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Jyuto's apartment smells like wine and leather; earthy and warm.
Gentaro had expected it to reek of nicotine. He doesn’t smoke himself, and it seemed to him only logical that the scent clinging to every fibre of Jyuto’s suit would follow him home, permeate his apartment. Being proven wrong was a pleasant surprise, for once.
While cigarette smoke would forever be the scent he associated with Jyuto the most, this suits him far better. It’s tasteful in its sinfulness— just like Jyuto, he thinks with a smile.
The curtains are drawn, and as soon as Gentaro closes the door behind himself he can barely make out anything more than impressions of Jyuto’s furniture. He approximates where the light switch should be, logically, and the lights click on.
The apartment is well decorated, and Gentaro knows enough about the police system to conclude that it is far nicer than Jyuto should be able to afford. Ah, gift horse. He only dedicates a brief moment to memorizing the deep reddish-brown leather of the couch and armchair, the mess of papers and empty wine glasses atop the kotatsu, and the slightly ajar bedroom door. He really should come here more often. It’s not entirely fair for Jyuto to always be the one making the drive, not when his work days are surely more strenuous than Gentaro’s. Gentaro’s apartment is always a mess, anyways.
He toes off his shoes and removes his capelet and kosode, hanging both on the empty coatrack. Jyuto must have taken his jacket to work. Gentaro wonders briefly when he will return, if coming here was even worth it. Yokohama is far out of his way, after all, and Jyuto often complains of being forced to sleep at the station when work runs long.
He wanders into the kitchen, looking through Jyuto’s cupboards and fridge. Everywhere he looks is pitifully devoid of food, nothing but a few old vegetables in the fridge and some cans of soup in one of the cupboards. It seems his plans for dinner would have to wait for another time, then. A shame. He’d spent so long practicing a pasta recipe he was sure Jyuto would love as much as Dice, his eager tastetaster.
Even in just his turtleneck and hakama, Jyuto’s apartment is stifling. He decides against opening any windows, however. The Yokohama air is still stinging his lungs from his brief jaunt earlier. He could just borrow some of Jyuto’s house clothes. He wouldn’t mind.
Or maybe he would, and that notion was equally thrilling.
Jyuto’s bedroom, much like the rest of the apartment, is tastefully decorated. A few antiques line Jyuto’s shelves and walls— most notably, a pre-war revolver. It’s surely been gutted into unusability, but the sight is still ever so slightly unsettling.
His bed is large, a puffy burgundy duvet meticulously laid out over it. Only two pillows on the bed, Gentaro notices. Quite the opposite of his own, which Jyuto had described as “more pillow than mattress” the first time he’d been over.
Gentaro hadn’t expected his first time in the other’s bedroom to be so… decent, but there would be time for that when Jyuto returned home.
He had deeply debated, on the drive over, the merits of informing Jyuto he would be awaiting his arrival. Surely Jyuto would have ensured he’d make it home in the evening, or at least warned Gentaro if that could not be the case. There is something exhilarating in waiting in secrecy, however, in imagining the momentarily shocked look on his lover’s face that would smooth out into something smug and teasing.
He inhales shakily. That earthy scent is even stronger in the bedroom, and Gentaro finds himself wondering what cologne Jyuto uses. Perhaps he could do some investigating. Find the bottle.
This trail of thought almost succeeds in distracting him from his initial goal, when he finds himself tugging on the collar of his turtleneck. Right, house clothes. It must be hotter in here, Gentaro muses, because he suddenly notices himself sweating.
Logically, anything suitable for the stuffiness of the apartment would be in the mahogany dresser tucked against the same wall as the door, but the closet just across from the bed is far more alluring. Gentaro flips on the lightswitch as he heads towards it, blinking at the sudden brightness. He pulls the door of the closet open gently, almost reverently, as though something will come tumbling out if he opens it too fast. Maybe something would. Jyuto is sure to have a skeleton or two in his closet, metaphorical or not.
They don’t know much about each other. His very nature is to lie, embellish, and pretending to be someone he is not is surely not a pinnacle of romance or intimacy. Jyuto, the bastard, is all too willing to let Gentaro lie if it means he gets what he wants— in most cases, that is the picture of domesticity, Gentaro thinks, and not the vulnerability that tends to come with the real thing.
Going along with their nature is easy, yet Gentaro all too often finds himself wondering how honesty feels. In the late hours of the night into the early hours of morning, he craves peeling back Jyuto’s outermost layers and exposing ripe flesh. More than that, however, he wants Jyuto to do the same to him.
He wants to be seen, without any control over the image projected.
Nothing comes falling out of the closet, no small avalanche of human bones, and Gentaro examines the inside with only a vague sense of disappointment. Inside the closet is much what he should have expected— a few cardboard boxes, about a dozen neatly pressed suits and a small rack of ties on the inside of the door. He reaches for the top box, around waist height, and pushes the suits hanging above it to the side. On top of the box is a small piece of tape stuck to one of the flaps, and in a messy scrawl that must have been Jyuto’s at some far away point in time— mom & dad. Gentaro drops his hand, letting the suit fall back to cover the box yet again. Some bodies could stay buried for now, he muses.
He pulls his gaze up, examining the suits. He hasn’t seen most of them— Jyuto always wore the same two or three for work. He does recognize one, however, and pulls the hanger out of the closet to lay it out on the bed.
Jyuto had worn this to one of the DRB publicity events, the night after MAD TRIGGER CREW’s loss to Fling Posse. Gentaro remembers how he had awkwardly avoided Jyuto the entire night, despite how the linen and silk had accentuated every curve, how the venue had felt all too stifling even with the autumn air and late-night chill. Seeing Jyuto in the suit, tailored by some Chuohku seamstress, had been the culmination of more than a few repressed feelings for Gentaro. After that, he had waited exactly as long as he thought Jyuto would need to lick his wounds from defeat, and then he had pounced.
And now here he was, in Jyuto’s bedroom, gazing down at that exact suit.
Oh, how he would have loved to have gotten a closer look at it when Jyuto wore it. Surely it had been magnificent then, hugging his body and moving with every breath he took. Laying on the bed, there was nothing so magical about it.
The vest and trousers are a deep red, not Gentaro’s colour at all but so, so Jyuto’s. At first glance there was no pattern, but under the light of the DRB venue he had noticed ever so slightly visible pinstriping. The tie is a slightly darker colour, a subtle floral pattern embroidered near the bottom. The shirt is plain, off white.
Gentaro tugs off his turtleneck, undoes his obi, and lets his hakama fall to the floor. Going from his relatively light outfit to a full suit probably isn’t the most effective way to cool down, but the heart wants what it wants.
Pulling on the dress pants, he’s pleasantly surprised by the smooth silk lining the inside and the fit. Despite being a few centimetres shorter than Jyuto, the pants aren’t too long on him and settle nicely on his hips. He doesn’t bother with a belt, too much work for just trying on.
The shirt is a little too big on him, so he tucks it into the pants before pulling on the jacket. He makes quick work of the gold buttons, sliding each one into place. Finally, the tie. He’s never had reason to wear one, and has no idea how to tie one properly. He settles for draping it over his shoulders, so as to not leave the look incomplete. He turns around, intending to gaze at himself in the mirror on Jyuto’s dresser.
Rather than the view of himself in Jyuto’s suit, he’s met with the exact smug expression he had imagined on his way here.
Jyuto looks as put together as ever, hair combed and suit far straighter than Gentaro could have ever managed. His glasses are falling ever so slightly down the bridge of his nose, but rather than push them up, he gazes down at Gentaro through the lenses.
“Surprise,” Gentaro says.
Jyuto shakes his head. “You forgot to lock the door.”
It’s only then he notices Jyuto’s gaze has shifted from his face to his chest, jade green eyes shamelessly roaming every inch of his upper body with undisguised interest. He steps closer, smug grin slowly melting into something more impassioned. Gentaro’s heart skips a beat.
“Well, don’t stop on my account.”
Gentaro entertains the idea of honesty, of telling Jyuto he doesn’t know what he’s doing and asking for his help. A lie is sure to be far easier, however, so he tamps down his worldly desires and forces a straight face.
“You see,” Gentaro explains, projecting the very picture of nonchalance, tugging at the suit jacket. “I was considering stealing your identity.”
Jyuto approaches slowly, sharp eyes fixed on Gentaro’s throat and surely seeing through both his lies. He shivers, once Jyuto is close enough to notice, and begins constructing a story. Jyuto, and maybe this is too on the nose, is a rabbit. Hungry and just desperate enough to draw him into Gentaro’s presence. The bedroom is a den, enclosed and nigh impossible to escape. A rabbit is an herbivore, not a predator, leaving Gentaro wondering how he fits into this narrative. A delicate flower, ready for picking, perhaps.
It is, admittedly, not his best work. He’d have to scrap the draft and rewrite. Maybe later, when Jyuto isn’t pinning him with a gaze unbefitting of his role as a plant-eater.
Gentaro bites back a sigh. Why couldn’t Jyuto just play along, he wonders petulantly, staunchly ignoring the quickened beating of his heart.
“Oh, really?” Gloved hands find their way to the tie still hanging limply over Gentaro’s shoulders, the earthy scent of leather flooding Gentaro’s senses as Jyuto makes quick work of tying it. He makes it look so easy, deft fingers working with practiced ease, completely unaffected by the tension Gentaro knows they can both feel. “You wouldn’t last a day in my boots, Gen.”
He hums, neither in assent nor disagreeance, gently pushing Jyuto’s hands away from his throat. “Long day?”
“Indulge me,” Jyuto responds, adjusting the tie one final time before stepping away and behind Gentaro. His arms wrap around Gentaro’s torso, pulling his back flush to his chest, hands settling on his hip bones. Every point of contact is dangerous, white-hot heat radiating through Gentaro’s flesh. “Just for a while.”
He nods, slowly, as though any sudden movement could send Jyuto running. The soft heat of Jyuto’s breath tickles his ear, envelops Gentaro’s mind. Perhaps he would be the first to bolt.
It’s some twisted game Jyuto likes to play, holding out as long as he can so Gentaro is the one folding, pathetically begging him to move along. He won’t this time. He came here to Yokohama to catch Jyuto off guard, and that evidently hasn’t yet happened if he still has the wits about him to tease.
Gentaro places his hands over Jyuto’s and leans his head back to rest on Jyuto’s shoulder. This position leaves his throat exposed, displays it even, and he knows from experience Jyuto cannot resist the temptation for long. He will take what he wants, eventually.
“Is this for me?” Jyuto mutters.
There are so many things he could be referring to, but Gentaro doesn’t need to know which one it is to know the answer is yes, always.
Jyuto doesn’t need to be told this. He knows, just as well as Gentaro does.
Their rendezvous are wars of attrition, long games played under the guises of restraint and decorum. Neither of them truly care for either, but both take a pleasure in not being the first to admit it.
Another story begins piecing itself together in Gentaro’s overwhelmed mind.
Jyuto is an enemy soldier, and Gentaro has been captured. This is an interrogation, the bedroom a dingy cellar. There would be no honour in giving in, spilling his secrets, but the allure of his adversary is slowly wearing on him.
He reaches a hand up, cupping Jyuto’s cheek and pressing their faces dangerously close. His lips move against the skin of Jyuto’s other cheek, slightly chapped against baby soft flesh.
“Perhaps we could make a deal…” he murmurs.
Jyuto hums. “Is this one of your games?” His voice is low, almost a growl. Perfectly fitting his role, at last. “I’m not sure I’m in the mood to play.”
You already are, Gentaro thinks smugly as Jyuto’s mouth finally, finally, finds its way to his throat. He’s succeeded in seducing the enemy, and it seems he need not spill state secrets tonight. Jyuto’s kiss is feather-light but burning hot against his already flushed skin, chaste and erotic at the same time. The hold on his hips tightens, the tips of Jyuto’s gloved fingers digging into flesh through the suit.
“You look amazing,” Jyuto says, and it’s probably the first truth either of them have said since he arrived. Gentaro takes this to mean the night is his, and Jyuto catches it in the smile that tugs at his lips. “I mean that.”
Gentaro’s truth comes next. “I know you do.”
Jyuto sucks his teeth, a frustrated tch, and then their lips meet at last. It’s rough but doesn’t hurt, slow and greedy and teetering on passionate. One of Jyuto’s hands leaves his waist, and he whines petulantly into the kiss until he feels a firm pressure at his scalp, Jyuto’s gloved hand winding into his hair.
It’s then he gives in completely, satisfied with his victory, letting Jyuto hold him while he does his best to keep with the pace he’s set. They could be there for hours, days, any infinite amount of time. Gentaro could never hope to tell the difference.
Jyuto pulls away for a moment, and the bedroom is suddenly echoing with their ragged breaths. Gentaro gazes up into Jyuto’s eyes, and Jyuto stares back into the recesses of his soul.
“I would offer to make dinner, but it seems a gluttonous spirit has eaten all your food.”
His lips quirk up as Jyuto groans, head leaning forward on Gentaro’s shoulder.
“I bought groceries on my way here,” he mutters. “I just… didn’t have the time earlier this week.”
Gentaro figured as much. Jyuto has been complaining about his job more than usual, lately. He extracts himself from Jyuto’s hold momentarily, turning to face him and pulling Jyuto’s hands back to his hips. Jyuto huffs indignantly but concedes, pulling Gentaro close once again. It really is too hot for this, but Gentaro can’t bring himself to care all too much, even as he’s sweating through Jyuto’s fancy suit.
Jyuto seems to notice his plight, however, frowning slightly. “Aren’t you hot?”
“I’m always hot,” Gentaro says haughtily.
Jyuto rolls his eyes. “Get changed or get out,” he says. “I’ll go insane if I have to wear this any longer.”
The suit he usually wears is Gentaro’s guiltiest pleasure, but he bites back a plea for him to keep it on. Jyuto in casual wear is a rare treat, and equally enticing. Gentaro steps back and leans against the dresser, letting Jyuto change into a t-shirt and a pair of pants before wordlessly requesting his assistance in shedding his own suit. They make quick work of it, neither of them in the mood to delay dinner any longer.
“You know, if you told me you would be here I could have bought better ingredients,” Jyuto says.
“There’s no fun in that,” Gentaro replies.
They’ve just finished eating dinner. Gentaro had helped Jyuto put away the groceries earlier , and he had noticed Gentaro frowning at the lack of ingredients. He’d settled for a simple curry and rice, but Jyuto promised to go shopping later. Gentaro didn’t ask when later would be, and Jyuto didn’t elaborate.
Jyuto takes Gentaro’s bowl, placing both of their dishes in the sink. He doesn’t bother washing them, instead leaning back on the counter and staring at Gentaro. He stares back, unblinking. Jyuto doesn’t deign to play his game, blinking with an unimpressed frown.
“WIll you be staying the night?”
Gentaro hums. He could, with no important business to tend to in Shibuya this evening (he ignores the fact Dice had called him no less than three times throughout the course of dinner) or early tomorrow. A free schedule, for once, to do with as he pleased. Would he really choose to spend his time here in Yokohama? A sly smile pulls at his lips.
Jyuto sighs before he even begins speaking, approaching slowly with an already exasperated expression. Gentaro smirks.
“Probably not. Urgent business in Shibuya,” he muses, letting Jyuto take him by the forearm towards the bedroom.