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Momo leaned in, heel of his hand digging into the concrete of the alley wall. Ryou’s eyes caught on the way his bicep and deltoid flexed with that movement, the violent twist to his brow and mouth. The gossip journalist Momo was intimidating whimpered and pressed himself flatter against the wall. He didn’t know to appreciate peak performance when it was right in front of his eyes, up in his face, practically in his lap. At least Ryou saw Momo’s true worth.
“Who tipped you off?” Momo snarled.
The gossip journalist’s gaze darted to Ryou. Weak-willed fool. It was just for a second, but that was enough for Momo to notice, magenta eyes going wide.
The journalist didn’t seem to notice that Momo had noticed, and asked, “Was—was it true?”
“You’d print things without even knowing if they were true.”
“Well—I had that source—”
“A source, huh?” Momo made eye contact with Ryou. Ryou’s heart skipped a beat.
“Just that ex-band member, I met with her. Y’know, it could have been slander, but I never confirmed or denied anything in the article itself; it was perfectly ethical! I made no claims!”
“Think you could give me that band member’s name?”
The gossip journalist shrunk back and shook his head several times before remembering he had vocal chords. “I can’t—I mean, I promised her that I’d keep it confidential.”
“C’mooon, it’s Re:vale’s Momo-chan asking you, you can make an exception.” Momo winked.
The gossip journalist made an odd sound and gave up the name, at which point Momo took a step away from him. The journalist took the opportunity to run away, skidding down the alley and turning the corner.
“Look at him go,” Ryou observed. “I think he wet himself.” Either that or he’d successfully developed taste in men.
“Don’t be crass.”
Ryou inferred that Momo was mad at him. “Why are you mad at me?”
Momo’s shoulders tensed. He was still facing the alley wall. “Do you really have to ask?”
“I just want to hear it from your lips, Momo.” His lips, tinted in reddish chapstick. Purple bruised where Momo had asked him not to bite.
“I thought we had a deal, Ryou-san. You leave Yuki alone, and I’m your—whatever.”
Maybe I’m sick of you being Yuki’s “whatever” at the same time. “The article didn’t go up, did it?” He’d even come with Momo to bump off the journalist. “No harm done.”
“Yay, I get to play Whack-a-Mole.”
Despicably genuine sarcasm. Ryou gritted his teeth. In the most even voice he could manage he said, “Momo, you’re not being very friendly right now.”
“Why? If you’re not going to keep your own end of the deal, with Yuki—”
Ryou slapped him.
Momo’s mouth opened, then closed. He pressed a hand to his cheek. It took him a second to configure his features into an apologetic smile. “Ryou-san, I—”
Ryou was shuddering in anger. “Shut up! Shut up. Do you know how much I have against you? Against your pathetic boyfriend? I own you.” So please, don’t look away from me.
“I know, I know, I’m your dog. Hey, I got an idea!” Momo dropped to his knees. “Want me to lick your shoes?”
Ryou kicked him. Momo took the hit with barely a flinch and got his fingers in Ryou’s belt buckle. “Not shoes, okay, how about something else?”
Ryou stepped on the top of his head, sending that white-tipped mop down to the ground. Momo breathed through his mouth, small inhales. His nose was deep in the grime of the alleyway. Mud and cigarette ash.
“Learn to listen,” Ryou said. “What’d I ask?”
Momo was silent.
Ryou kicked him in the ear.
Blood trickled out of his eardrum.
“To…shut up? To not talk?”
“Right. Now why’d that take you so long?”
“I was just trying to obey you, Ryou-san! I didn’t talk because—”
Ryou kicked him again. “What did I ask you?”
Momo clammed up. There wasn’t a foot on his head anymore, but he stayed groveling on the ground, arms wrapped around his head. Blood was getting on the sleeves of his stylish jacket. He was trembling.
Ryou was sick of that performative placation. He tipped up Momo’s chin with the tip of his shoe. “Why don’t you hit back?”
Momo typed something out on his phone and held it up. It read, “Let’s schedule a boxing match, Ryou-san!”
“Not cute,” Ryou said, even though it, annoyingly, was. “Get up. Come sit on this wall with me.”
It was a tall retaining wall of about two meters emblazoned with graffiti. Indecipherable names, crudely worded opinion pieces, and most damning of all, scratched-in sappy hearts on the theme of “So-and-so loves So-and-so”.
Ryou was developing a grudge against the wall mostly because he couldn’t climb it. Momo was shorter than him, and yet he was already sitting comfortably on the top, staring off into space. Those damn athletic types. If he ever hit back, it might really hurt.
“Hey. Help me up.”
Momo startled and offered his hand.
Once Ryou was up on the wall (not too hard with assistance) he leaned on Momo and looked up at the sky. The first stars were coming out.
It was a night like this. Do you remember?
He could threaten to push Momo off the wall. That idea wasn’t as enticing as it would’ve been some other evening. Maybe if Momo would threaten him back, or better yet—go beyond threats, send Ryou down to the rock-hard asphalt. He wouldn’t die from that, he’d be too happy. Momo’d look down at him with a cold expression—
and then what, go back to Yuki?
Better not to encourage bad behavior too much. But he didn’t feel like threatening Momo otherwise, so they sat on the wall for some time, until Momo said something again because he was a nervous chatterer, at which point Ryou did threaten him, and Momo had looked mutinous and then gotten down off the ugly lovey-dovey wall and gone home.