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Ichiban draws the strings of his hoodie tighter until his chin and forehead are covered. It’s a habit that—incomprehensibly—annoys Masato.
But what doesn’t annoy Masato?
“You’re here!” Ichiban says, twisting the strings around his fingers. Tugs them so hard that the hemline of his gray pullover reveals the flat, nutmeg-brown abs of his midsection.
It’s past midnight. Not that Ichiban is normally asleep at this time, but it’s still odd to see the young master at his porch, regardless of the hour. But especially at peak hostess club operating hours. Masato doesn’t often leave his condo; when he does, Ichiban is informed, made to accompany him, given his vulnerability socially and—according to the young master himself—physically.
“Did I—was I meant to accompany you today?”
Did Ichiban forget? He may be a bit air-headed at times (again, according to the young master), but he is a loyal and hyper-aware attendant. When Sawashiro suggested to Ichiban to invest in a planner the one time he forgot to bring him a microfiber dust cloth for his watch, Ichiban made it his mission to prove that he’d never need some preliminary organizational tool.
Masato shakes his head. Greasy, limp strands of dark hair fall over his forehead, unstyled as usual. His facial hair is overgrown and the bags under his eyes are shallow thumbprints of ink.
The odd chiaroscuro of his face, backed by the blue February night, gives him a shadowy, Gemini look; half encased in shadow, the overhead light on Ichiban’s porch highlighting his features with sickly-yellow streaks of the dying-lightbulb glow.
“Come in,” Ichiban says, stepping back and opening the door wide enough to allow for his wheelchair to pass through the threshold.
When he’s inside, Ichiban flips on the studio apartment lights. It softens the otherwise Technicolor glow of the television, where a battle in Dragon Quest III is on screen. Ichiban thumbs the off button of his console before smiling shakily at Masato.
“...Well?” Masato cocks a thin eyebrow, tilts his head towards the shoddy leather loveseat that’s worn with Ichiban’s occupation.
Ichiban lets go of his hoodie strings and nods. Moves to Masato and picks him up under his armpits, helping him move onto his couch. Managing Masato’s weight is natural now; Masato isn’t humiliated when only Ichiban manipulates his body frame. Out of the sight of prying eyes. Glinting teeth and big, bleach veneers. Dainty, manicured fingers around wine glasses and rough men in pressed suits with popped collars, police slinking through the law with manipulated authority, buddying up with people like his father. All of them with creased eyes and crescent moon grins.
But Ichiban doesn’t laugh at him.
Masato sighs through his nose as Ichiban settles down on the cushion next to him. Masato picks at the stray strings of the poorly-stitched armrest. Did Ichiban get this shitty thing from a porn studio?
“All this time working as a yakuza, and you still can’t afford any furniture worth a damn.”
Ichiban shrugs. Refrains from naming who, exactly, is responsible as his financial benefactor. Instead, he changes the subject.
“What brings you here, young master?”
“Who knows,” Masato says idly, leaning back. He’s still dressed sharply despite the hour—smells spicy, like chai, with a hint of stale body odor clinging to the gambiered silk of his button-up, emanating from his armpits.
“Do you… need anything?” Ichiban offers.
Masato shrugs again. Slinks low on the couch, glancing towards Ichiban beneath the fan of his dark lashes. Ichiban’s so wide-eyed, with those pouty lips. Straight, thick eyebrows—perpetually trusting. There is an innocent purity to him, so bereft of individuals in this line of work. In nightlife in general. Masato bristles internally—
“Do you want to eat something?”
“Why can’t you just be cool?” Masato barks.
Ichiban shrinks back like an admonished puppy.
Masato feels a strange twisting in his gut, that sparkle-spray of regret crinkling within him. He flexes his fingers, looks away. Ichiban has no window—instead, the shoji screen separating the eight-mat room from the barely-there space of his meager balcony filters the neon of Kamurocho in blotted sprays. He doesn’t want to make eye contact with this perpetually loyal creature.
If only everyone were as kind as Ichiban.
“Sorry,” Masato says, voice softer now. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Can’t force the words out. What is he supposed to say?
Everyone in this world is motivated by capital and reputation, it seems. Everyone operates without humanity, and you are accredited only with the power you hold. Masato reckons it isn’t even worth it to cultivate a personality, interests—only position. You are worth money, and if not money, then generational honor.
Everyone but you.
“I got rejected,” Masato’s lips twitch in a self-degrading smirk. “As usual.”
“Well, you only go for hostesses,” Ichiban points out. “Rejecting you in order to get you to try again with even more money is kind of their mission, right?”
“Prerogative or not, Yumeno-san’s—”
“Her again?”
The young master snaps his head to face Ichiban. Ichiban doesn’t shudder this time, though. Just stares with those big, amber eyes untainted with judgment. There is a clarity to his expression. Ichiban is as neutral as the wind and the trees, managing to circumvent the materialism of this city almost entirely. (Though he does treasure his punch perm and his gold jewelry.)
“What do you mean?” Masato asks. He keeps the poison out of his voice, narrowing his eyes. He is genuinely intrigued by Ichiban’s assessments; perhaps because he speaks from a framework completely separate from everyone else Masato knows.
“If you try this hard to make someone love you, when she returns your affections, they’ll be out of sympathy, right?”
“You fucker,” Masato snarls. He reaches over and grabs Ichiban limply by his weathered, gray hoodie plastered with a blue, tear-drop shaped thing. “So you pity me, is that it? You think a woman could only return my affections if she feels badly for me?”
Masato knows better than to pick a fight with a man like Ichiban. He’s built, he’s capable, and he’s experienced. From the start, when they first met, Masato knew that being aggressive with this stray they picked up on the street, a kid with as many anger issues as he had, would only result in his own ass getting laid out.
And yet, Ichiban has never raised a hand to him.
That, too, pisses him off.
Ichiban slides a hand up Masato’s forearm. He’s so thin. Eases his hand around a wrist usually decorated in absurdly expensive watches, and peels his grip from his hoodie.
“I think that if you have to try this hard, she’ll only take advantage of you when she finally does give in.”
“Fuck you,” Masato spits.
“Did you come here for comfort?” Ichiban asks. “I’ll hold you.”
Masato feels the incredulous sting of tears needle at his eyes. He grits his teeth and ducks his head. Drops his forehead into his hand and hides his face.
I’m fucking pathetic. What a worthless existence I’ve led.
“Let me sleep on your futon.”
Ichiban, as always, does as the young master says.
*
Maybe Ichiban is just a rebound.
“It’s so hot in my hand,” Masato murmurs. “Thick boy…”
There’s really no reason to analyze their relationship more than they already do when in silence, when in the stiff vicinity of each other. Ichiban’s deference to the golden child; Masato’s insecurity on how his servant perceives him—when it’s the man whose opinion he should care about the least.
They abandon it both for now.
“Young master…” Ichiban’s hips rise and fall, dragging within the clutch of Masato’s grip.
Their heads are swimming with static and their bodies are warm. The air smells thick with marijuana and is humid with the steam from the shower Masato took. The stale smell of his body odor is gone, now.
Masato smells like Ichiban. Somehow, it’s strangely arousing to Ichi—perhaps he’s narcissistic, or it’s appealing to think he’s finally close enough to Masato for them to share their scent.
He’s always wanted his approval. And right now, he supposes he has it, since Masato’s jerking him off.
Thumbs the fat underside of his cock. Deft fingers, uncharacteristically gentle in contrast with his rigid personality, gently climb up the length of Ichiban’s length until he circles the dark foreskin at his tip. He pinches it tight over the umeboshi-red head until Ichiban huffs through his nose in a cringe, before he throws his leg over his side and humps mindlessly into his waist.
Still, that pinch of pain has his balls clenching up; has his teeth gritting in a rictus.
Masato relents, softening his grip and thumbing over the delicate, thin skin he just dug his nails into. He feels Ichiban go boneless with a huff.
Peeling back the foreskin now, he rubs a pearl of precum into his skin. Ichiban’s impressive length twitches in his hand and he throws his arms around him like he’s really in love with him.
Hauls him close, his fuller chest pressed against Masato’s thin, birdbone sternum.
“Young master,” he coos, “It feels so good.”
He tosses a heavy thigh over him next and shoves his heel into the back of Masato’s thigh, hauling him closer. Masato can vaguely feel the weight of Ichiban’s body—and his affection—in his legs.
It’s nice. Like he’s complete, somehow, missing elements being pushed back into place like phantom organs. Ichiban’s clinging to him and purring for him, humping against him like the loyal dog he is.
Masato scoots down, buries his face between the bronzed slopes of his pecs. Moans, open-mouthed, at the heat of them, at the heartbeat thudding against his face. Catches a brown nipple between his lips and suckles lazily.
“Ah,” Ichiban hiccups, hips jerking forward, fat cock spurting out a jut of precum. “Please do it again.”
“You slut,” mumbles Masato, cushioned by his tits, the warmth of the futon, nestled by the buzz from the weed. He can’t think of anything but where he is now—how ideal. The future, the past, only a few hours ago, have all been masked by the pleasure of now, of this expanse of muscle and sinew and allegiance.
Ichiban lets Masato nurse at him as though he can draw milk from this bleeding heart, Ichiban’s fingers intertwined on the back of his skull, hauling damp-fragrant hair closer until Masato’s teeth are digging into his skin, until he’s blistering his possession into him in bright blots of red like the ink squeezed from Chinese fringe flowers.
Masato can barely breathe. Ichiban’s skin smells spicy with the dregs of whatever cologne he wore that morning, with some sort of bone broth ramen. His heart’s beating so fast and he’s moaning and cooing as he fucks into Masato’s hand.
Too much, this guy.
When Masato pulls off, Ichiban’s skin shines slick like perspiration, and it rises and falls, his nipples puffy and the skin around them bruised with pink splotches of Masato’s suction.
“Ichi,” Masato murmurs, voice carrying a rare sweetness with its even rarer usage of the nickname, “Come here. Sit on my chest.”
They maneuver themselves, Ichiban scrambling up to obey his employer, a bit over-eager. Masato can practically visualize his swishing dog tail in his mind’s eye as Masato gets onto his back, as Ichiban lowers himself until his dick is in front of the younger master’s lips. He holds his own base.
“Such a pretty cock,” Masato sighs, “Put it on my mouth.”
Ichiban nods, leaning over him. One hand on the tatami mat beside his head, he lowers his balls over his mouth until Masato’s lips part. He takes them in his mouth, rolling his tongue over the sac.
“Fuck, young master—please…”
Ichiban doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Masato is sucking him so good, has lavished him in his spit, has licked him all over. It’s nearly worship.
And Ichiban can see it now: those dark eyes low-lidded and blissed out, his pupils blown beneath the inky fan of his lovely lashes, as if drawn with the end of fudepen. Practically hearts flecking those coffee-colored irises as he sucks, taking him into his mouth as Ichiban jerks off.
“Fuck, fuck, it feels so good. You’re gonna make me cum, master—”
The slight pressure of Masato’s teeth dig into the delicate layer of skin over his nuts. As if to stop him.
Ichiban throws his head back, hand squeezing around his dick, thumb pressing on his piss-slit, like it’ll stop the oncoming gush of cum.
Masato opens his jaw, Ichiban’s balls slipping out of his mouth. Tilts his chin back to drag his tongue along the underside of his cock, lapping at the heavy veins there, like a dog.
“Ichiban,” Masato mumbles again, drool stringing filthy between his canines, sticking to Ichiban’s throbbing penis. “Put it under my nose. Let me smell them.”
Ichiban swallows.
“You’re filthy.”
“Am I?” Masato grins. “I’ve always figured myself put together.”
Ichiban can’t muster any banter when he’s like this—he can’t normally, even. Instead, his jawline, slicked with sweat, shines in the overhead, jaundiced light as he drops his balls beneath Masato’s nostrils.
Surely, it can’t smell amazing. Like sex and musk, like his own spit, the slight, stale smell of piss. And yet, Masato inhales deeply. Blissed out, his hands snake up Ichiban’s back, pressing into his sides, where hard muscle sits over his glutes, a body perfected for Masato’s benefit. A body honed to fight for him, to protect him, all at the demand of his father.
In any other circumstances, this would send Masato into a private, envious silence. But now, he feels nothing but appreciation.
And, most insane of all, Ichiban can feel the hot splatter of cum hit him from behind.
The young master came untouched on nothing but the scent of Ichiban, and a strange, foreign adoration threaded into him for his companion.
“Master,” Ichiban sobs, ducking his head. He can’t help it anymore. As he jerks himself, beads of sweat coagulate on his temples, sticking to his bronze skin like trembling pearls of jade spritzed from a perfume bottle. He paints Masato’s forehead in his own spunk, strips of white that cling to him in a gooey mess.
“Been pent up for a while,” Masato observes, words slurring together as he takes each shot. It’s excessive, the amount belonging to one of those hentais that are always being advertised in the neon-bathed windows of pink street, whorish anime girls dripping cum like icing, reflected in the rain-slicked streets like mirrors.
If Ichiban tries to respond verbally, it all sloshes into a wrecked groan as he finishes upon his master’s face, tainting his serious, perpetual glare with his load. How lewd, he thinks with a swimming head, thumbing his tip to drip out the final droplets of cum which splatter his round cheeks, his sharp nose. I’ve tainted my master’s beauty.
But not his reputation. In this eight-mat tatami room in a part of town that the young master normally makes fun of over the marbled tables of expensive hostess clubs, no one will ever know how Masato licks the spend off his face; no one will know how he drags his fingers through his cum and tastes it like it’s divine; no one will ever know how he kisses Ichiban’s softening cock over and over afterwards, like he’s giving it kisses of appreciation.
No one but Ichiban.