to speak.  All that comes out is a wet, burbling croak from the wound in his neck, accompanied by a fresh flood of bubbling red.  He sets his knife down and tries again, this time placing his hand to the gaping lips of wound to keep it shut.

“You must wake up,” he says, his usually-rough voice reedy and wet.

You must wake up.

Wake up

“Wake up,” Dazai says.

He’s squatting next to the bed, his forearms crossed on the mattress and cheek laid across them so his face is tilted to match yours on the pillow.  Soft hair brushes the sheets.  A soft smile crosses his lips, so gentle that it’s almost sorrowful.

“Hm… what?”  You rise slowly, squinting at the bright sunlight flooding the loft behind him. 

“You have to wake up,” he says, reaching out to trace the line of your thigh exposed by the blankets that he nudges aside.  “It’s almost noon.  You were sleeping for so long that I started to worry.”

“Oh.  I didn’t sleep well, I think.”

You didn’t sleep well.  You have a vague recollection of him carrying you from the shower, drying you with a towel and placing you in the bed.  After that is only a nightmarish kaleidoscope of thoughts and memories, tossing and turning, half asleep but not wanting to wake because that would mean confronting them – and him - with your full senses.

In the daylight it’s so peaceful that it’s almost as if it never happened.  It’s a bad dream, only a dream, the edges of it dulling and fraying in your memory.

Almost.

You lie back down, unclothed and exposed to his curious hand, not caring that he must’ve put you to bed without dressing you.  You stare up at the ducts far above you, close to the ceiling, collecting your consciousness. 

He tilts his head further, running one hand contemplatively over your stomach and ribs, up over your breastbone and your throat.  He stops there.

“In the light like this, sometimes your body looks like a landscape,” he says.  “Like it’s just earth.  And…” he forms his index and middle finger into legs, walking them back down to your hip thoughtfully.  “…and I’m an insect moving across it.”

Except I’m not ‘just earth.’  I’m a person.  A real person here, in front of you.  And you’re not an insect, you’re supposed to be a man.

His fingers stop at a reddish mark that is chafed into your hip.  Legs become hand again and he flattens his palm over the mark.

You noticed it.  Fucking look at it.  Say something.  DO something.

“Why did you come back.”

“What?”  You turn your head on the pillow to face him, surprised.

“That time you left.  Why did you come back?”  His eyes are empty and guileless.  They appear genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” you respond.  “I missed you.  I was worried.”

I was forced to.  If I hadn’t been forced to I still might have returned because...  that’s how stupid I am, Dazai.  I wonder what this could have been under different circumstances…

“Whatever it was… I’m glad you came back,” he says, blinking languidly, sideways.

He lifts his head and pushes himself up, climbing onto the bed next to you.  He’s dressed in his usual going-out uniform:  khaki pants, a black vest over a white dress-shirt and his quirky turquoise bolo tie.  You wonder, idly, if it has some significance to him because bolos have been out of fashion for about two decades now…

You wonder how long he’s been awake.  It isn’t lost on you:  this image of yourself and him.  You, fully naked and exposed.  Him, fully-dressed next to you.

He scoots closer and lifts his hand to brush your hair from your forehead and without meaning to you cringe away.

His hand wavers, then falls.

Ask it.  Ask “Are you okay.”  Coward.

Instead he balls his hand into a fist and rests his chin on it, like Rodin’s Thinker,” looking down on you and giving his most charming smile.  “We could go somewhere today.  The Tar Pits, right?  Remember?  I’ve been thinking I will throw myself in.  We could hold hands and do it together.”

For fuck’s sake.

You close your eyes in exasperation.  “Dazai,” you breathe, your voice soft and barely-there. 

Everything pauses around you.  In the silence, your eyes fly open at the sudden realization of your misstep.

What happens next is too fast to follow.  The only thing you perceive with any clarity is your own internal thought:  That was too quiet for Mori to pick up.  It must have been too quiet.  Please, let him not have heard that.

Or maybe I hope he heard that.

Dazai’s hand slides beneath the bed, lightning-quick, and you are tumbling in the air.  The floor rises up to crash into your shoulder and Dazai is straddling you, the barrel of a pistol pressed to your forehead.

Dazai’s flat dark eyes are impenetrable, fish-like in their coldness.  He cocks the pistol. 

For seconds or minutes you stare into those eyes, and nothing stares back at you.  And nothing is said.

You raise one trembling finger to your lips, then direct it to the ceiling overhead.

Puzzled, Dazai looks up.  Then down at you pinned beneath him.  He rises slowly, falling back on his haunches, still straddling you.  One of his hands rests on your naked breastbone.  The other is holding the pistol trained on a spot dead-center between your eyes.

“He’s listening,” you mouth silently, praying he can read lips.

“Who,” he mouths back, but before you can reply realization crosses his features and he lowers the gun. 

You can see movement in those cold dead eyes that flash to life with calculations.  Lightning-quick, too fast for you to follow.  Chess moves, plays, counterplays, defenses and attacks all racing forward and an ultimate conclusion.  His expression never changes.

“Why not the Tar Pits,” he says aloud, allowing you up.

You rub at your shoulder, wincing.  “Huh?”

“I said why not the Tar Pits.  It’s a nice day.”  He hunts around in a laundry basket for your bra and a fresh pair of panties, tossing them to you, the gun still held casually in his hand angled in your direction.  Next he digs out a shirt and cardigan, as well as a pair of jeans from the middle drawer of the dresser.  All without turning his back to you.

“I… suppose we could.”  You dress, watching him cautiously, staring at the muzzle of the loaded pistol. 

What is he intending to do?

He gives you no clue, instead humming thoughtfully to himself.  “There’s got to be a café near there, on Wilshire.  Somewhere we can grab a coffee.”  Seeing that you’re done dressing he grips your arm roughly, directing you towards the front door.

You glance up at him as he toes his shoes on, confused.  The muzzle of the gun digs into your ribs as you slide into your own shoes and pick up your purse.  The only time he lowers it is when he takes his own tan coat from its hook and puts it on, juggling the pistol from one hand to the other to slide his arms in.

“There’s a pizza place near there, too,” he adds.  “I saw it driving.  Pizza for breakfast, that wouldn’t be bad right? It is almost noon.”  His breezy tone of voice is so different from what is happening that it’s disorienting.

“Yeah.  Yeah that’d be fine,” you respond dully as he takes your arm in his and leads you down the hallway to the elevator, down to the parking garage, the gun concealed in the folds of his coat against your side.

He helps you into his sleek black sedan and gets in next to you, turning the key in the ignition.  You open your mouth to speak, desperate to explain yourself, but he hits play on the stereo and turns it up, blasting his favorite song that you’ve heard so many times that, even though you don’t understand the lyrics, you’ve learned it by heart:

Kore o dare ka to owattara shinu toki de manzokudesu
Shiawase nado mō akirameta demo mottō o motte iru

The cheerfulness of the song grates over your frayed nerves as the car speeds out of the parking garage and into blinding sunlight.  It glints off the gun in Dazai’s lap as he works the clutch and gas pedals.

“Where are we going,” you try to ask, voice barely audible over the music. 

In response he reaches out, turning the volume louder.

He drives through downtown, swerving around slower-moving vehicles and into oncoming traffic to avoid pedestrians and double-parked delivery trucks.  With a lurch he turns into a tunnel, long and dark,  lit only by passing headlamps and dim green and red lights set into the ceiling.  He angles his car through a break in the guardrail, onto the pedestrian walkway and slams it into park.

Other drivers honk angrily but he pays them no mind, gun held carelessly in his hand as he comes around to the passenger side and yanks your door open, pulling you out and shoving you roughly against the slick wall of the tunnel painted reflective white.

“Talk,” he demands, muzzle of the gun jabbing beneath your chin.

“Dazai, I… please.  Put the gun down.  You’re scaring me and… people can see.”  You swallow nervously, eying the cars that speed past, narrowly avoiding the tail end of his car that’s poking out into traffic.  How the hell is everybody simply ignoring this?  Pretending they don’t see it?  But you know:  you would, too.  You’re thankful there’s no pedestrians who might stumble upon this.  Although nobody in their right mind would brave the exhaust-choked air in this tunnel.

“Who are you working for?”  He jams the muzzle in harder, forcing you to lift your chin to face him. 

“You know who.”  You plead with him with your eyes.  The noise in the tunnel is overwhelming.  The door of Dazai’s car is still open, blaring that stupid song.  It adds to the unbearable racket in your already-bewildered mind.

“Fuck.”  He lowers the gun, shoving himself away and spinning to drop to a squat, his own back pressed to the wall of the tunnel and the gun now pressed contemplatively beneath his own chin, tapping it in thought.  He looks, up, eyes narrowing.  “So how much is Mori paying you to fuck me?”

You slide down next to him, all energy sucked from your limbs as you think of the fat envelope lying on your bathroom floor, still where you let it fall.  “It wasn’t like that, Dazai.”

“Oh?  Then how was it?”  He lets the gun drift downwards between his spread knees.

You lick your lips nervously.  “He… threatened me.”

“He said he’d hurt you?”  Dazai looks over at you and for the first time since you’d left the apartment an emotion registers in his face, some sentiment you have difficulty interpreting. 

“No.”  You shake your head.  “He told me if I said anything he’d hurt you.  That if I broke it off…”  You draw in a shuddering breath.

“Huh.”  Dazai is silent for a moment, looking down at the gun in his hands, turning it thoughtfully.  Then:  “How long.”

“Since the beginning.  He was onto me since that first night.”

Dazai chuckles.  You startle.  Out of all possible reactions this is the one you least expected.  Then he laughs.  He literally throws his head back, right there in the tunnel with traffic speeding past, and he laughs.  When he turns to you the emptiness in his eyes sends you reeling.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Tsushima,” you blurt out.  Anger or disgust would have at least been something.  It’s worse that there’s nothing.  “I didn’t want this to happen.  I didn’t know, and by the time I figured it out it was too late.  He’s done so much to me that… That I can’t…”  Tears well up in your eyes and you cover your face with your hands, trembling with every emotion that you’ve held inside for weeks and weeks.   “You can’t even imagine what I’ve been through.”

“Hey.”  A warm hand closes on your shoulder.  “If anybody knows what Mori is capable of, it’s me.  Okay?”

You glance down at the bandages on his wrist and swallow.  “Why is he doing this,” you ask, your voice barely audible in the echoing tunnel.  You sniffle, wiping your nose on your sleeve.  “Does he want you to come back to him?”

Dazai smiles strangely. 

“No.  No, I don’t think that’s it,” he says slowly.  “Mori is never that direct.  He’s just… probably still trying to teach me a lesson.  And using you to teach it.”

“What’s the lesson here,” you wonder aloud as he pulls you to your feet and dusts you off.

“That no matter what I do, anything I would never want to lose will be lost.”  He tucks his pistol into his coat pocket and raises a finger to your cheek, tracing the trail of your tears there.  A truck whips past, narrowly avoiding the tail end of his sedan and lays on its horn.  Both of you ignore it.

“That’s fucked up,” you whisper as he leans in, his lips close to yours. 

“I’m not a good person,” he whispers back, tipping his face down and tapping his forehead to yours like he has so many times before.  “But I didn’t count on losing you.  Not like this.  Not so soon.”

“What do you mean lose me…”  A heaviness is growing in your chest at the realization…

…anything I would never want to lose will be lost…

“It’s my fault you got dragged into this,” he replies.  “And I have to get you out of it.  God I’m so stupid.  I knew something was going on but…”

“So you did know.” 

“Yes.  I knew.  I didn’t know exactly what but… I knew. I was hoping that by ignoring it I could hold on a little bit longer.  And I’m sorry.”

“Dazai, what are we going to do?”  A fresh set of tears rolls down your cheeks, darkening his tan coat as he pulls you to him and cradles you against his chest. 

“I have an idea,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head.  You close your eyes, feeling his warm breath in your hair.  “You’re not going to like it but it’s the only way out.”

By the time you return to his loft the plan is set.

“Do exactly like we discussed,” he reminds you as the elevator dings and the shiny chrome door slides open.

As if you need reminding.

He kisses you quickly, taking your face in both his hands and pulling back to look intently into your eyes. 

“He needs to hear it and believe it’s real.”

You nod, then take a deep breath. 

Dazai stands aside and bows exaggeratedly, gesturing you through like a chivalrous date.

You steel yourself and step past him into the hallway.

“Who is he,” Dazai calls out after you, voice raised, dripping with amused condescension.

“I told you:  nobody,” you reply, striding ahead, keying in the number on the security pad on his door.  When it beeps you turn the handle and step in to the familiar entryway, setting your purse down.

“One last chance,” Dazai cautions, his voice even and low.  “Who is he?”

“I told you, nobody!”  You spin to confront him, voice rising angrily.  “When would I even have time?  You’re being paranoid!”

“Am I?”  Dazai takes off his shoes and breezes past you into the kitchen, hopping up to settle his backside on the counter, watching as you remove your cardigan and hang it on a hook next to the door. 

“Yes,” you reply tersely. 

“You’re lying,” Dazai teases.  “God you’re so simple.  Do you even realize how easy it is to read you?”

“Now you’re insulting me,” you snap, heading to the opposite cupboard for a coffee mug and picking up the kettle from the stove, flipping the lid open to see if you need to add any water.

“The bruises, the late nights at work.  You know,” Dazai says, leveraging himself off the counter and approaching you, “I wouldn’t have even minded.  All you needed to do was be honest.”

“Stop it.”  You slam the kettle back down, exasperated. 

“I’m being serious,” Dazai smirks.  “I’ve never been a strong believer in ownership.  I don’t mind sharing my things.  As long as they aren’t lying to me about it.  And I mean, I knew it was a possibility:  I had you down right from the start as weak-willed.”

You turn to Dazai, coffee cup still in your hand.

“What?”

“You heard me.”  He grins.  “You were… how did I put it?”  He pauses, then lifts a finger happily as the right words come to him.  “That’s right!  Easy.”

Ouch.  Little too close for comfort there.

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

“Well, that was always the point, wasn’t it?”  He tilts his head, smile spreading charmingly. 

The ceramic cup shatters against the cupboard behind him and his eyes grow wide.  He lifts both his hands in a helpless, comical what the fuck gesture. 

“Take it easy,” he mouths. 

No.  Not gonna take it easy.

“So that’s it, huh?” you yell, this time picking up the kettle and launching it at him.  “Just a quick, easy fuck?”

Dazai winces as the kettle clatters into the hallway, sloshing water as it skids to a stop against the door.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, condescendingly.  “Don’t be surprised…”

“Everybody uses each other, right?”  You hurl his own words back at him, surprised that your anger is genuine.  “Isn’t that what you said?”

“Well… yeah.”  He crosses his arms, watching warily as you scan the counter for other things to throw.  “You got you wanted out of me, too.  But I’m an easy-going guy.  You were useful to me as long as it was simple.  And now you’re…”  He waves his hands at you, fingers wriggling at your reddened face and clenched fists.  “You know.”

“I know what?”  Each word is torn from you.

“No longer useful,” he replies evenly.  “The negatives just outweighed the benefits.”

You stare at him for a moment.  It’s like looking into a deep well that at first appears bottomless but you hesitate.  Somewhere, far below, there’s the faintest glimmer of something.  Some unfulfilled wish.  Or maybe it’s your own, staring back at you. 

No.  It’s there.  Way down at the bottom it’s Tsushima.  And he’s pleading with you – begging you to understand.  You rouse yourself, determined to stick to the script.

“You’re awful,” you hiss.  “Are you even human?”

“Debatable,” he replies, shrugging.  “At least I’m honest.”

And with that he turns, heading to the raised sleeping area and picking up an empty laundry basket.  You follow him, stunned.  It’s fake but also… too real.  You don’t know if you can go through with it but him… he seems utterly unbothered.  Tears again spring to your eyes.

“What are you doing,” you plead with him, watching as he empties the contents of your drawer into the basket.  “Tsushima, you don’t mean this.”

“I do,” he hums happily, picking up the Keroppi plush and setting it atop your clothes.  His fingers linger on its soft fabric a little longer than necessary.

“Tsushima stop it,” you beg him, grabbing his arm and trying to take the plushie from him, trying to set it back on the dresser.  “Don’t do this to me.”

He shrugs you away.

“Then tell me who it is,” he demands. 

“I… I can’t.”

He looks up at you gently, sorrowfully, but his tone is harsh, even scornful.

“So there is somebody.  Wow.  Nice.”

“No.  Tsushima, no…”

“What’s weird…” Dazai rounds the bed, looking beneath it for stray panties and one of your bras that he holds up, dangling it contemplatively on one finger.  “…what’s weird is that you’re so determined to deny it.  Like you’re being forced.”

“No.  That’s not it at all.” 

Careful.  You have to be careful.  He’s listening and, as Dazai told you, it’s crucial that he not think you gave him away.

It might mean your own survival.  This needs to be done just right.

“Well.”  Dazai’s voice is cheerful but his expression is anything but.  He sets the basket in your arms.  “I guess that’s it, then.”

You let the basket fall to your feet.  “No.  No please, Tsushima.  This can’t be it.”  The pain in your voice is real.  It makes even you wince.

“It is,” he snaps coldly, but his eyes are so, so warm.  The flatness is gone and you could drown yourself in those warm coffee depths.  He’s pleading with you, begging you silently.  You must do this.

“I’ll… I’ll do anything,” you stammer.

“Anything?” 

The cruelty in his voice whips through you like a winter wind.  It’s shattering.  You meet his gaze and are stunned at the regret and longing laid bare there. 

“I… wait…”  You back away, stumbling over the basket of clothes and finding the edge of the bed for balance.

“I think you really would do anything,” he sneers.  “I mean… you let me do whatever I wanted to you.  It was fun.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit back at him.  “I did those things because… because I trusted you.”

“Trusted me?”  He scoffs.  “And just think:  the whole time you were lying to me.”  He looms closer and you shrink away.  “I’ll be honest.  I never trusted you at all.  You were a diversion.  Something to play with to pass the time.  That’s it.”

“Tsushima I-”  You gasp as he hooks an arm beneath your leg, sending you backwards onto the bed.  The breath is knocked from you and you struggle against him as he pins you easily, his hips to yours.

“And it was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?” he hums thoughtfully, trailing his fingers down the front of your shirt to your waistband.  “How many others were down here while you were with me?  How many guys did you fuck, and did they know about me?  Did that make it even better?”

“Stop it.  Just stop it.” 

“No.  I don’t think I will.”  He straddles you, fingers undoing the top button of your jeans. 

A horrified cry escapes you and you twist beneath him, trying to struggle away. 

“Now now,” he soothes, capturing you easily and pinning you face-down on the bed.  “This should be nothing to you.  Don’t act like it’s so terrible. Just…” He pulls down your pants roughly, your panties coming down with them and he caresses your bare backside.  “…just let me have this.  And we’re even.”

“Tsushima,” you beg him, trying and failing to pull your pants back up and buck him off.  “This isn’t like you!”

“Oh,” he sighs, batting your hands away easily.  “But here’s the thing:  it is like me.  You fell into this so quickly, so carelessly.  You had no idea who I really am.”

You turn to him slowly and he is seated on the backs of your thighs, holding you down.  His expression is serious. 

You had no idea who I really am.

“I hope you’re more careful in the future,” he says softly, taking your chin in his hand and pressing his lips to yours softly, deepening the kiss until you’re breathless and sobbing.

He flips you to your back beneath him quickly, before both your resolves shatter and strips off your jeans, rearing up to undo the front of his own pants and shoving them down, palming himself quickly for a few tense strokes.  You reach for him and he allows you to take him in your own hand, heavy and warm, eyes fluttering shut as you caress him, just for a moment.

He grips your wrist, fingers digging in painfully and splits your legs with his own.  He lowers himself to you, chest-to-chest, mouth finding your neck longingly.

“Get off me, asshole,” you snarl, arms rising to embrace him to you.  Both of you are still fully-dressed from the waist up; the fabric of his vest creases beneath your hands and the buttons dig into your breastbone.  “I’ll scream!”  You nuzzle into his soft hair; so familiar-smelling.  Your own hair smells like his shampoo.  Like his pillows.  Tears spring to your eyes as you make one last attempt to commit the scent to memory.

“Go ahead and scream,” he replies.  “I’m sure the neighbor is used to it.” And his head bows down to you, so soft, so childlike.  His lashes brush your cheek, his lips find yours again and again, pressing an apology into them as his hand slides down between you.

Your scream is real as he presses in.  Lost, pathetic, needy.  Hopeless.  You’ve made many noises during sex.  Some real, some counterfeit – offered up in an attempt to please or to deceive - sometimes others, maybe yourself.  This one is so real that every noise you’ve ever made before feels faked.

“Tsushima!” 

“I… hah… I’m going to miss this,” he pants.  He’s struggling with the exertion to penetrate but not hurt you too seriously.  As familiar as his body is to you, as intense the reaction that he normally arouses in you, you’re barely wet.  His first attempt only gets him halfway and his eyes meet yours for an instant, apologetic and torn.  You sob in response as he withdraws and tries again.  This time you reach down to assist him, assuring him that you’re okay.  He’s not fully-hard, flexing slightly in your hand as he thrusts.

“No… no…” You raise your hips to his as he finally sinks in.  It will leave you sore but you welcome it.  This last trace of him that might only last a day or two.  You’ll hold onto it.  The exact span of his hips between your thighs, the muscles on his back that you’ve mapped into memory.  The tiny faces he makes when he’s lost in you.  This will be all that’s left.

“But you like it,” Dazai husks out, picking up the pace, hitting that familiar place and that familiar tempo.  It’s the rhythm of him.  “Whore.”

You’re growing wet, real wetness and he hardens and slides easier.  You spread your legs to the limit for him, allowing the noises of him to reverberate throughout the otherwise-silent room, echoing through the ducts overhead, welcoming him in to use you.

“Not like this,” you sob.  “Not ever like this…”

But yes, like this. 

Tears stream down from the corners of your eyes and Dazai catches them on his lips before they disappear into your hair.  He’s wet with them, his lips salty. 

He moves faster.

“Stop!”  You twist your hands into his hair, urging him on, caught between the desire to get it over with and keep him in you like this forever.

His gasps are coming closer together now.  You feel something rising in him, rising in you and you rush to meet it.  Pained wails escape you and you tighten your fingers until you know you must be hurting him but he doesn’t react other than to look deeply into your eyes, absorbing the hurt pouring from you.

He closes his eyes.  He rests his head in the crook of your neck and with a final defeated noise he empties himself.  It leaves you stunned, atonic.  You allow yourself only seconds to hold him, his hands clenching and unclenching on your shoulders in echoes of his pulsations inside of you and then he shoves himself off you and sits, staring at himself where he’s softening in his lap.

“Tsushima,” you whisper, reaching for his shoulder.  He shrugs you away, rising and tucking himself back into his pants.

“Get dressed,” he snarls, picking up the laundry basket at his feet and heading to the bathroom.

“What… but you… but we just…” You get up, too, disoriented and bereft, following and watching as he tosses in the last few remnants of your time together.  A toothbrush.  A hairbrush.  Face lotion.

“So?”  He shoves the basket at you and you close your arms around it reflexively. 

“So… so what now?” 

“So you leave,” he says, simply.  “We’re done here.”

The two of you are standing in the kitchen, facing each other over the laundry basket.

“Just like that?” 

“Exactly like that,” he says, leaning over and kissing your forehead.

“Monster.”

“Take care of yourself,” he whispers, lips to your skin, so softly that you feel the words rather than hear them.  Then he straightens.  “Okay yeah, well… Byeee!”

Like sleepwalking you stumble into your shoes.  He holds the door open.  He takes your cardigan from its hook and sets it gently atop the basket.  You step into the hallway and the door closes behind you.  You don’t turn back to watch it but the click of the latch is so final that you jump.

And suddenly you’re alone.  Alone and stunned in that cold, empty hallway. 

It’s over.

Dazai sighs, opening a bottle of beer in the kitchen before heading to the couch and dropping into it.  He sets his beer aside on the glass coffee table, then picks up his pot pipe and video game controller.  He considers them in silence for a moment, puzzling over them in his hands, puzzling over something in his mind.  Then he scoffs and leans back into the cushions, head tilted up towards the ceiling.

“I know it’s you, Mori,” he calls out.  “I tried, but she never gave you away.  Whatever deal you had, she kept her end of the bargain.  So if you come after her… I’m coming after you.  And I will end you and everything you’ve worked towards.”

Dazai shakes his head in disgust, rising and reaching for his pot pipe.  He checks the contents with a fingertip and, satisfied, picks up a lighter and sparks it before taking a deep hit. 

“Oh, and Mori…”  Dazai exhales, leisurely and deliberately.  “One more thing:  Get a fucking life.” 

Chapter Text

It’s quiet.  It’s oh, so quiet. 

And it really is the end.

We’ve started over so many times before.  It’s getting easy.

Is it?

It is.  This time, it is.  If nothing else it’s peaceful.

The envelope on your bathroom floor… you finally open it.

Interesting fact:  fifty thousand in clean, unmarked $100 bills weighs just over a pound.  That’s what’s in that thick manila envelope.  That’s what this whole shit show was worth to Mori.

It’s good money, but after a lifetime of financial insecurity it doesn’t quite feel like enough to quit your day job.  And besides, where else would you go?  You continue on at the restaurant, trying hard not to look at the sushi bar that Tadanobu no longer stands behind.  Trying hard not to scan the chairs in front of it to see if there’s a man sitting there, dark hair mussed, in a tan trench coat and a silly bolo tie that’s two decades out of fashion.

Your phone doesn’t ring.  Mori, Dazai… it’s as if you dropped out of existence for both of them, discarded as carelessly as an empty food wrapper on the side of the 101 freeway or a disposable coffee cup forgotten on one of the ugly cement planters in the Little Tokyo plaza. 

Winter progresses.   Christmas passes.  You buy yourself a warm coat and celebrate New Year’s Eve by working a double shift.  You buy yourself a laptop and a second-hand table and chair and sit in your shitty apartment with that laptop open.

Sometimes you buy yourself a little something at the bookstore at the end of the plaza, the one adjoined to the Japanese grocery store.  You pause in front of the nondescript doorway between them, wondering if your access code would still work if you were to punch it in.  You look at the name tags by the buttons, noticing when the one marked “T.S.” disappears and is replaced with a blank slip. 

A small part of you wants to press that call button, even knowing nobody will answer.  You will lean yourself into the speaker phone that buzzes but never picks up, and in that doorway with pedestrians passing by and with lips held close you will whisper things into it that nobody will hear. 

You don’t do this of course.  It would be worse than pointless.  It would be dumb. 

In late January a sandwich board appears in front of the condo complex with brightly-colored helium balloons that droop and waver in the cold sunlight.  The door is propped open and, being a little early for your afternoon shift, you find yourself pulled inside, unthinking as if guided by an invisible thread.

The lobby is the same.  The elevator is the same.  But surely the loft will be different.  He’s not in it any more, for one thing. 

But it is exactly the same.  The same furniture, the same credenza in the entryway, the same kitchen table, the same bland and generic large-format IKEA art on the walls.  You run your hand over the kitchen cupboard that bears a whitish chip from a coffee mug flung at Dazai’s head.

“It comes fully-furnished, although it can also be arranged to have everything taken away if you prefer.  And immediate occupancy,” a blonde woman in an expensive gray pantsuit says at your elbow.  She’s pretty in that Los Angeles realtor way: obviously the product of a lot of botox and possibly a lower face-lift but the rings around her neck and the crepe-y skin on the triangle of her bosom exposed by her silk Ann Taylor blouse are a dead give-away.  “Can you please sign the guest-book on the counter?”  She looks you up and down and, probably concluding that you’re a looky-loo in off the plaza and don’t have the type of money to afford this loft, wanders off to greet another client with more potential.

Several people are wandering through the loft, admiring the leather of the couch that you found Dazai lying on the floor next to, testing the mattress of the bed where you spent so many nights with him.  The gray flannel comforter is gone, replaced by a cheery red floral-print Marimekko probably owned by the staging company. 

You glance at the others as they circulate through the loft, unable to escape the feeling that they are picnickers blissfully unaware they’re trampling across a gravesite.  You sigh, picking up a pen and pretending to sign the guest book.  Then you sniff.  There’s a large candle burning next to the book, and several more around the loft.  Vanilla cookie scent or something.  But beneath that…

“You interested in the apartment?” a guy next to you says.  It almost makes you jump, and you look up at him.  Average white guy, average height, probably a young executive at some mid-level firm downtown based on his pompous grin and big watch that he makes sure you get a look at as he leans on the counter. 

“Maybe,” you mumble.  Then you sniff again.  Yes, the candles are definitely covering something up.  “What’s that smell?”

“Oh.  Hah.”  He smiles like your phone number is already in his contacts.  “The guy who used to live here was a real piece of work.  Glad he’s gone.  He was always doing shit like taking up two parking spots, leaving laundry in the machine all day.  Loud video games all hours of the day and night.  Loud sex, too.  Hah.  Pardon my French.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” you reply quickly, twiddling the pen in your fingers.  “I get what you mean.  So the smell…”

“Hah,” he says again, lifting his nose up to the exposed duct work.  “Before he left he somehow managed to get into those ducts up there and put a bunch of cans of crab between my apartment and his.  Took management forever to figure it out and remove them.  But don’t worry, it’ll air out just fine.  Plenty of ventilation.”

“What an asshole,” you murmur, a smile creeping across your face.  Then you let out a laugh, half-admiring, unable to smother it.  “I’m sorry.”  You press your fingers to your mouth.  “But that’s really funny."

“Yeah.  Yeah I guess it is kind of funny.  Hah.”  He leans in closer, conspiratorially.  “Say, if you’re really interested in this loft, I could show you around.  Show you my own and… there’s a workout room.  It’s pretty nice.  I mean I get a lot of use out of it.”  He flexes his arm, possibly hoping you’ll notice but your attention is suddenly drawn to a slender young man in a brown business suit carrying a leather briefcase.  He’s silhouetted by the big floor-to –ceiling window, looking out onto the plaza, the realtor standing next to him with a glossy brochure in her hand.

The man turns to you across the room and you startle, the pen falling from your hand.

“Thanks but… I need to be someplace,” you say quickly.  “I just remembered something.” 

“Oh, well, hey…” The neighbor looks confused, then a little annoyed.  “Just like that?”

“Yeah I gotta go.” 

As quickly as you can you make your way to the door, out into the hallway but it’s too late:  he’s seen you and is politely separating himself from the realtor.

“Excuse me, Miss!  Wait!”

Heart pounding you poke the elevator button, trying your best to shrink into your winter jacket, praying for the door to slide open and wondering if the stairs might be better… but that would certainly mark you as prey.  Not to mention leave you in an empty stairwell where you’d be more easily cornered.

“Miss, do you recognize me?  You know me, don’t you.”  He takes your elbow just as the door slides open and turns you to face him.  The two of you stare at each other until the door glides shut again.

It’s him.  The man from the photo in Dazai’s drawer.  It’s the same round, scholarly glasses.  The same business suit that looks a size too big for his thin shoulders.  A mole on his cheek and an overly-serious expression. 

“It’s okay,” he says.  “I’m a friend of Dazai’s.  You know that, right?”

“Not sure what you’re talking about,” you reply, twitching your arm away.  “I don’t know any Dazai.”

“Okay fine.”  He lifts a finger and pushes his glasses up on his nose.  “Tsushima, then.” 

For another heartbeat you stare at him. 

“Sorry, still don’t know.  You must have me mistaken for somebody else.”  You turn back to the elevator panel and push the button.  This time the door slides right open but you hesitate.

“He sent me to find you,” the man says at your shoulder.  “He wanted me to give you something.”

You pause, sticking one foot in the door so it doesn’t close. 

“Um… here you go,” he says, opening his briefcase and withdrawing a large manila envelope. 

God, not another manila envelope. 

But he pushes the envelope into your hands with a small bow and takes a step backwards, allowing you space to manipulate it in your hands.  Your turn it over and over until the alarm on the elevator buzzes.  The door’s been held open too long.

“So… that’s it?” you ask, ignoring the alarm.

“Yes, that’s…” He points to the envelope that you stuff carelessly under your arm.  “It’s all in there.”

“Thanks,” you reply.  You step into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby.  As the doors close the man again bows, this time much more deeply.  He is still bowing when the last sliver of him disappears, replaced by shiny stainless steel.

You wait until you’re out in the plaza, the envelope burning against your side, and pull aside from the crowd next to a concrete planter. 

There’s not much in the envelope.  Only a folded note, and a small booklet sort of like a passport with some documents tucked inside poking out.

You open the note first. 

It’s undated, with your name misspelled at the top.  Of course, it’s not like he ever saw your name spelled.  Beneath that is handscrawled writing, sloping and loopy, like something written by a middle-school girl who didn’t grow up using the same alphabet.  Some of the letters are even dotted with little hearts.

If you’re reading this, it means Ango’s found you.  Please don’t be mean to him.  I’m sure you’re angry at me, and you should be.  But don’t take it out on him.  (On second thought go ahead the guy’s sort of a tool <3). 

I know I can never make everything up to you.  You didn’t deserve this, and I know it’s my fault.  You probably realize Ango’s one of the guys in those pictures you found.  The other man’s name is Oda.  Or it was Oda.  He’s gone.  Before he died he told me something that changed my life:  That if both sides are the same, to be on the side that saves people.  I’m not a good person.  The truth is I never really cared about good or bad.  But what he said made sense to me. 

I told you “people use each other.”  Before you get mad, hear me out.  Oda also said that “people live to save themselves.”  At first I thought this was depressing.  Then, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.  It’s a good thing.  Turns out it isn’t something that’s done alone.  So when I told you that people use each other it was a corollary to what Oda said.  As we go through life, we meet people and learn lessons from each other.  Sometimes good, sometimes bad.  But never without value.  And with every lesson we hopefully come closer to living the path we were meant to be on.

I used you to learn that I need to do better, if I’m really going to follow Oda’s advice.  I thought a large part of “doing good” was simply not doing bad.  You showed me that’s a cowardly and selfish way of thinking.  And I was a coward with you.  I admit it.     

Again, I’m so sorry.  I can never make it up to you.  But I hope what’s in this envelope (both the note and the rest of it) helps. 

I also hope that you were able to use me, too.  And that you got something of value.  You asked me if I’m even human, and I told you it was “debatable.”  This is the truth.  There might be a part of me that’s missing where it matters.  But please believe me that, as best as I could, I cared for you.

Please take care of yourself.

T.S.

You read and re-read the letter. 

Then you crumple it up and toss it into the planter amongst the discarded coffee cups, withered flowers and cigarette butts.  And you look at the rest of the envelope’s contents.

Fifty thousand dollars in cash weighs a little over a pound.  A bank booklet weighs next to nothing in comparison.  Whatever this whole ordeal was worth to Mori… it was worth ten times that to Dazai.

This time it is enough to quit your day job.

*

*

The European city is as far from Los Angeles as you could possibly get.  Four seasons, too.  It doesn’t snow often but it does, and when it rains there is actual thunder.  The cold feels like good, honest cold, and when it gets above seventy degrees Fahrenheit the locals complain it’s too hot.  The public transit actually gets you where you need to go, and the clock towers in the university are older than Los Angeles itself and are built with authenticity, in stone, by workmen who didn’t moonlight building background props for cheap movies. 

It’s surprising that you got into this university.  You never expected two less-than-stellar years at a less-than-stellar community college to get you in, but maybe money had something to do with it.  Or maybe it was that guy Ango still watching over you somehow.  He seemed like the type who could pull a few strings.

You enroll for a degree in Literature, even though the voice in your head scoffs that you ought to look for something marketable.  The money in your investment portfolio earns enough that you don’t even have to dip in the principal to sustain yourself.  Still, she scolds you for being short-sighted and reminds you that following your dreams never ended up well.

She shuts up when you get published.

It happens, like so many things in your life, almost by accident.  Something you slide into unawares, never even expecting what it might lead to: 

A much older professor who encourages you to submit your novella to a journal for “upcoming young voices.”  The board of the journal objecting to the explicit nature of your piece, only to be assured by your professor with his arm slung warmly about your shoulders that this would “throw doors open for a new generation of young, female artists.”  The way he squeezes your arm possessively, the pathetic fatherly fondness of his fingers massaging your bicep through your sweater that sets your teeth on edge. 

But hey, everybody uses each other, don’t they?

It’s a quid pro quo that you decide is worth it.

The journal, of course, ends up causing a scandal of the best sort.  It’s pulled down quickly, but not before PDFs of your novella begin to circulate online.  There are calls within your university for you to be expelled that are countered by others who defend your right to free expression with the rallying cry of “don’t like, don’t read.”  A small publishing house approaches you for the rights and the first run sells out immediately.  A larger publishing house steps in and they, too, are unable to print enough to keep up with the demand.

It’s unclear why your story gains so much attention.  The critics are divided as to whether you’ve struck on some sort of zeitgeist or if it’s car-crash entertainment, drawing readers in out of morbid curiosity and fueled by prurient interest.  Or both. 

One female critic, who you’re fairly certain never read it, calls it “refreshing in its bleakness.”  A male critic, who likely did read it, calls it “talentless torture porn for angry sad blue-haired girls.”

So stupid that you didn’t publish under a pseudonym.

No offense but that’s typical of us, isn’t it?  To lack that foresight?

With your name and university known it’s pitifully easy for fans and detractors to figure out your email address.  Really stupid of an educational institution run by the best and the brightest to follow a first-name-dot-last-name format for all its students. 

At first you read the emails.  All of them. 

You read the aggrieved ones from “nice guys” that inform you “nOt EVerY mAN.”  You delete the vicious ones from 4-chan incels who call you a man-hater who deserves everything your main character got and then some.  You delete others even faster:  the ones from sickos informing you that if you’re into rape they’d be happy to oblige. 

You also read the ones from women and even a few men who take your novella as an open invitation to dump their own stories of sexual assault and abuse on you.  You don’t delete them, but you don’t reply, any more than you reply to the haters.  You have nothing to offer them, after all.  You let the emails sit in your inbox until there are so many that even sifting through and deleting them would be an overwhelming task.  It also feels disrespectful to hit that “select all” and mark them for trash.  So they remain, like headstones in a graveyard for hope and innocence.

Eventually you stop reading your email.  Eventually the professor is fired.  You wish him well.  You express your sincere hope that his wife takes him back.  And you carry on.

You need to get that degree, after all. 

*

*

The small theater in the University’s performing arts center is packed.  It’s one of the smaller theaters, sure, but there’s standing room only in the back, and judging by the quality of some of the video cameras there’s more than just student press in attendance. 

It’s a set-up.  You didn’t understand this when you got the invitation?

You shift uncomfortably in your seat behind a table on the stage next to several other “emerging young authors.”  There’s a carafe of water set out in front of you and a heavy drinking glass.  The bright stage lights are giving you a headache, and it’s weird not being able to see the audience.

First up is some spoken-word poetry, then a performance by the modern dance troupe.  Scattered applause.  You and your fellow authors are introduced, and your bios read aloud.  And then it’s thrown open to audience Q&A and the gloves come off.

It’s immediately apparent you’re the only candidate of interest.  The emcee tries desperately to redirect enthusiasm more evenly but it’s futile.

The first to the microphone is a young woman who asks earnestly, “Do you believe rape fantasy is a normal part of female sexuality?”

How the fuck am I supposed to know?

“Sure, whatever floats your boat,” you respond vaguely after an awkward pause.  There are some jeers and some applause as the woman takes her seat, clearly embarrassed.

Next is another young woman who has to be helped to adjust the microphone down and she leans into it, the pop of her breath a dull thud that reverberates throughout the theater.  “There’s been speculation that your story is autobiographical, and that the experiences, and, uh, the men in it, are real.  If that’s the case, why don’t you expose them and file charges?”

“Really?”  You’re genuinely taken aback.  This is what people think?

“Yes,” she replies, undeterred.  “By covering up their identities and shielding them, aren’t you doing survivors of sexual assault everywhere a disservice?”

“Survivors?”  This irks you for some reason.  You grip the edge of the table and the other members of the panel look down at their hands folded in front of them.  One of them pours a glass of water. Another clears his throat.  “Look, people survive earthquakes and hurricanes,” you explain, your face reddening.  You scowl at the woman against the stage lights.  “People survive famines.  Nobody survives getting raped.”

“Ah!  Maybe some questions for the other authors!” The emcee ushers the young woman from the microphone but she won’t be led away easily. 

“So you don’t deny it?” she asks, clinging to the podium, and the mixture of hope and contempt in her voice is off-putting.

Next up is a man, probably from a legit news outlet because he looks too old to be part of the student body.  You hope he’s got a legitimate question for one of the other writers because you’re starting to sweat.

No dice.  He directs his question to you.

“Out of the top ten best-selling romance novels on the New York Times book review today, four of them involve sexual assault or intimate partner violence,” he proclaims, like you’re a witch tied to a stake and he’s an inquisitioner reading off a list of accusations.  “Do you believe you have anything to do with this?  And how do you feel about it?”

That’s it.  No more.

“You’ve all got fucking… worms in your brains or something,” you mumble, standing up and pulling off the microphone that’s looped over your ear.  It whines with feedback as you throw it into your water glass and turn, searching for the part in the curtain and exiting the stage to more jeers and applause.

The street outside is a welcome escape from the theater that was, at once, too bright and too gloomy.  It’s a rare springtime sunny day, and you pull off your cardigan as you walk.  You practically fall into the first sidewalk café you come to and wave down a waiter.

“Is this seat taken?”  A well-dressed middle-aged woman slides into the chair across from you, and you frown.

“Well, it is now.”

“Ah!  Americans are so adorably direct,” she laughs, raising one white-gloved hand to signal the waiter who is already at her elbow.  “Oh!”  She looks him up and down as if he’s dropped from the heavens and landed at her side.  “Don’t lurk about like that, do you hear? Frightful.”

“Madame,” he murmurs obsequiously, bowing stiffly.  “My apologies.  Lurking was not my intent.  Something for the madame and the young lady?”

“Yes.”  She produces a long, telescoping wand from her purse and snaps it fully extended, fishing out a packet of Gauloises and inserting one into the tip.  “I’ll have Earl Gray.  But only if you have it loose-leaf, in a tea ball.  And she’ll have…”

The woman arches an eyebrow at you.

“Just tea,” you reply. 

“Oh.”  She wrinkles her nose in distaste.  “Just tea, then.” 

“Of course, madame.” The waiter bows again, adjusts the white cloth spread over his forearm, and oozes back to the front doorway of the café. 

“Mmph,” the woman huffs, flicking a lighter to holding it to the tip of her Gauloise.  “Yes.  Frightful.  Just frightful.”

You eye her across the table beneath the shadow of the canopy thrown up against the bright midday sun.  She’s dressed elegantly, if eccentrically.  A little bit steampunk.  Blonde bangs frame her face, longer hair spilling down her back and carefully coiffed.  A soft felt beret adorned with a paper rose is set at a jaunty angle, and she’s wearing a decidedly Victorian jacket that’s got way too much tatted lace at the plunging neckline for such a warm day. 

“What is,” you ask her guardedly.

“Oh.”  She waves her hands vaguely back in the direction of the university.  “All of that.  The very nerve.  I was outraged for you, my dear.  No decorum whatsoever.”

My dear.  Somebody else used to call us that.

She does remind you of Mori.  Something in her cool, calculating, amused eyes. 

“It was okay,” you say, pushing the ashtray towards her. 

She ignores you, ashing onto the sidewalk.  A few fat pigeons stroll up to check if she’s dropped anything edible.

“I think not, my dear.  You could use a good agent.”

“So you were there?”

“Mmm.  Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darling.  Say.”  She stabs her Gauloise at you, waving it beneath your nose.  “You are deucedly difficult to get a hold of.  Your old professor gave me your contact information.  Do you not answer texts?”

“I don’t like getting texts.”  You wave the smoke away from you, swiping at your legs where a few ashes have fallen between the wrought-iron latticework of the café table into your lap.

My phone isn’t even enabled for them.

“Very quirky,” she laughs.  “How droll.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name…”

I bet she’s one of those people who say their last name first, and then their whole name.  Like “Bond, James Bond.”  Or “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“How rude of me!”  She extends one gloved hand across the table, smiling when you take and shake it awkwardly.  “It’s Christie.  Agatha Christie.”

Called it.

“Okay, so…”  You look up as the waiter returns with your tea on a tray, setting it in front of you with a flourish.  “You some sort of talent agent?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she answers, opening her tea ball and examining the contents scrupulously before plopping it into her steaming cup of water and poking it down with a diminutive spoon.  “I’m interested in individuals with peculiar… gifts, shall we say.”

“Don’t need an agent,” you respond, stirring sugar into your own cup.  “I’m done with writing.  I think.”

“Entirely understandable,” she hums.  “But I’m not interested in you for your writing.”

You pause.  She looks up at you over her steaming teacup.  A slow grin spreads over her face and once again you have the distinct impression you’re eye-to-eye with Mori.

“Sorry, lady.”  You set your teacup down with a clatter, getting ready to stand and leave.  “You’re good-looking and all that, but… no thanks.” 

“Not… interested?  Oh!”  Her eyes widen in horror and then she slumps in sympathy.  “Oh my, oh dear what did those horrid men do to you?” She shudders.  “So cynical!”

“What men?”  You sit back down.

“That… what’s his name?  Osamu Dazai.  And Mori.”  She waves her cigarette in its wand and, seeing that it’s nearly smoked down to the filter, scowls and stubs it out into the ashtray.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” 

“I think you do.”  She procures another cigarette from her purse, frowning at it as if it personally is to blame for its appearance, and inserts it into her wand.  “Hmm, really should be cutting down on these things… dreadful habit.  Anyway!”  She lights the cigarette and inhales deeply, exhaling a cloud of silver-blue smoke sideways.  “Yes.  Let’s just say I’m a talent agent.  I’m interested in individuals with gifts.  But mostly I’m interested in individuals with motivation.  If the gift is lacking well… my organization has ways of rectifying that.  As long as the motivation is there.  Which, I believe, it is.”

“Organization?”

I’ve had enough of shadowy organizations.

“Yes!  An organization!”  She punctuates this with a sip of her tea.  She frowns, then adds a sugar cube from the bowl on the table.  “You might already be familiar with the Port Mafia, and the Armed Detective Agency…”

You shake your head.  “Armed Detective Agency?”

“Why yes, your beau Osamu Dazai’s new employer.”

Is that the job he told you he was waiting for?  The one that was supposed to begin in two years?  Has it been that long?

Again, you shake your head.

“Regardless.”  She takes another sip of her tea, this time satisfied.  “I represent an organization that has an interest in both the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency.  And you, my dear, are uniquely situated to be of service.”

“I think you have that wrong,” you respond.  “I can’t see what service I would be of at all.  I haven’t heard… I mean… if I knew either of those men, I haven’t heard from them in a long time.”

“Mmmm that’s where you’re wrong, my dear.  You underestimate your value.  Ah!  Why are young women these days such shrinking violets?”  She looks for the answer in the trailing smoke of her cigarette and, not finding it there, redirects her attention to you.  “You’re of greater value than you realize.”

You swallow.  “Do you think?”

“Mmm I do.  Most assuredly.”  She takes a long drag of her Gauloise, looking you up and down appraisingly and then offering her hand.  “And besides:  we girls need to stick together.  Like a sisterhood, innit?”

You’re not my sister, sister.

But you find yourself taking her gloved hand in yours above the café table.

“Okay, sure.  I’m interested.”

“Wonderful,” she gushes, leaning in conspiratorially like a girlfriend at a sleepover.  “This will be ever so much fun!”

“Yeah.  Cool.”  You draw your hand away awkwardly and both of you sip your tea in the warm noontime sidewalk café.  A clock tower begins to chime in the distance.

Everybody uses each other, right?

“Yes,” she sighs contentedly, smiling around the rim of her teacup.  “My dear, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”