Chapter Text
He seemed out of place.
That was what people usually first noticed about Nanami whenever he entered spaces that had nothing to do with work or professionalism. His careful manners, his distant demeanor, and the way he carried himself—not prideful, yet tense, and cautious around people—made others uncomfortable in his presence. His voice didn’t sound cheerful and free like the cawing of seagulls along the coast, nor did it carry the gentleness and serenity of wisdom, like the soft sounds of wind chimes on the porch.
No, Nanami’s voice wasn’t soft in that way. If anything, his voice was calculated: words carefully chosen, not a syllable out of place, not one trace of imperfection (or humanity, for that matter) spilling across his lips. Situations where people usually didn’t hold back, when they cursed and spat and babbled and raged, Nanami composed himself. He didn’t yell, if it wasn’t necessary because of distance; he didn’t curse, since he saw no use of foul words; he didn’t even express anything beyond what was reasonable and factually correct, causing him to be perceived almost robot-like by people in his private life.
You’re so weird.
That was what she had said to him a couple of nights ago. Nanami remembered it vividly, like he always remembered everything—his chest had been slick with sweat, his carefully composed hair just a tiny bit out of place, the sheets pooling around his toned legs. It wasn’t like Nanami was a robot, at all: he was a human being, a man, to be precise, and he had needs. Wants, and sometimes even fantasies that he played out in his mind, but overall needs—his body aching, his mind scattered as his physical pulls overpowered it, and his concentration faltering. Nanami found it rather irritating how it affected him so much, as he usually prided himself on his control, especially in the workplace. The irrational part of his brain that he’d want to get rid of if he could, reacted at the most inappropriate of times, replaying memories and making up images that weren’t helpful in a 9 AM meeting at all. He tried pushing himself through that almost animalistic urge, but at times, he snapped, and he needed the contact his body craved. Needed the shamefulness of it, the heat and the sounds, the closeness of bodies, the fill for a space he could never seem to satisfy.
The fan had been blowing across his feverish skin as he tried to catch his breath, the girl already putting on her underwear as he watched her. Her skin was even paler against his, almost silver in the soft glow of the moon through his spotless window.
Nanami’s chest heaved as he inhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. Pardon?
I can’t believe— She had dressed herself, but his eyes had been focusing on her twisted bra strap, hoping she’d fix it. —I let you fuck me.
She had shaken her head then, her bleached hair spilling across her shoulders like the disappointment she was expressing had taken form around her, shielding her. You didn’t say one word. At all. That’s weird. You’re fucking weird.
Nanami had tensed at her choice of words. He wasn’t sure what it had been that upset her that much, except for the absence of talking, but he was always keen on improving himself. She had already left before he could inquire about his mistake in detail, leaving him confused and a little dumbfounded, in all honesty. Nanami wasn’t a passionate lover in ways women would write about in books: he didn’t praise or curse during the act, focusing solely on a steadiness meant to satisfy, not to overheat. He cared for his partners in the extent one would when serving a meal; lukewarm, so they wouldn’t burn their tongue, offering salt and pepper to tend to their preferences, and cleaning the dishes when they had finished eating. Mechanical would be the wrong word to use. Practical seemed fitting for what he did, and if asked, Nanami wouldn’t see anything wrong with it: the movements had a purpose, and they were fulfilled with what he did, in his opinion. Words weren’t needed to add to the space, except for the clips of sentences when they moved or stopped for whatever reason.
The way the girl had almost run out of his apartment wasn’t new to him at all; he was used to scaring people off with his simple existence. But her words stuck with him for some reason.
He had been called a lot of things—difficult, exhausting, pedantic, boring, monotonous. By his colleagues, by teachers, by bosses, and even by the few girlfriends he had in the past. Two, to be precise. But weird? That word seemed inappropriate.
The term ‘weird’ referred to things out of order. Extraordinarily obscene things that had no place to exist or evolve, no time to be said or done, no amount of less or more that would make them acceptable. And Nanami deemed himself anything but that. He’d even describe himself as ordinary as could be: so boringly ordinary that he’d vanish without troubling his neighbors, without leaving an indent in his reduced daily routine of working, eating, and ironing his underwear.
No, Kento Nanami wasn’t weird. He was calculated, unfitting, and standoffish, perhaps, but he wasn’t weird.
For the first time in a long time, Nanami felt the stares as he entered through the door. Not uncomfortable ones, like usually when he showed up to a bar or any leisurely place, but calculating ones. Like his, but more cunning. Sharper. Assessing.
He wasn’t even sure what had driven him to do this—was it the words that stuck to his mind like honey, glueing his mind into an indefinite web, making it hard to think? Was it the fact that he had felt that need again, that pull deep inside his stomach that was impossible to ignore? Or did he want to prove something to himself?
The music was loud. The bass vibrated in his chest as his expensive leather shoes stuck to the floor, his rolled-up navy blue sleeves a futile attempt at casualness. The lights, attached to the ceiling, blinded his eyes as he tried steering to the bar, bumping into a shoulder here and there, muttering apologies. It wasn’t his outfit that made him stand out among the group—businessmen were the usual clientele around here. No. It was how he kept his eyes down. How he didn’t stare, didn’t pry.
How he seemed so out of place, it was almost cute—like watching an intern navigate through a forest of bureaucracy.
You hadn’t seen him when he walked in. In fact, you tried not to look into anybody’s eyes too long around here. The place was a filthy nest of snakes, clients and dancers alike, their bodies curling around each other in a vile dance of cruelty, of both sides draining the other. Not that the place had a bad reputation—in fact, it was quite nice. Well, as nice as a strip club could be. The owner prided himself on the fact that his establishment was frequently visited by rather wealthy clients, enjoying the girls he hired and their tasteful costumes. To the clients, it looked like pleasurable work—nice dresses instead of skimpy scraps of fabric, makeup that highlighted, not masked, and conversation that could be enjoyable for the participant with a hundred-dollar bill in his wallet. But still, it was a costume: the polished smile, the batting of eyelashes, the subtle touches along the collar. One you wore pretty well, to be fair.
You haven’t worked here for that long. Between double shifts at a diner and Tesco, you had found it hard to believe that this was all life had to offer. Your mind had been on the business quite a while, but like the majority of young women with a sense of carefully fabricated self-respect, you had pushed that thought away. Until you saw the girls: coming in at 11 AM for pancakes, ordering Coke Zero with their hair in rollers and their nails done, while your nail polish was chipping, almost screaming cheap. They paid with crumpled dollar bills, and without the shame you felt in your chest at the mere thought of entering such a place. They laughed, like they didn’t know of the foulness you expected in their workplace, the one you felt when you typed out your resignation letter on your old Mac from 2016, and handed it in two days after.
The evening was busy for a Thursday Night. Your hair was bouncing around your shoulders as you exited the backstage rooms, trying to convince yourself that this was a nice way of living. Your bills were paid, you moved into a bigger apartment two months ago, and your tips were better than when you were a waitress.
“Saveee me.” Your head turned at the exasperated sigh that followed those words, and your lips curled into a smile.
“Hey, Mimi,” you greeted her softly, watching as she bumped into your shoulder with a huff. “That bad already?”
Noemi, Mimi for short, groaned. “You have no idea. My feet are hurting, my back is tense, and one of my straps is coming loose.”
“Of your self-made shoes? What a surprise.”
She shot you a stern look that you laughed off, gently shoving her with your shoulder. “Ask Cam to fix it for you. I think he has some glue around here.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes, dark and knowing, raked over your face. “You look… odd.”
You tried not to take offense to her words, leaning against the railing as you let your eyes trace over the crowd. You huffed in response.
“Not bad,” she quickly backtracked as she turned as well, enjoying the brief and rare break from the hustle. “Just… off. Yeah. Off.”
You looked at your feet. To think you walked for hours in these shoes now, when you used to wobble in them for your brother’s wedding a year ago, made you frown.
“I guess. Just having a bad day.”
Mimi leaned against your shoulder. Her tan skin was covered in glitter, rubbing off on you. “Sorry to hear that. I got some Coke in the back, if you want.”
You huffed. “No, thanks.”
She shrugged. “Mkay. Just saying.”
Mimi was alright. More than alright, considering she had been in this business since she was sixteen years old. Whenever the girls offered you hard drugs so casually, you were still taken aback, although you should be used to it by now. This way of life was dull enough, pulling your soul apart at the seams to spill out of the deep cleavages and short skirts, almost puking it out on the floor to be carried away in pieces, of people walking all over it. Most people around here coped with substances to live with themselves.
You had to get on the floor, had to get yourself a client for the next few hours, but you tried to drag it out for a second longer. To feel the bass in your bones. Pretend you were here by choice, not by the circumstances that deformed your morals into this spikey, filthy thing in your chest that poked at your lungs when you felt them undress you with their eyes. Pretend you liked it.
With a deep intake of breath, you straightened your shoulders and focused your mind, sharpening it with the reminder of bills stacking on your counter.
“Cmon,” Mimi mused with a grin, almost making you feel better. “Let’s go play.”